Chapter 45Crawl out of Hell #2
The door slams shut behind them, and they move into position, flanking us with cold, practiced efficiency.
The restraints on my wrists, sharp and unforgiving, remind me of the situation I’m in.
I flex my fingers, trying to ease the ache, but it’s useless.
Every inch of me is a prisoner. The words of Nick echo in my head— ‘‘You’ll live up to the myth of being dead.’’ I can almost feel the weight of it pressing on my chest, a crushing weight that leaves me hollow, lifeless.
The leader of the two guards steps forward, his face blank, eyes betraying no emotion. His hands hover near the firearm, his finger itching for the inevitable .
But before I can even gather my thoughts, Petrov moves.
It’s not a grand gesture. There’s no warning, no flourish. Just a flicker of something in his eyes, something deep and primal that surges up through him with the kind of speed I’d forgotten was possible
In a flurry of motion, his hand reaches for the knife strapped to the guard his thigh, slashing the knife upward with jagged desperation. He doesn’t go for the guards, doesn’t aim to take them down in one swift motion. His target is himself, the steel cuffs.
The pain doesn’t seem to matter to him, the blood that drips freely from his raw wrists as he frees himself from his bonds.
A part of me knows it’s an act of defiance, a final cry for freedom.
He’s willing to sacrifice everything, his body, his life, just to make the smallest break in this cold, suffocating prison we’ve been forced into.
Fingers close around the knife hilt, and he jerks it out of its sheath in one fluid motion.
The first guard’s eyes widen in surprise, his hand already going to the weapon at his waist. But Petrov is faster.
The blade plunges deep into the guard’s throat before he can even draw his gun, the sound of the blow so sickeningly wet that I can feel it in my gut.
He retrieves the knife, his hand moves with a deadly precision.
In one swift motion, he hurls the knife.
It spins through the air, catching the dim light before striking the ceiling above me with a sharp, metallic clang.
The rope snaps, and the noose falls away, leaving me gasping for air as the weight around my neck disappears.
My hands, still cuffed behind me, feel like dead weight, but I can’t afford to wait.
I shift, muscles screaming in protest, and use every ounce of strength to twist my arms around.
The sharp metal of the cuffs digs into my wrists as I maneuver them in front of me.
The sharp, grinding pain from my shoulders is almost unbearable, but I don’t stop.
I lunge forward, catching the guard off-guard. I don’t care about technique. I don’t care about strategy. I don’t care about anything except the burning need to break free.
My hands snap to the guard’s throat, fingers digging deep into the soft flesh, twisting, forcing him to the ground.
My vision is blurred by adrenaline, my body moving with the fury of someone who has been trapped too long.
The guard’s gun slips from his hands as I drive my knee into his chest, keeping him pinned.
His breath comes in frantic, panicked gasps, but I don’t let go. I don’t stop.
Suddenly, a flash of cold steel presses against my skin.
The guard, desperate, manages to reach a hidden knife from his belt.
With a jagged motion, he slashes across my face, the sharp edge tearing through the flesh between my eyes.
I feel the warm liquid—blood—pouring down my face, blurring my vision, but I don’t flinch. I don’t care.
His eyes bulge, panicked and wide with terror, but I don’t relent.
I shove my thumb into the soft tissue of his eyes, using the leverage to push deeper, harder, until I hear the sickening pop of his eyeballs giving way.
His screams turn to gurgles as blood pours from the sockets, and still, I tighten my hold.
With one final gurgle, his body goes still. The knife slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he drops lifeless beneath me.
We killed them all.
The room is eerily silent now, nothing but the ragged sound of my breathing filling the space.
My heart pounds against my ribs, my fingers aching from the force of it all.
Blood pools beneath the bodies, thick and dark, staining the cold floor.
The weight of what I’ve done presses down on me, but I shove it aside. There’s no time for hesitation.
I step over one of the corpses with slow, deliberate motions. My fingers dig into the dead guard’s pockets, searching. I see the flicker of something metallic: a key.
I don’t wait. My wrists burn as I twist the key into the lock, the metal biting against raw flesh. Click. The cuffs snap open, and I tear them away, the weight of them hitting the floor with a dull clang.
I exhale sharply, flexing my stiff fingers, my skin red and bruised where the restraints had held me. My freedom tastes sharp, electric.
My body is in so much pain, but the adrenaline suppresses all of it.
I hear the unmistakable sound of reinforcements rushing down the hall. More guards are coming. It’s only a matter of time before we’re overrun, before they put an end to this tiny sliver of freedom we’ve carved out for ourselves.
Petrov and I share a glance, an unspoken understanding passing between us. We don’t have time to savor the kills. We don’t have time to think. We only have time to act.
“Move,” I growl, reaching for the fallen weapon. I don’t care that it’s not mine. I don’t care that it feels foreign in my hand. It’s a tool. A tool to help me survive.
Petrov moves without hesitation, pulling himself towards the door. We don’t speak; there’s no need for words between us now. We both know that this moment of freedom won’t last long if we don’t move.
The door bursts open with a crash, and the sound of boots pounding against concrete fills the hallway.
I don’t stop. Petrov doesn’t stop. We rush into the darkened hallway, the sounds of combat echoing around us, drowning out everything else.
I fire the gun once—twice—hitting two more guards before they even have time to react.
But Petrov; he’s slowing down.
I glance at him, and that’s when I see it. The blood. It’s pouring out of his wrists. He’s losing blood fast. Too fast.
He stumbles, his face pale, his breath ragged, but he refuses to stop. He keeps moving, his determination burning in his eyes.
“We have to—” I start to say, but the words die on my tongue as Petrov collapses to his knees in front of me.
Fuck.
I grunt as I make my way over to him.
I pull at him, trying to drag him along, my hands gripping his blood-soaked shirt.
This bastard is heavier than I expected, dragging his feet, his breath coming in sharp, labored gasps.
The blood loss is slowing him down, draining him, and I feel the weight of it, both his and mine, as though every step I take brings us closer to the inevitable.
I can hear the footsteps of more guards drawing nearer, the sound of them multiplying with every passing second.
‘‘Come on, Petrov!’’ I snarl, my voice rough with the urgency that claws at my chest.
But he shakes his head weakly, his hand gripping my arm to steady himself. His eyes, once full of ambition, now carry something far heavier—resignation. A quiet acceptance.
“Leave me,” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper above the sound of the distant fighting. “You’ll slow down. You’re not going to make it if you drag me along.”
My grip tightens around him, my teeth grinding against the words I can’t find.
I can’t just leave him. No matter how much my survival instinct screams, I can’t.
He’s the last person I ever thought I’d fight beside, but here we are; two broken men, bound by nothing but circumstance, fighting to stay alive in a world that has left us both behind.
“Don’t talk like that,” I growl, desperation creeping into my voice. “I’m not leaving you. You’re not dying here like their pet.”
I drag him further down the endless hallway.
But Petrov’s lips curl into a faint, almost bitter smile, and he gives a slow shake of his head. There’s a weight in his gaze, a finality to it, that I can’t ignore.
“Do it,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Do the honors. Finish me off, Aslanov. Kill me before they do.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
My stomach tightens, my grip on him faltering for a moment as I meet his gaze.
I feel the anger bubbling inside me again, the betrayal from all those years, the years of bloodshed between us.
But it’s not anger anymore. It’s something colder, something deeper. Understanding.
“Why?” I rasp, unable to suppress the confusion twisting in my chest.
Petrov’s eyes flicker, as if the weight of the question is too much for him to bear.
“Because you’re the only one who can,” he mutters, then pauses to take a jagged breath, his body trembling with the effort.
“They’ll take me back. They’ll make me suffer.
You know how it works.” His voice drops lower.
“You know what they’ll do to me, Aslanov.
I won’t make it out of this room alive. Not the way they’ll want it. ”
I swallow hard, the cold edge of his words sinking in deeper than any physical wound could.
We round the corner, and I spot it; a narrow hallway leading to a small, secluded part of the bunker.
It’s a little farther than I’d like, but it’s our only chance.
I observed it at the beginning of my stay here.
I move toward it, feeling the familiar sting of panic as my instincts scream that we’re running out of time.
We make it to the door, and I push it open with a grunt, dragging him inside.
I slam the door shut behind us, the heavy, metallic sound echoing through the narrow space.
My hands are slick with blood, my breath coming in harsh, desperate gasps as I brace myself against the door, trying to steady myself.
“Don’t let them have the satisfaction.”
His words hang in the air, and for a moment, the chaos outside fades completely. It’s just me and him. The man I’ve hated. The man I’ve fought beside. The man who has somehow become something more than an enemy in these final moments.
I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be the one to end him. But I can see the truth in his eyes. I can see the reality of the pain, the suffering he’s endured, the brutal truth that he won’t survive whatever comes next. Not like this. Not in their hands.
And, perhaps, there’s something deeper here, a twisted understanding of each other’s pain, of all the things we’ve both done to survive.
I nod, a tight, painful motion. “You’re a damn fool, Petrov,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. “But you’ve always been a fool.”
His smile widens, grim, but there’s a flicker of something else in it, perhaps even respect. I don’t know. I’m too lost in the moment to care.
“Get into this ventilation duct,” Petrov says, he nods at the duct in the corner of the space, as though the urgency has drained away, leaving only the remnants of a final request. “You’ll have to move fast, but it’s your best shot.
” He takes a breath, his eyes locking onto mine with intensity, as though he’s trying to convey something more, something beyond the words.
“It ends in the east wing. Near the service rooms. There, you’ll find another duct that runs under the floor.
Get in there and don’t stop until you’re out. ”
I nod, the words sinking in despite the roiling emotions in my gut.
The ventilation ducts. The way out. It’s the only chance I have, the only way to escape this bunker, this nightmare.
And he’s giving it to me—one last piece of information.
One last act of defiance against the system that’s broken both of us.
But I know. I know that he’s asking me to end his suffering. To spare him from what comes next.
I get closer to him, my hand trembling as it reaches for his neck.
For a brief moment, our eyes lock again—this silent understanding between us, an unspoken bond formed from years of bloodshed, betrayal, and survival.
The man who was my enemy, who I would have killed without a second thought if the circumstances had been different, is now a man I have to put down.
His breath catches as I tighten my grip around his throat. He doesn’t fight it. He doesn’t resist. He’s already gone, in a way. This is just the last part of it.
I pull him closer, the blood on my hands now staining my palms. My fingers find their place at his neck, and I can feel the pulse of life still there, faint but present. But I know; he’s done. He’s ready.
“Goodbye, Petrov,” I murmur, my voice breaking the silence of the moment. It feels like a lie, an empty phrase. Goodbye, as though we’ve shared something more than just this brutal, final moment.
With one last twist, I grip his neck harder, my fingers digging deep, the pressure building until I feel the bones give way beneath my hand. His body convulses once, then twice. His breath comes in a strangled gasp before it cuts off completely, and his body goes still in my grasp.
His body falls slack in my hands, and I let go of him, watching as he crumples to the floor. The noise of the outside world rushes back in, a distant, muffled chaos, but inside, all I hear is the quiet, heavy silence of what I’ve just done.
I stand over him for a moment, unsure of what to feel. Anger? Regret? Relief? There’s nothing but an aching emptiness gnawing at the pit of my stomach. Petrov’s death—his defiance, his request—is branded into my mind, and it will haunt me. But there’s no time to dwell on it now.
The Devil in me crawls back from the lowest pit in Hell, dragging itself through the charred remnants of my soul.
Please save me, solnyshko .