The rifle in my hands felt impossibly heavy. Pain radiated from my back down to my arms, each muscle aching, each breath labored. I wanted to drop the weapon, to collapse—but I didn't. I couldn't. The next fight was already coming.
The gunshots would bring more of them—the Faceless.
I slowly pulled out the spent magazine, slammed a fresh one in, and chambered a round. The cold wind blew through the rocky basin near the mountain summit. My shirt clung to my skin, soaked in sweat. I stood by the exit of the water tunnel, jaw clenched, waiting.
Then I saw them.
Dark, humanoid shapes, darting and bounding across the terrain, heading my way. Fast. Agile.
I took a deep breath, raised the rifle. I wasn't sure if I could even fire it. The recoil might wreck my spine further. But I had to know.
The first one came within 150 yards.
I opened fire—three rounds.
Each shot rammed into my shoulder like a hammer. Pain bloomed across my spine, white-hot. It felt like someone was slicing my back open with a dull blade. I gritted my teeth and endured it.
None of the bullets hit.
Expected. This wasn't a good distance. But that wasn't the point.
I wanted to test myself.
And to warn them—I could still fight.
They scattered, ducked behind rocks. Paused.
Seconds passed like minutes. Then one of them peeked out and darted ahead another 30 feet, disappearing behind another stone. Then four more followed, fanning out, advancing in strange, bounding movements.
I didn't fire again.
Instead, I studied them—watching for patterns, predicting movement. Trying to outthink them.
Every time I guessed a path, they went another way.
The lead one crept closer, slipping into a patch of brush less than 60 yards away.
Still, I waited.
The more I hesitated, the more uncertain they became. That was the trick. Psychology. Let them second-guess themselves. Make them fear the silence more than the bullets.
But I knew: if I missed the next shot, they'd grow bolder.
And then I'd lose everything.
He broke from cover, sprinting for a depression to his right.
I fired—three more shots. Missed again.
Then three more. One bullet struck his thigh, sending a chunk of meat flying. He stumbled, dove into the ditch.
The others advanced faster now. Bolder. The lead one stayed hidden.
I tracked him.
Waited.
He moved again, sprinting toward cover just under 40 yards from me.
I unleashed a volley—three shots, then three more, then three again.
One bullet took out his calf. He went down hard, but kept crawling—dragging his broken leg behind him, teeth bared, eyes wild.
I aimed at his skull. Fired.
Blood sprayed as the bullet tore into his head.
He still moved.
Screaming silently with a gaping maw full of jagged, triangular teeth, he hurled a rock at me—a rock the size of a cinder block.
I dodged. Barely.
Another burst—six shots to the throat. The final round tore off what was left of his head.
He collapsed. Finally still.
But the second one was already closing in.
I swapped mags—only two left now.
One enemy down. Nearly two full magazines spent.
Not good.
The next one crept forward, darting from rock to rock. Every time I lifted my gun, he vanished. He was learning.
I adjusted position—moved from the tunnel exit to a rock outcropping a few feet away.
Pain flared through my back. My legs shook violently. I gasped for air. And then—I laughed.
Yeah, I actually laughed.
Some part of me found the pain exhilarating. Maybe I'd gone insane.
I checked again. Two of them were missing. Had they flanked me?
I moved forward, gun raised, ignoring the fire in my spine.
From my new vantage point, I spotted them. They were circling downhill, trying to get behind me and attack from below.
Smart bastards.
I had no time.
Three shots.
Two more.
Three again.
I didn't wait for the perfect angle—just squeezed the trigger whenever I had even a sliver of a chance.
The headless one—the one I'd shot earlier—was still crawling. He passed the spot I'd originally occupied, dragging himself like some grotesque insect.
He reached the location and began slamming a rock against it, over and over.
No eyes. No head.
But somehow, he remembered.
Somehow... he knew.
I was too stunned for words.