Hellhole by unknow

Author:unknow
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: occult, supernatural, horror, adventure', creature thriller, military scifi, scifi horror
Publisher: Adrenaline Press
Published: 2018-12-02T16:00:00+00:00

THE OFFSPRING

J.H. Moncrieff

Russia, 1945

EXCRUCIATING PAIN SEARED Grigory’s limbs, shocking him awake.

Everything hurt. His lungs shrieked agony with each whistling gasp.

Look.

His eyes refused to obey his brain. The lids felt stuck, sealed. Enclosed in impenetrable, unavoidable night, Grigory’s pulse quickened until all he could hear was his blood swooshing through his body. Razor wire wound tighter and tighter around his chest with every breath.

Panic.

Not here, not now. There was no time. Though he had no idea where he was, it was obviously a life-or-death situation.

Flexing his fingers, it was as if he had plunged them into flames.

He stifled a scream, biting on his lip so hard he tasted copper.

Perhaps death was preferable.

How did I get here?

The bar. The same one he frequented every Friday night. But something had been different, hadn’t it? Yes, something had been different.

Think, Grigory, think.

A man’s features forced through the fog encircling his brain. A man with a pleasant smile. A man with deep pockets and the highest tolerance for drink Grigory had ever seen.

A new friend.

The ’keep had recognized the stranger, and spoken to him with respect, and that had been enough for Grigory, especially when the man offered to buy the first round. Grigory, whose salary was stretched to the point of snapping, could only afford a single shot. He demurred, cheeks burning as he explained his predicament in a voice barely above a whisper. He could not accept his new friend’s gift, because he would never be able to reciprocate.

The man had laughed, he remembered now, and something about the sharpness of it made his teeth ache. But not then. Then, all he’d cared about was the drinks the ’keep brought to their table. Doubles. When had he last been able to afford such luxury? He thought of Raisa, of their children, waiting for him at home, and drowned his guilt with the smoothness of the vodka.

What had they talked about, he and this stranger, this new friend? He struggled to remember, to pry the reluctant memory from his aching brain. The man had asked the usual questions, inquired after his family, his work. Nothing to raise any alarms.

With each new round, Grigory had mounted a feeble protest, a reminder that he could not reciprocate, even when his meager paycheck arrived.

“Worry not, my friend,” the man had said. “I have plenty of money.”

No one said such things in Moscow, especially now. No one had money, certainly not anyone Grigory knew. But by then, he was too drunk to care.

“You are awake.” A light shone in Grigory’s eyes, making him squint. So his eyelids hadn’t been sealed after all. It was the darkness, the impenetrable darkness. “I told them you would survive. For a reporter, you are in impressive shape.”

Reporter.

Only Raisa knew the truth of what he did for a living. Everyone else, even his parents and their friends, believed the lie. It was safer that way.

He hadn’t told this stranger. No matter how smooth, no vodka would ever lead him that far astray.

“I’m not a reporter,” Grigory slurred, his mouth slipping as it tried to form the words.

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