He moved like a shadow inside the besieged house, ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder and thigh. In a damp tool shed near the kitchen, he found his new arsenal. Two rusty bear traps, their steel teeth gaping like a wolf's hungry jaws, still faintly smelling of animal blood. An old chainsaw, heavy and oily, its red paint chipped, its chain dull but sharp to the touch. And the double-barreled shotgun he'd looted earlier, along with a box of ammunition.
Hiding them was a brutal art. The traps were folded and slipped onto his belt, hidden beneath the coat. The shotgun was slung over his back. The chainsaw... that was a problem. He strapped it tightly to his chest with a leather strap he found, then put his thick military coat back on. His silhouette was now a strange and deadly bulk, more like a deformed golem than a man, ready to explode at any moment.
The house was deathly quiet. Too quiet. The only sounds were his own slow heartbeat and the muffled, panicked whispers of the cultists outside. Then, the voice came.
Heh... heh... heh...
A hoarse laugh that seemed to crawl from the dark corners of the room, or perhaps... from inside his own skull. The voice was as familiar as pain. The Dog.
???:
"How does it feel to be the hunted dog? The hunted dog... sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
The voice, his dark motivator, his comrade-in-arms from his rotten soul, seemed to be coming from the hallway. Oldred walked toward it, his heavy boots creaking on the fragile wooden floor. He pushed open the bathroom door, which was hanging crookedly on its hinges.
KREEEET...
The room was cold and smelled of mildew. A fogged-up mirror above a cracked sink reflected the sickly moonlight. As Oldred stepped inside, his hot breath (or perhaps something else) made the condensation on the mirror swirl. The fog began to gather, darkening, forming a black, furry silhouette with no eyes, resembling the head of the German Shepherd he knew so well. Old friend, or dark motivator? To him, there was no difference.
Oldred moved closer, standing still in front of the mirror. The reflection of his battered steel mask was barely visible behind the eyeless canine figure staring back at him.
The Dog:
"To hunt or to be hunted, killing is a necessity, isn't it?" The voice rumbled, seeming to come from within the mirror. "And to die... to die is a disgraceful mishap?"
As those words were spoken, the reflection in the mirror flickered. Where did the black fur go? Where did the terrifying dog silhouette go? The fog wiped itself clean, and what was visible now was neither Oldred nor The Dog.
It was the face of a woman. Pale, terrified, with dull yellow hair stuck to her wet face. And the smell of fresh blood suddenly filled the cramped bathroom.
The face in the mirror opened its mouth, but the voice that came out was still hoarse and distorted, as if The Dog's voice and the woman's voice were fighting for control in one throat.
The Dog?:
"You taught me that... You showed me that killing is a necessity... Was I wrong?... Then... then..."
The soft voice now broke, turning into a harsh, hateful digital scream.
"THENTHENTHEN—"
KRAASSH!
The mirror seemed to liquefy. Two pale, thin female hands shot out from the rippling glass surface, instantly gripping Oldred's neck with astonishing strength, her broken fingernails scraping against the metal of his mask.
The woman's face now pressed against the breaking mirror's surface, her eyes wild with tears and hatred.
ꋊꋬꃳꏂ꒒꒐ꋬ ꍌ꒐꒒ꇙꋬ:
"WHY DID IT HAVE TO BE ME?! WHY US?! MY FATHER! MY MOTHER?! WHY DID YOU CHOOSE TO DO IT?! WHY, WHY, WHY?!"
Oldred's reaction was instant and brutal.
KRA-BOOM!
In the blink of an eye, the figure vanished. The scream was cut short. Oldred's bionic hand had punched straight forward. The mirror exploded into a thousand pieces. The porcelain sink beneath it shattered into fragments. The wall behind it cracked and buckled, revealing the wooden slats within. Items on the small shelf tumbled down.
Oldred stood still amidst the destruction. His breathing was heavy, hot steam escaping from his mask's respirator. He lowered his bionic arm. Sharp shards of the mirror were still embedded in his steel knuckles, glittering like broken gems. With a slow, mechanical motion, he brushed the glass shards from his iron fist.
Tink... tink...
Reality and illusion. For him, they were just one, barely separable unity.