"What is a devourer of wrath?" Cain Mercer's words still echoed in my mind. Truth be told, I didn't fully understand what it meant—but according to some accounts, there exists a kind of residual force in the world, called wrath. The elderly often referred to it as "heavy air," while younger people simply called it paranormal energy.
But who has ever actually seen it? No one. So why are there so many stories?
Just like the mist I saw underground. Cain Mercer called it wrath. I could only interpret it as some kind of trapped gas. After all, any facility this large would need ventilation, and with that comes the possibility of condensation or gas buildup. It made sense—rational sense.
Still, I didn't fully dismiss his claim. As I often say: just because you haven't seen something, doesn't mean it doesn't exist. Just because you don't understand it, doesn't mean others can't.
Anyway—enough philosophy.
After I dragged Cain Mercer out of the underground dormitory, I stripped him, tied him to a tree. Why? Because I didn't trust him. He was too slippery. I couldn't search for Dr. Harold Crane while watching my back every second. And Crane? He wasn't exactly harmless either. Anyone selected for a secret national mission out in this kind of nowhere wasn't your average civilian—they had something the rest of us didn't.
Thinking of Dr. Crane gave me a headache. And the Faceless ones? I still had no idea what they really were—how they lived, or even if they were still alive. That night I'd seen one take a shot to the chest and not die. That still haunted me.
This time, I moved quickly toward the dry lakebed, looking for the drainage path where Dr. Crane had vanished with the Faceless ones the night before.
It didn't take long to find it. The traces were faint but there—footprints, disturbed dirt. I raised my rifle and crept inside. The stench hit me immediately, rotten and cloying, the kind of smell you never forget.
About thirty feet in, I saw a human skeleton hanging from the ceiling of the tunnel. The flesh had turned dark, almost black. Nearby, torn scraps of military uniform lay half-buried in the grime.
Could this be one of the missing soldiers from earlier?
I'd assumed the Faceless ones were feeding on Cain Mercer, but clearly, he hadn't died. Now I knew the truth.
This body had been picked clean over time. The thighs, abdomen, arms—stripped to the bone. This wasn't a sudden act of violence. It was methodical. Measured.
I used my knife to cut the rope. As I supported the body by the ribcage, the last bit of connective tissue snapped, and the skeleton collapsed onto the floor.
I looked down at what was left—bones, tattered fabric—and let out a slow breath. The stench was overpowering, but I didn't gag. This was a soldier, after all.
I wrapped the bones in the uniform and found his skull nearby. The face had been eaten away—no lips, no eyes, half a tongue. I added it to the bundle.
Then I turned to leave.
But after a few steps, I stopped. I couldn't just walk away.
I stood still for a moment. Quiet. Then, barely louder than a whisper, I said, "Thank you."
And moved on.
The deeper I went, the more damp the floor became. Eventually the ground was no longer dry dirt—it turned to wet, sticky mud. The air grew heavier, more humid. Was there still water ahead?
That shouldn't be possible. According to Cain Mercer, the mountain's water supply had been diverted decades ago, collapsing the valley's original energy flow. The dry lake was proof of that.
Unless…
Maybe the construction of the sanatorium had interrupted the natural water table. Maybe it redirected rainwater from the peak. That would explain the underground system's design.
I pushed forward another 250 feet. The tunnel sloped steeply now, and I could no longer stand upright. I dropped to all fours, crawling upward. The mud sucked at my boots. The tunnel walls were too slick to grip.
I kept going.
Time blurred. I lost track of how far I'd climbed.
Then my hand touched something hard. Cold.
Bone.
I froze.
I let go, shifted sideways, tried another route—another bone.
It was everywhere.
I paused, exhaled slowly, reached for my flashlight. Just as I pulled it free, something grabbed my finger.
"Shit!" I shouted, jerking back.
My boot slipped. I slid several feet downhill before catching myself on the wall.
I knelt there, one leg braced, waiting.
Nothing moved.
Eventually, I clicked on the flashlight. The beam illuminated a half-decayed corpse—no, not quite a corpse. Something in between. Flesh clung to bone in strips. The face was gone. One arm had been severed. The hand that grabbed me? It twitched faintly on the floor.
I crawled closer.
It was a Faceless one.
Its legs were stripped of muscle. The stomach was hollowed out. What intestines remained had shriveled into black strings. The chest still held some leathery skin stretched thin over ribs. The neck was half its normal width. The mouth a dark cavern.
Blood pooled beneath it—thick, tar-like, but not much. The body hadn't died recently.
I didn't touch it. Didn't want to.
I had no idea why it was here, why it had been attacked—or eaten—by its own kind.
Maybe they'd turned on it. Maybe this one had been too weak, or made a mistake. Either way, it was a warning.
I stepped over it and moved on.
This time, I kept the flashlight on. The slope worsened. My hands were always busy—gun in one, flashlight in the other. No time to fumble in the dark anymore.
I kept climbing, thinking one thing:
Dr. Crane was still alive. And if he was, then I had a duty to bring him home.
I paused only once, pulling a protein bar from my pack and eating it slowly.
Then I climbed deeper into the dark.