The darkened skin became translucent, like a sliver of dry meat against the light. It was all dry and matte—except for its eyes: two gleaming spheres that seemed to glow intermittently, like lumps of burning coal catching a reanimating breath. Its dry lips drew back to reveal mottled gums and two rows of small, yellowed teeth, impossibly sharp.

It paused above the frail form of Ladizlav Zajak, an old man from Grodno, a late arrival sickened with tuberculosis. Setrakian had supported Zajak since his arrival, showing him the ropes and shielding him from scrutiny. His disease alone was reason enough for instant execution—but Setrakian claimed him as his assistant, and kept him away from the SS overseers and Ukrainian guards at critical times. But Zajak was gone now. His lungs were giving out, and, more important, he had lost the will to live: shutting down, seldom speaking, constantly crying in silence. He had become a liability to Setrakian’s survival, but his entreaties no longer inspired the old man—Setrakian hearing him shudder with silent coughing spasms and quietly sobbing until dawn.

But now, towering above him, the Thing observed Zajak. The arrhythmic breathing of the old man seemed to please it. Like the angel of death, it extended its darkness over the man’s frail body and clucked its dry palate eagerly.

What the Thing did then…Setrakian could not see. There was noise, but his ears refused to hear it. This great, gloating Thing bent over the old man’s head and neck. Something about its posture indicated…a feeding. Zajak’s old body twitched and spasmed ever so lightly, but, remarkably, the old man never awoke.

And never did again.

Setrakian muffled a gasp with his hand. And the feeding Thing didn’t seem to mind him. It spent time over the various sick and infirm. By night’s end, three corpses were left behind, and the thing looked flushed—its skin suppler but equally dark.

Setrakian saw the Thing fade away into the darkness and leave. Cautiously, he got up and moved next to the bodies. He looked them over in the faint light, and there was no sign of any trauma—other than a thin slit in the neck. A breach so thin as to be nearly imperceptible. If he hadn’t witnessed the horror himself…

Then it dawned on him. This Thing. It would return again—and soon. This camp was a fertile feeding ground, and it would graze on the unnoticed, the forgotten, the inconsequential. It would feed on them. All of them.

Unless someone rose up to stop it.

Someone.

Him.

Movement

MOVEMENT

Coach

Coach