Chapter 6 Kursk
KURSK
This world stinks of rot and asphalt. I hate it. It does not bleed when cut. It does not cry out when you walk upon it. It is dead stone and rusted metal and black smoke. It is silent, but not in the way forests are—this is the silence of things buried alive.
But even in death, this land holds secrets.
I crouch beside the train tracks beyond the edge of town, where weeds fight through gravel and twisted metal rails stretch like the bones of giants. A place long forgotten by the living. Perfect for a monster.
The spoor is clear.
Black ichor crusted on the rail ties. Scrapes, deep and frantic. Not the calculated strikes of a predator, but the wild thrashings of something feeding. I run my fingers along a half-crushed soda can embedded in the dirt. Still cold.
It was here.
Very recently.
And it left more than just filth behind.
We find the first husk near a rusted-out boxcar, slumped against a wall of graffiti and grime. Olivia chokes back a gasp. I do not.
The man—what’s left of him—still breathes. Barely. His eyes are wide open, white as fishbellies. His skin is drawn tight, like it’s trying to leave his bones behind. His mouth twitches, but no sound escapes.
“God,” Olivia whispers. “He’s… he’s alive.”
“Not for long,” I say, my voice a low growl.
I touch his chest. Cold. Not normal cold. Dead air cold. As if something hollowed him out and forgot to fill the space.
“The Vorfaluka did this,” I mutter.
“But why? He’s not dead.”
“Because death would be a mercy.”
Her jaw clenches. She steps back, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Her eyes brim, but she doesn’t let the tears fall. Strength, I think again. Not the kind that swings swords. The kind that keeps going.
That’s rarer.
That’s harder.
Later, we head into town again—this time tracking signs, not scents. Olivia leads us toward a neighborhood packed with tired houses and squealing bikes and mailboxes shaped like various cartoon characters.
There’s a garage door open at the end of a cul-de-sac.
Noise blasts out like a war horn.
I freeze.
“What in the burning pits of Urgoth’s Maw is that?”
Olivia smirks. “That’s Booger and Burnout’s band.”
I gape at the noise. It’s not rhythm. It’s not melody. It’s like someone gave a clan of mountain trolls electric guitars and a fog machine and said, “go nuts.”
“They call themselves 'Goat Funeral,'” Olivia says, clearly amused. “And yes, they’re exactly as terrible as they sound.”
As if summoned by mockery, the two youths burst out of the garage in matching T-shirts featuring skulls and flames.
“OLIVIAAAAAA!” Burnout yells, throwing devil horns in the air.
“You brought your WWE boyfriend!” Booger adds, grinning. “Yo, do you suplex in real life?”
Kursk crosses his arms. “I crush the bones of my enemies beneath me. Is this what you mean?”
They high five each other.
“Dude, that is SO metal.”
Olivia shakes her head. “Guys, he’s not really a wrestler. He’s—”
“A musician,” I offer, deadpan. “In… ‘Gwar.’”
Their jaws drop.
“You’re in Gwar?!” Booger shouts.
I nod solemnly. “It is a sacred name where I come from.”
Olivia winces. I think she kicks me under the table. I pretend not to notice.
Burnout rushes to the amp and flips it to maximum overdrive. “Dude, you HAVE to hear this riff we wrote. It’s called ‘Chainsaw Baptism.’”
The wall of sound that follows nearly tears my ears off.
I start to cover them—then freeze.
Outside, past the hedge, past the driveway—I feel it.
A presence.
A rot-laced stench of undeath and old blood.
It’s HERE.
It followed us.
I rise slowly, every muscle tensed. The world narrows to a pinpoint. I unsling the spear, activating its illusion just long enough to reveal it to my hand.
“Olivia,” I whisper.
“What?”
“Get them inside.”
Her face shifts from confusion to horror in an instant.
Then I run.
I burst through the backyard gate and into the alley just in time to see it skitter back into shadow.
But it was there.
Gods, it was there.
Twisted limbs, pale and rotted. Eyes like festering boils. It was watching us. Waiting. Planning.
The music still thunders behind me.
And the creature hates it.
It snarled. It flinched.
The noise hurt it.
I stare down at my shaking hands.
“…sound,” I mutter.
“It can’t tolerate the sound.”
When I return to the garage, Olivia’s pacing, furious and scared. “Did you SEE it?”
I nod. “Briefly. It fled.”
“Why didn’t it attack?”
I glance toward the speakers.
Because of this.
Because of them.
Because of Goat Funeral.
“Your music,” I say, turning to Booger and Burnout, “has power.”
Burnout grins. “Duh.”
“No, you do not understand. It drove away the creature.”
Olivia frowns. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
Booger practically levitates with pride. “We’re like… monster slayers now.”
Burnout pumps his fist. “Metal saves lives, bro.”
Olivia looks at me, stunned. “So… terrible music at high volume is its kryptonite?”
I nod. “Perhaps it is tied to its nature. It is undead, unnatural. Your world does not sing its song. This sound—this chaos—it repels it.”
She blinks. “We have to test this.”
“Yes.”
“And… we need more amps.”
“Yes.”
“And I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… we need Goat Funeral.”
Booger screams with glee.
Burnout weeps openly.
We retreat beneath a sky littered with stars, silent and solemn. Even the crickets hold their breath.
The Vorfaluka is adapting. That much is clear now. The creature grows bolder with every dusk, smarter with each kill. It learns from this world, drinks from it like a leech, swells on it.
And I—I am diminishing.
We reach Olivia’s cabin, a small fortress of wood and will, tucked among whispering trees and forgotten shadows. I collapse onto the porch steps, spear across my lap. It’s too light in my hands. Too still.
Its glow flickers now, like a dying ember.
“This was forged in the Boneforge of Yar’Kazhul,” I mutter, mostly to myself, though Olivia hovers nearby. “Bathed in spiritsong. Hardened in battle. I watched it sever the heads of wraith-kings. But now…”
She lowers herself beside me, careful and quiet. Her warmth is close, yet not touching. Not yet.
“The magic’s bleeding out,” I say, bitter as old blood. “It was never meant to exist here. This world... devours it.”
“You said something about that. When you came through the Veil,” she says. Her voice is soft, like velvet over steel. “That the longer you stayed, the harder it’d be to go back.”
I nod. “The longer I remain, the more I forget how it felt. The weight of Gor’Zaht air in my lungs. The scent of ash and steel. My brother’s voice... already it dims.”
She touches my arm. Not soft. Firm. Anchoring.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
I laugh, but there’s no joy in it. “He died screaming. Torn apart by that filth. And I was too slow. Too arrogant. I thought I would tear the beast’s head off within a day. Now it dances in the dark and my spear is just... wood and iron.”
Silence.
She doesn’t offer pity. Doesn’t spout hollow comforts.
Instead, she says, “You’re not done yet.”
I glance over.
She’s watching me, eyes sharp, alive. “You’re still here. Still fighting. And maybe your spear’s dimming, but you’re not.”
I exhale, the weight in my chest easing just enough to breathe again.
She leans a little closer, just enough that I feel the warmth of her cheek near mine.
“You came here for revenge,” she murmurs. “But maybe… it’s becoming something more.”
I look at her then, truly look—beneath the sarcasm and fire and fierce independence, there’s someone who’s lost things too. Who fights for small things that matter because the big things have already taken too much.
“I do not know what this is,” I say, voice rough. “But it matters.”
She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away.
Instead, she kisses me.