EASRS Zero Z
Chapter 2E
19 minutes after Chapter 1E
The roar of helicopter rotors tore through the air like the howl of mechanical beasts.
Four UH-60 Black Hawks, their matte-black fuselages scarred by reflected firelight, cut across the burning forest below. From above, the woods no longer resembled nature—only a vast, writhing sea of red and orange, flames crawling over tree crowns like living organisms, devouring everything they touched. Smoke rose in thick, choking pillars, staining the sky a dull, suffocating gray.
Between the burning trunks, pairs of pitch-black eyes watched.
They did not blink.
They did not flee.
They stared upward through the flames and leaves, silent and patient, like predators observing prey that had not yet realized it was already surrounded.
The helicopters slowed as they crossed into a small clearing—one of the few patches of land not yet consumed by fire. The grass below was scorched but still green, trembling violently under the downwash of spinning rotors. One by one, the aircraft descended, landing hard, the ground shuddering beneath their weight.
The side doors slid open.
From within emerged figures clad in sealed chemical-protection suits, pale white with faint gray tones, their surfaces already dusted with ash. Black gas masks hid their faces completely, thick oxygen tanks mounted on their backs. Over the suits, they wore JPC 2.0 black plate carriers, scratched and worn—gear meant for men who had seen places the world was never meant to remember.
In their hands were MP5A5 submachine guns, compact and precise. Each weapon was fitted with a black EOTech 553, a BGV-MK46 foregrip, and a B&T MP5 suppressor, creating a near-silent killing instrument—efficient, controlled, and merciless.
This was Lota-17.
A unit designed not to fight wars, but to erase nightmares.
One soldier stepped forward, boots crunching softly against ash and scorched grass. He stood still, staring at the burning forest ahead, the flames reflecting faintly on the dark lenses of his gas mask.
After a long moment, he spoke—his voice calm, low, and heavy with meaning.
Lota-17 Soldier #1 (Jonny):
> "…Looks like we're late."
Another soldier crouched nearby, scanning the ground with careful precision. He brushed aside ash with the barrel of his weapon, revealing footprints embedded deep into the soil.
They were humanoid—
but wrong.
The prints were elongated, unnaturally narrow, with only four toes, each ending in long, sharp claw marks that had torn through dirt and stone alike.
He stared at them, uneasy.
Lota-17 Soldier #2 (Wu):
> "Jonny… look at this. I'm not sure…"
As Wu instinctively reached out, another hand struck his arm away.
Hard.
Lota-17 Soldier #3:
> "Hey—Wu, are you insane?"
"Even if it looks human, you really think that thing isn't infectious?"
Wu froze, then slowly pulled his hand back, exhaling through the mask.
Jonny glanced at the footprints, then at Wu, and finally at the third soldier. He stepped closer, gripping Wu's arm and pulling him back to his feet with firm restraint.
Lota-17 Soldier #1 (Jonny):
> "Wu, you might be built like a tank, but don't do something that stupid."
"We're not here to study footprints."
"We're here to find survivors."
The forest answered them.
A scream ripped through the burning trees—high-pitched, distorted, and inhuman.
Branches snapped.
Ash exploded into the air.
From between the flaming trunks, something emerged.
A grotesque figure—half man, half deer—dragged itself into view. Its head was a split deer skull, the jaw opening far wider than anatomy allowed, revealing rows of jagged, bone-white teeth slick with blackened saliva. The sound it made was neither a roar nor a cry, but a choking rasp that scraped against the nerves.
Its elongated arms clutched at burning trees, dry, skeletal fingers digging into flaming bark as if pain no longer existed. Its emaciated body twisted unnaturally, bones shifting beneath scorched skin like something struggling to escape its own flesh.
Fire clung to it.
And yet—it did not burn.
The creature lifted its hollow, black eye sockets toward Lota-17.
And smiled.
---
The soldiers exchanged no words.
They did not need to.
A single glance was enough—silent agreement forged by years of training and the instinct of those who had survived long enough to know when death was close. Step by step, they began to retreat, boots sinking slightly into ash-covered soil still warm from the spreading fire.
The creature's eyes—pitch-black, bottomless, devoid of any trace of reason—remained locked onto them.
It watched them the way a predator watches prey.
Not with rage.
Not with haste.
But with patience.
The soldiers tightened their grip on their weapons, fingers brushing triggers, safety switches already disengaged. Every breath was measured. Every muscle prepared to react in the instant the Wendigo chose to charge.
The creature twisted its skull slowly.
Bone creaked against bone.
Its elongated neck bent at an impossible angle as its body swayed side to side, as if performing some ancient, forgotten ritual. Firelight danced across its skeletal frame, casting warped shadows that made it seem even taller, even thinner—an emaciated god of hunger born from the forest itself.
For a moment, it simply stared.
Like an indigenous hunter observing a deer or an elk before the kill.
Then—
With a violent motion, it tore a burning tree from the ground.
The trunk shattered as it slammed into the earth, sparks and embers scattering across the grass. Flames spread rapidly, licking at the ground as the Wendigo screamed—a shrill, inhuman cry that tore through the night.
It lunged forward.
Not merely running, but hurling itself toward them with both arms and legs, its long, thin fingers stabbing into the soil at terrifying speed. Each movement was unnatural, jerky, yet impossibly fast—as if the creature barely obeyed the rules of gravity.
Gunfire erupted.
A controlled burst of shots tore through the fiery air, bullets slamming into the creature's torso and skull. Muzzle flashes illuminated the soldiers' gas masks in brief, violent bursts of light as the forest roared around them.
The Wendigo staggered.
Black blood sprayed from its wounds, thick and tar-like, dripping heavily onto the ground. It let out a broken howl, its body shuddering as it stumbled backward.
Then it collapsed.
Its massive, gaunt frame crashed into the earth with a deafening thud, sending dirt and ash flying. The ground trembled beneath the impact.
Compared to its towering corpse, the soldiers looked like dolls—small, fragile figures standing before the remains of something that should never have existed.
No one spoke.
Some cursed under their breath.
Others turned immediately, sprinting toward the helicopters.
They knew better.
Blood—especially fresh blood—was a beacon.
As the rotors began to spin and the helicopters lifted off, the forest below stirred. From the shadows, more pitch-black eyes emerged. Wendigos descended upon the fallen body, tearing into it without hesitation.
They fed.
Flesh was ripped away. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed into the fire-lit darkness.
There was no fear. No mourning.
In nature, even one's own kind was merely food.
There were no graves here.
---
At the same time—
Within the burning remains of the communications outpost, camouflage-green tents collapsed one by one, consumed by roaring flames. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood.
Fuyuki slowly regained consciousness.
Pain surged through his body as he lifted his head. A deep claw mark tore across his shoulder, blood soaking his sleeve and dripping onto the ground. Around him lay dozens of corpses—ripped open by claws and teeth, their blood forming a dark, hardened carpet beneath his feet.
His head throbbed violently.
Memory refused to return.
He looked down and saw Kana lying unconscious nearby, her body thrown aside as if she had been flung like a broken doll. A long gash marked the ground beside her, evidence of the force that had sent her flying.
Fuyuki forced himself to stand.
Agony shot through his leg—it was broken, or close enough. Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself forward, barely escaping the tent moments before it collapsed completely, swallowed by towering flames of red and gold.
Above the inferno, the thunder of helicopter rotors filled the sky.
Two UH-60 Black Hawks descended into the ruins of the station, doors slamming open as soldiers rushed out. One immediately lifted Kana from Fuyuki's grasp, while another grabbed his arm, supporting his weight.
The soldier scanned the burning chaos, voice sharp and urgent—the tone of someone used to war.
Lota-17 Soldier #4
> "Hey, operator—any other survivors?"
Fuyuki shook his head slowly.
His voice remained steady, trained, even as exhaustion threatened to pull him under.
Fuyuki
> "Report… negative. No remaining survivors confirmed."
The soldiers exchanged brief looks and nodded.
Without hesitation, they pulled him aboard. Kana was secured into a seat, unconscious but alive. The doors slammed shut as the engines roared louder, lifting the helicopter into the night.
Below them, the forest burned like hell itself.
High above the clouds, dark silhouettes appeared.
B-2 bombers.
Moments later, thermobaric bombs fell.
The forest vanished in fire and pressure, trees annihilated as inhuman screams echoed briefly—then were erased entirely.
Inside the helicopter, the soldiers said nothing.
They simply stared ahead, breathing heavily.
To them, this was a failure.
Regardless of whether the operation succeeded on paper, too many lives had been lost.
For the EASRS Foundation—
It was another victory.
For the people who survived—
It was only another scar that would never fade.
---
[To be continued]