I clung to the lakeside ledge just above the drainage tunnel, watching and waiting. I didn't dare retreat yet—if they exited the passage while I crossed the basin floor, I'd be exposed.
Sure enough, minutes later, the tunnel echoed with voices.
"Professor, don't go after the soldier," one of them said. "He's armed. And besides, if the state sent him alone, he must be dangerous."
"Crane," came the dry, cracking voice of the faceless man. "Your teacher wants to eat. Won't you let me have just a bite?"
"Please, Professor," Crane's voice trembled.
"You think I can still trust you? I lost my face without wanting to... and became this. If I continue without a heart, what else will I lose?"
"I really do want to help you."
"Help?" the voice rasped, almost laughing. "That's what the others said. They swore they'd take care of my family, treat my condition. Let me die peacefully."
"Professor... back then, they had no choice."
"No choice?" The rasp grew louder. "A country couldn't care for a few thousand of us?"
"It wasn't just you," Crane said softly. "It was a catastrophe."
The faceless man breathed heavily, ragged and deep.
"Professor, please... just trust me—"
Suddenly, Crane gasped. The man must have grabbed his throat.
"...The Soviets withdrew," Crane choked.
A loud thump. Then deep, desperate gulps of air. I exhaled—Crane was still alive.
"What?"
"They pulled out all their experts... made us repay every ounce of aid."
"Lies. You're lying."
"No, Professor. They reversed everything. They accused us of betrayal and left us stranded, stripped us bare. They took everything."
"That's not true..."
"It is. Khrushchev used the excuse to cut ties. They even moved troops to the northern borders. It destroyed us."
Heavy breathing. No reply.
"My son starved to death. My wife died of illness. We were already at the edge... and then they kicked us off the cliff."
Still nothing.
"They wanted our land. Called it a lease. But it was theft. Their so-called 'rents' were just bribes for bases."
Finally, the faceless man snarled, "Despicable."
"You were isolated, professor. But I've read the archives. The famine, the collapse—it wasn't a storm. It was sabotage."
Silence.
"Professor, please... come with me. Let me take you out of this place."
"I'm not leaving," the man replied, distant. "Not now. Not to burden the people again. Maybe someday they'll know. Maybe someday I'll walk in the sun again. But not today."
"No. I'll take you abroad. To a country that studies its history honestly. Where science matters. Where you'll be respected."
Smack! A sharp slap.
"Professor...!"
"My research, my youth... all gone! They killed my son, my wife—"
Smack!
"They killed mine too. But I stayed. We all stayed. That's what it means . Now go."
"Please—!"
"Go." The voice was final. Painful. Defeated.
Two men, one faceless, one not. One with no heart, one with nothing but heart.
I wiped my eyes. I've always had a soft spot—for pain, for truth. Maybe too soft for command. But that night, I nearly wept aloud.
I wiped my face and disappeared into the dark.
Before dawn, Crane returned. I had already snuck back into the tent, pretending to sleep.
His steps were slow, careful.
I heard the metallic click of a chambered round. My grip tightened around the hidden knife.
Then silence. His feet approached. I lay still, breath faint, hand ready.
He raised his arm. I flung my eyes open.
He looked surprised.
My hand flexed under the blanket, ready to strike.
But instead, he pointed behind me—to the shadow outside the tent.
A dark figure burst in, reeking of rot.
Crane screamed. The gun went off—but not at the figure. Toward my side.
He wasn't aiming at the enemy.
He was trying to kill me.
The faceless thing lunged at Crane, jaws tearing into his face.
I leapt and drove my knife into its back, twisted, pulled free.
Blood sprayed.
But it didn't flinch.
It turned and slammed me into the ground like I weighed nothing.
It pounced again. I screamed, "Shoot!"
Crane fired blindly. Three shots—all wide. He couldn't see without his glasses.
The thing's face was horror itself—hollow sockets, no ears, a gaping mouth with no lips, no teeth. Just pale skin and threads of hair clinging to bloodied scalp.
It lunged.
I kicked hard. It flew—but clawed my leg, dragging me down.
I struck back, foot to head, fists flying.
Finally, I broke free, stood, and hurled it out of the tent like a rag doll.
I grabbed my rifle and shot three rounds into its chest. It sailed backward, landing 5feet away.
I turned to Crane.
His face was shredded. His throat, torn.
Dead?
Both gone?
I grabbed my camera. Took photos.
Then packed.
The mission was a failure.
Both targets dead.
No point staying.
As I stepped into the night, past the corpse of the faceless monster, something bit deep into my calf.
Pain. Real pain.
And this horror was far from over.