Chapter 3:
Wooden Nirvana, filthy fingers, and pretty sculptures.
A few minutes later, Vlad was closer to the warehouse. He had his fingers wrapped around his AK-47, which had chipped paint and many dents. He had it in his backpack, which held more weapons and tools than food and other essentials. Such things came by easily, even if food meant a cooked bird that had to be shot out of a tree or water was old toilet water that looked reasonably pure. He wanted to enter the building, to find the source of the wonderful sound, but he couldn't. He knew better. He knew it was a trap. But the feeling. The need, the want was unbearable. Vlad walked closer to the door, and pulled the door slightly open. As soon as he did, the rust on the door scratched against the frame. The resulting noise caused the beautiful noise to stop abruptly. Vlad froze, as he heard some rustling above him, presumably in the warehouse's attic. Then, he realized the rust wasn't what cause the music to cease. It was a noise from behind him he overlooked that was growing louder.
Vlad spun around, trigger-finger itchy. He saw a silhouette of a wolf, or a large dog, against the rising sun. It's eyes had the unhealthy red glow of swollen eye veins that was characteristic of the radiated hounds. It's hair was mangy and caked with dirt, which ruined the possibly beautiful silver fur it once had in abundance. It was limping towards Vlad, drooling out saliva mixed with bloody phlegm. It's mouth didn't seem like it had been closed for a long time, possibly due to a broken jaw, or muscular failure. Whatever. That didn't matter. What mattered was that it was hungry and Vlad was basically a walking meal. What it did lack in agility, it had in determination and disease it could easily spread. Vlad rose his AK-47 up to his left shoulder, being a southpaw, and pointed it at the creature's skull. RATATATATATATATA!
A second later the hound fell to the ground, with bullet holes all over it's body. Vlad gave the corpse a strong kick to ensure that it was dead. It didn't move, shake, flinch, or twitch. Vlad sighed, and then heard a burst of laughter from above. He heard some mumbling, rustling, and then the music started again. Now, Vlad was unable to prevent his entrance. He opened the door, ignoring the obnoxious screeching, and walked inside. Immediately, he noticed a strong stench, but the inside of the warehouse was too dark to locate the source. But he knew that smell, it was the smell of a rotting corpse. But the smell was too strong. Obviously, rather than one corpse, the warehouse held many. He felt like turning away from this body pit, but the curiosity within him was strong. He looked and barely made out some stairs to his right. He walked in that direction, and almost stumbled over a soft squishy object. He had an idea what it was. He slowly stepped over it, but his boot landed on yet another. He took a breath, and waltzed across the piles and piles of various human bodies. Shells of what they used to be. His boots were covered with blood when he reached the stairs, he could smell it. He climbed over the railing, and walked upstairs. As he ascended, the noise got stronger and sharper. He kept walking, turned as the stairs did, climbed, turned again, and reached a step ladder to the much lighter attic. He holstered his gun and pulled out a 9mm he had in another pocket in his backpack. He climbed slowly, alert as ever, until he took a step up, but as his climbed, the music stopped. He heard foot steps get closer, and he froze in place. He was about to let go of the ladder so he could escape the unknown figure, but the person closed the trapdoor at the top of the ladder onto Vlad's head, causing him to tumble down off the ladder and onto the catwalk, unconscious.
He awoke, eyes aching from being used to the darkness his eyelids gave them. The apparent cause of his awakening was a spike in the music his captor was playing. This forced Vlad's head towards his direction, simultaneously noting he had been strapped to a hospital gurney and could not move. His neck was free, so he looked at the source of the music. The musician himself was fairly mundane. Dressed in clothes that were more for comfort than style so he could survive the wastes no doubt, with graying hair and a slightly aged face. His face was angular and sharp, slightly repulsive. He had a paper-thin mustache that was blacker than the hair on his head that sat underneath his pointy nose. He was unhealthily skinny, looking as if he suffered from malnutrition. However, he showed no signs of being infected by any of the diseases that were caused by the atomic waste spills and nuclear waste. But the object that caught Vlad's face was the true source of the music. He did not recognize the object, but you would know it as a violin. It was remarkably clean and well kept, especially compared to the rest of the town, or the rest of the Camp for that matter. It was shiny and made of wood. His eye twinkled at the shine of the cleanliness. The musician took note of the fact that Vlad was inspecting him. He smiled, his lips tearing slightly because they were horribly chapped. "Well, Hello there. You seem to be interested in the ear-colors I am forming." He spoke in a raspy voice. He was obviously a smoker, and his Russian was very impaired. He was an immigrant that got caught in one of the greatest disasters humanity has ever experienced. Obviously not a lucky person.
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внушающий ужас рассказ мысль пытать
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