XCOM: The Long War, Prologue Part III

"У страха глаза велики (Fear has big eyes)"-A Russian Proverb

Kholat Syakhl, Russia

27 February 1959

Yuri Nikolay'ich Bazarov felt the cold burrow through his clothes, past his skin, and settling straight in his bones. From where he stood, Bazarov could see for miles and miles, the beauty of the Родина (motherland) arrayed out before him, but Yuri was left unmoved by the vista. There was too much on his mind, too many impossible problems rattling in his head, for him to notice.

They had found the campsite late the night before. No one expected to see survivors-it had been well over two weeks since the small hiking party of students from the Уральский политехнический институт (Ural Polytechnical Institute) had begun their climb. What they had found was far worse: a mystery. The campsite was empty, the hikers gone with only their footprints as a lead. Yuri grimaced as he turned away from the cliffside and towards the campsite. Climbing up the small embankment, Yuri simply stared at the empty tents as he walked by them to where his fellow searcher, Anton Kapylyushni, stood.

Anton was a stalwart man who had been in Stalingrad at Pavlov's House, if the rumors were true. Personally, Yuri was inclined to agree with the tales-something about Anton seemed too distant, too weathered. His eyes always stared out into the distance, and when he looked at you, it felt more like he was looking through you. For some, that was unsettling, but to Yuri, there was a degree of comfort. Anton was the one man he trusted completely in a world gone mad.

"Have we found anything in the camp? Any tracks lead to bodies?" Yuri had little time for semantics-if no survivors had stepped forward by now, then there had been none. To think otherwise was not just naive, but it could also be fatal. Kholat cared little for those who climbed it.

"The tents have supplies, almost completely stocked. Whatever happened happened early in the trip, likely at night." Anton replied, looking down at the notes he had hastily scribbled in pencil. "We are following the footprints now, but they make little sense; many seem to have fled barefoot."

"Barefoot?" Yuri repeated. "That's mad! Frostbite would eat your toes in minutes!"

"Whatever happened here, Bazarov, I don't think they were scared of the frostbite." Anton muttered. "I think they were running."

- - - - - - - -

26 Days Earlier

Igor Dyatlov stood outside his tent for scant seconds before going back inside. Quietly, he muttered a string of curses so violent it would make Stalin roll in his still-fresh grave, assuming that Kruschev hasn't soundproofed the damn thing. Soviet politics, like the weather at nigh midnight near the summit, was as cold as ice, and also like Soviet politics, getting too close while trying to understand the hows and whys was a good way to get killed.

"Not like the NKVD can get me up here!" He chuckled to himself as he laid down in the tent. Already curled up in a sleeping bag, and shivering for his efforts, was Yuri Doroschenko. Like Dyatlov, and everyone else up on the mountain with him, they were suffering because of a simple mistake. They had all gotten turned around, and instead of going to Otorten, they had gone up a godforsaken snowball of a mountain called Kholat Syakhl.

Doroschenko stirred. "Damned snowstorm." The student seethed, every syllable a shaky one delivered through. chattering teeth. "We'd be on Otorten by now!"

"They came from nowhere." Dyatlov agreed. "I think they shall pass just as soon."

"Doubtful." Yuri retorted. "I think we will need at least-" outside, there was a subtle crunch in the snow. The Russian  stopped mid-sentance. "Did you hear that?" He asked after a minute had passed. Dyatlov nodded, a sudden kick of adrenaline shooting down his spine. Something felt wrong somehow, but he couldn't put his finger to it. All he knew was that his group was the only one out on Kholat that night that he knew of, and that his tent was at the edge of the site-no one was sleeping near them, not that way. "Is someone out there? Yuri asked, bolting to his feet.

"Sh!" Dyatlov hissed at him. "It might be a bear, don't make more noise!" Yuri nodded quietly, and the two stood in the dim lighting of the lantern they had set up, they heard the crunch again. Then again. Then more, several footfalls, some far heavier than others.

And then he heard a chittering voice no human ears had ever heard before.

- - - - - - -

27 February 1959

Yuri had moved as fast as he could when word had reached him that they had found bodies. It had been hours, and the empty campsite had begun to unnerve him more and more by the second. Anything, he wagered, had to be better than nothing.

The semicircle of searchers clustered around a cedar tree, at the edge of a forest that seemed to stretch deeper and deeper into the mountain. "Alright, break it up!" Yuri shouted as he moved close. These people were volunteers, some trained, some not-the lollygagging was to be expected.

"You heard him, move!" Anton barked, and the crowd split before Yuri. The man blinked, his mind struggling to process what he was seeing. After six days of searching, they had finally found some of the corpses, but there were only two. The frozen corpses of Yuri Krivonischenko and Yuri Doroshenko stated up at the rescuer, their bodies bare save for their underwear, lying practically naked against the tree. The rescuer's face contorted with rage.

"What the hell is this!" Yuri shouted, wheeling to face the searchers. "Who did this to them? Come forward, now!" Yuri seethed, the thought of someone stripping a body for any sick reason burning his mind. "Come forward, or I will find you and shoot you myself!"

"Bazarov!" Anton suddenly said, his voice coming from over Yuri's shoulder. A big beefy hand grabbed his arm, holding him tightly bound. Yuri struggled for only a moment before realizing his task was futile. "No one did this; it was like this when they were found."

"That's impossible, and you know it!" Yuri snapped back, turning to face the man. "No one would strip off their clothes up here! That's mad!" Anton was quiet, but then his eyes turned to the bodies, and a strange look passed over his face. Yuri felt his heart stop-he recognized fear when he saw it-and turned back to the corpses.

A look of bliss was etched forever on the visage of the dead.

- - - - - - - -

26 Days Earlier

Doroshenko walked down the hill the summer sun shining upon his face It felt good to be alive It felt good to be home It felt good to feel the grass kiss his feet but sometimes it burned but other times it didn't but Doroschenko didn't really care either way because the sun was there so beautifully Wearing only their underwear felt great he reflected and he was glad that he wasn't alone as he walked home Krivonischenko walked with him smiling at the cool breeze that filled him with cold but the sun was so warm that he didn't notice

In the blink of an eye a forest appeared from nowhere said the Earth had opened a maw and spat out endless oak and ceder and they all had black eyes as big as an ocean and yellow eyes that seethed with hate and somewhere somewhere someone was screaming but Doroschenko did not hear them as he began to climb the tree I do not want to get lost he thought as he scaled the old ceder as deftly as a child could but if he was a child then how did he walk and talk and think like an adult Fom the top of the tree Doroschenko could see nothing but trees and the sun and the sun felt so warm that he had to climb down to feel the breeze again He sat next to Krivonischenko and smiled and wondered to himself how it was so warm that he could feel so endlessly cold?

- - - - - - - -

27 February 1959

As evening approached, it only got colder and colder. The sun sank past the tips of the mountains, and a deep darkness spread quietly over Kholat Syakhl. The snow, once capable of blinding a man if the sun struck it the right way, seemed to now absorb the light, leaving only a pitch-black world. It felt about as alien as it could that night, Yuri thought; as if the mountain belonged on an entirely different world.

The sound of crunching footsteps drew Yuri out of his trance, and stood up for where he had been sitting in front of an improvised campfire. Anton stood before him, his arms crossed. "More bodies?" Yuri asked. Anton nodded, slowly.

"Three. They match descriptions of Igor Dyatlov, Zinaida Kolmogorav, and Rustem Slobodin." Anton spoke in a tired monotone, his eyes dropping. Even the hardiest of folk can only take a thinner atmosphere for so long. Yuri found it incredible how Himalayan Sherpas could live so well in this type of environment: there were times where he felt he would pass out any moment just standing around. "It seems that they were trying to get back to the camp when they died. All of them have severe frostbite, and are missing some appendages."

Yuri nodded blankly, this tired mind trying to process the data. "They must have felt it was safe to return."

"That, or they were willing to risk it." Anton added. "I doubt that any of them really thought that they would survive. I think they just wanted to die warm." Yuri put up his hand as he looked down at the ground, and Anton closed his mouth dutifully.

"I am tired of talking about bodies tonight, Kapylyushni." Yuri muttered, exhausted. "I just want to know why they left. Did we find any signs of avalanche, or a wild animal, at the camp?" Anton shook his head.

"Aside from typical snowfall, the tents are not buried. We did find some large tracks, but there is no way of knowing what caused them or when." Anton shifted his weight before continuing. "We did determine what the large gashes on the tents were caused by."

"A bear claw?" Yuri guessed. Anton shook his head before producing a small switchblade.

"This type of knife is standard for any climber, for cutting rope or defending against a wild animal." Anton explained as Yuri leaned closer. "This one is mine, but the campers all had one similar to this." Anton looked up at Yuri, and again that passing expression of fear rippled over his face. "The marks made in the tent were caused by a knife like this. They cut their way out of the tent."

Yuri took a step back, a sudden adrenaline kick rolling down his spine. "Why? What would make them do that?" Anton pocketed the knife as he replied.

"Normally, one would do this if the tent was buried in snow, but we know that did not happen. This means that they did it to escape something that had entered the tent, or that they thought would." Anton turned his head to look at the dark copse of trees in the distance, where they had found the two mostly-nude men. "Something evil happened here, Bazarov."

For a time, neither of the two said anything. The whistling wind seemed to taunt the two of them, laughing that they had not found its secrets, and after a while Yuri could stand the silence no longer. "What is nearby here?" Anton was quiet for a moment before replying.

"Practically nothing." Anton admitted. "Just mountains for kilometers all around." He crossed his arms. "Bazarov, when we were in the village before the climb, I asked around if anyone saw or heard anything strange over the last two weeks."

"What did they say?" Yuri probed, walking to stand next to the man. As Yuri stated out into the night, it seemed to be getting darker and darker still as the seconds passed.

"Most didn't say a word. Too scared to that they might point out a state secret and pay the price." Anton shrugged before continuing. "A few did, though.  The night of the party's disappearance, the first of Feburary, lights were seen over the mountaintop. Strange lights, hovering right over where we are right now." Yuri involuntarily looked up, and for the first time realized that he couldn't see the sky; clouds covered every inch of it.

"What are we dealing with here, Kapylyushni?" Yuri asked quietly, but Anton didn't answer. It took Yuri many hours to fall asleep that night, the whistling wind echoing in his ears.

- - - - - - - -

1 February 1959

The sound of the thing running them down had gotten quieter and quieter as the seconds passed. Semyon Zolotariov took slow, but painfully deep breaths. Next to him, Lyudmilla Dubinina cried softly into the arms of Yuri Yudin, who cradled her as best as his stiff and frozen arms would allow. Across from Zolotariov sat Nicolai Thibeaux-Brignolles, his eyes glazed over as he stared at his friend. Those eyes betrayed that he was thinking the same thing as Zolotariov: they weren't getting down the mountain, not alive.

The beast, of that was what it was, had chased them doggedly through the snow, it's unearthly growls and snorts of rage carried by the wind so that it always seemed right on top of them. For a while, though, it had been quiet, and for the first time, Zolotariov had begun to feel relief. But it was cold, and getting colder. They could make a fire, but it would only attract the attention of the thing that has raised their camp.

One way or another, no one was escaping Kholat Syakhl.

Zolotariov stared forlornly down at the camera wrapped around his neck. So many pictures, so many memories, all encapsulated in a cheaply-made box. The mountain would hide it, destroy it with the cold and the slick, wet snow. The secret to what happened tonight, Zolotariov thought as a roar echoed across the mountain, would be buried with him.

He almost didn't feel anything when the creature caved in his skull.

- - - - - - - -

28 Days Later

Yuri stood over the fractured corpse of a man named Zolotariov, and let out an empty sigh. It was over-the entire Dyatlov Party had been recovered to a man. And yet, it wasn't. Nothing had made sense since Bazarov had climbed the thrice-damned mountain so many days ago. 

For him, though, his job had come to an end. The doctors would see the bodies next, trying to find out how and why they died. They were befuddled too-especially when a Geiger counter began to start ticking when the corpses passed by. Yuri had only heard the tale second hand, but his sleep was haunted by the static of a device as if he had held it up to their frozen faces.

Yuri leaned down, and tried not to stare into eyes like ice as he grabbed the camera that had been wrapped around Zolotariov's neck. He cut its straps loose with his knife, and the device came free. If Zolotariov dissented, he did not raise his voice, something that Yuri was very thankful for. Examining it, he found the button that opened the camera up and pressed it gingerly, so not to break it. Surprisingly, it opened like a charm, but the photo strips inside were anything but.

Carefully, Bazarov extradited the reel from the camera, placing the thing down on Zolotariov's chest as he unfurled the strip. The photos were waterlogged horribly, too damaged to be useful. Picture after picture had been washed away, until he reached the end of the strip.

At first, Yuri thought the photo was damaged as well, useless from the moisture. But then he looked again, and with growing horror, he noticed the detail of the image, the crispness of every edge.

Anton had gone down the mountain days ago. "I have had enough with the impossible." He had said, before leaving Yuri alone to finish the butcher's work. The Stalingrad veteran had seen a hell, but something about Kholat Syakhl struck too true of the hell, too close for him. As Yuri lowered the reel from his eyes, all he could think was how much he needed the man's level head and steady heart.

From the small panel, a tiny creature stared out at the world, absolute hate shining in its big, black eyes.