Article 8: Journal of Dr. Konev, PhD

April 29th, 1970

The experiments are getting out of hand. The soldiers who were exposed to the black sludge have completely transformed into what their comrades have dubbed “Gypsy Wolves” as the first victims were the nomadic Romanians in the forest outside the town, falling upon patrols in great packs. Their flesh is black with disease, with long lanky arms. Their posture and locomotion is bipedal, but reluctant, like a dog rearing up on it’s hind legs. The fresh ones still have their eyes, sockets and tear ducts flooded with inky ichor above unhinged jaws. The elders, those in which the infection has progressed even further, have done away with eyes--or a face, for that matter--altogether. Instead they simply have a gaping maw, twin tongues lolling about, tasting the air. It seems that this scrounge acts similar to a bloodborne infection, like rabies multiplied by one hundred. It seems that the ‘Predator’ rune causes an unnatural attraction in, well, predatory animals. The effect, without fail, results in the death of the animal, whose remains coalesce into a potent biohazard. Of course, Command has responded to this development by attempting to weaponize the rune, the sludge, the beasts, or all three, trucking in buses full of political purposes for this very purpose. It makes me sick, what humans can do to each other. There are things you simply should not know; secrets are secrets for a reason.

As abhorrent as it’s effects are, the ‘Predator’ rune gives me conniptions the least. It, at least, follows human logic. That Gannibal, or what part of him remains human, keeps feeding that Captain Petrov dark, eldritch truths. Or, as Gannibal would say, Truths. His madness reaches new heights with every rune he comes in contact with. At first he would simply faint after each exposure as, in his words, the Truth overwhelmed his mind. It seems that repeated exposure allowed him to build up an immunity, bits and pieces of the Truth staying lodged in his mind, to the detriment of every human being here. He’s given Petrov the tools to start experimentation, forcing his victims to withstand knowledge their minds were never meant to know, their bodies twisted by the wisdom of the Old Unclean Ones, the Great Ancients, whatever you want to call them. As a biologist, I’ve been charged with examining these unholy, once-human creatures; my work starts tomorrow. I shudder to even think about it; I hear their inhuman cries through the concrete walls. If the Gypsy Wolves were once human, then it stands to reason that whatever creatures I hear were also once human. If a person could transmutate into such monsters, then what evil dregs lie within humanity?

April 30th, 1970

Today I was forced to witness the product of Konev’s work. They’re not human anymore, only approaching human form, to varying degrees and with varying success. Natural beings degenerating, deforming, twisting themselves into nightmare fauna. This batch of subjects are three males, and have completely lost their minds. All the human guinea pigs have been in contact with a rune for about twelve hours or so, according to Konev. He’s a sick bastard. These poor souls sit on the floor of their cell in the basement of the complex, rocking gently back and forth on the damp concrete with their face in their hands. Even in the dim light, I could see that their skin had begun to take on a blue hue, as if they were suffering from hypothermia. When I examined them, however, they were burning with fever. What’s more, their hands seemed to be fused to their face, like two pieces of glass welded together. A muffled, ragged sobbing sounded continuously from them. They still seem human. Normal heartbeat, normal breathing. I wonder for how long.

The second batch of subjects are exhibiting even greater mutations, even after the same amount of time. Maybe some of the runes are more powerful? I should ask Gannibal. Not Dr. Gannibal, just Gannibal. He has no right to be called that when he’s like this. I’m not looking forward to it. But I digress. This second group are suffering from copse-gray skin, dry like it’s about to crumble into powder. It’s sagged around their bodies, draped over them like a blanket over their hunched backs, their arms dangling, their hands clenched into claws; the thumb lengthening, fore and middle fingers growing together, ring and little fingers fusing. They’re much more aggressive as well, stalking back and forth in the cell. Occasionally they’ll throw themselves against the bars, snarling like a dog, mouth twisted in rictus, yellow canine teeth bared. When they begrudgingly accept they can’t get to me (yet?), they settle for glaring through the bars at myself or the other subjects. It’s all you can see under the folds of their skin. There’s no way I can get close enough to them.

The last test subjects are an elderly couple. Were. Were an elderly couple. I don’t think they ever understood what was happening to them. When I got to them, they seemed dead to the world, snuggled up to each other, cradling that rock like a child. They were making a rhythmic humming, like they knew the tune of a lullaby but not the words. They didn’t seem to notice as I approached; maybe they were above such concerns. I tried to study their condition, but their skin has become…it’s started to melt, like a wax statue in an oven. I made the mistake of touching it, it stuck to my hand like melted cheese and burned like acid.

May 1st, 1970

Made it to the church. I think I’m safe. For now, at least. Need to board up the windows.

May 2nd, 1970

The church is secure, or as secure as it’s ever going to be. The experiments broke containment; a massive swarm of those wolf creatures swept in from the forest and descended upon the base. I escaped just in time, I was one of the lucky ones. I heard gunshots from within the complex, then screams, then inhuman cries as mobs of beasts burst forth like water from a breached dam, holding their runes aloft like unholy idols. There must’ve been more test subjects than the ones I saw. Many, many more. The whole town is overrun; the beasts roaming the streets, fighting each other for territory. I was with a small group of townsfolk, but I was the only one who made it to the church. The beasts outside seem to be the conclusion of Konev’s experiments, the final stage of this beastly scourge.

The old Jewish quarter is overrun by Crying Eyes, strange shambling creatures almost pitiful in their appearance. Their skin has a strange violet hue, their heads clutched in their hands as if they were crying, hence the name. Eyes spill over their arms, their hands, giving their head a bubbled, cauliflower-like look. They look docile enough, but from the steeple I saw one attack a survivor who made a break for it. I saw it collapse as he approached, as if in submission or surrender. Then it’s back began to writhe and pulsate, erupting in midnight blue tentacular appendages, each tipped in a spatulate, sickle-like blade or clawed hand with fingers like knitting needles. I didn’t watch the rest. I’ve seen enough, far too much, these past few weeks, but I couldn’t stop myself from hearing his scream.

They frequently clash with what the townspeople call Láms in the husks of the apartment buildings nearby. They have grey skin, and they walk hunched over, arms dangling, their three-fingered hands scraping the ground. The skin on their back and neck is loose, draped over them like a cloak, almost covering their bulging, swollen bellies, their head peeking out from underneath with wild, unblinking eyes. Their mouths are filled with yellow, bloodstained fangs, smiling with crazed, grim rictus as they twist their heads, necks corkscrewing until their muzzle lies vertical. They’re called Láms from the sound of their necks leaping forward, extending by a full meter or more, lunging towards their prey.

Worst of all are the Grandmothers, misshapen sluglike creatures off-white in color, anywhere between two and three meters in length, with a body like a severed pair of lips, bumps along it’s surface like a centipede. Their ‘head’ rears up maybe a half meter off the ground, home to a mass of antennae swaying back and forth. Along it’s flanks protrude slimy appendages with which it feels it’s way along, undulating like a worm, making sickening squelching noises. When attacking, it rears up and wraps it’s prey in a crushing embrace, it’s ribs exploding from it’s underside, impaling the target as a great maw opens on the underside of the creature, lined with great black teeth. They hug you close and don’t let go. The worst part is the sounds they make. Oh god, the sounds. A keen, echoing cry, just out of key. You can hear it echoing off the buildings, and it makes it impossible to sleep. And then it makes a happy little sigh, or hums quietly to itself, rocking back and forth contently. Whenever they catch sight of someone, or even another beast, they let out a sad, pitiful groan, a whimper, sometimes even a mewl, even as they advance forward to consume their prey with a shuddering moan. I spied two of them wrapping tentacles around each other, like they were embracing, swaying back and forth in unison, making happy little sounds. The elderly couple I saw must’ve become beasts like these, compassionate and bloodthirsty all at once. I hate them most of all. These beasts might have been human once, but no longer. But if a human being could turn into such a monstrous creature, then what darkness, what hidden inherent beasthood, lies dormant inside of man? And if humans do this to one another, are me much better?

May 7th, 1970

It seems that there were still a few soldiers alive, a handful of flame troopers. The beasts have a unnatural fear of flame, and rightly so, but it still pales in comparison to their bloodlust. They were finally overrun, their last act to set of demolition charges, turning three apartment buildings to rubble. Now a raging firestorm has erupted, beasts burning alive, staggering through the streets like living candles. Is there no other way, than to burn it all to cinders?

May 8th, 1970

Most of the town is alight, filling the sky with clouds of thick, pungent smoke, black cloying dust coating everything. I can’t get the soot off me. I can’t get it off me, no matter how hard I try. I can’t get it off me.

May 9th, 1970

Food is running low. I only have five or six cans of Tushonka left. I’ve always hated it. Stew belongs in a pot, not a can, but it’s all I’ve got. I still can’t get the soot off me.

May 10th, 1970

There’s soot, thick and jet black, falling from the sky. The sky’s changed. It’s a deep blue, facetted like a crystal. The Topaz Sea. It’s The Topaz Sea.

It’s beautiful.

May 10th 9th 12th 11th, 1970

The Sea is so beautiful. So beautiful, but I feel my brain is missing something. There are strange beasts skimming the surface of The Sea, on the cusp of the clouds. Wait, no, that’s not the word. That’s not the word. Bombers. Yes. That’s the word.