EASRS: The Cycle of Hatred I
Chapter 2
The gas station fell into silence.
Not the ordinary kind.
Not the kind you notice and forget.
This silence—
was wrong.
It pressed down on the air itself,
thick, suffocating, like invisible hands tightening slowly around the throat of everything that breathed.
Even the rain—
—seemed quieter.
As if it, too, was listening.
Erwin, Jenny, and Jones stood frozen just outside the entrance.
Their eyes met.
No one spoke.
But something passed between them—
something instinctive.
Their feet shifted back.
Just slightly.
Half a step.
But in that moment, it felt like stepping away from the edge of something bottomless.
The rain suddenly intensified.
Cold water poured down from above, soaking through clothes, clinging to skin, dragging the warmth out of their bodies.
It snapped them awake.
Completely.
No alcohol.
No laughter.
No denial.
Only clarity.
And fear.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
The sound echoed somewhere—
inside their heads,
or inside their chests.
A rhythm that didn't belong to the world around them.
Their hearts were beating too loud.
Too fast.
Too uneven.
Then—
BANG!
The sound tore through the silence like a blade.
Violent.
Sudden.
A table inside the gas station flipped over, crashing against the floor.
Something heavy followed—
slamming down with a wet, crushing impact.
Then—
…thud.
A dull, hollow sound.
Followed by something softer.
Drip…
Drip…
Blood.
It began to fall from above.
Dark.
Thick.
Each drop striking the floor with a quiet, sticky sound that seemed louder than it should have been.
Inside—
The truck drivers turned.
Slowly.
Mechanically.
As if their bodies were delayed compared to their thoughts.
They looked at each other.
Eyes wide.
Mouths slightly open—
but no sound came out.
Then—
Something rolled.
Across the floor.
It stopped near a pair of boots.
A head.
Severed cleanly.
Its eyes still open.
Still… moving.
Blood erupted from the neck in pulsing bursts, splattering across the tiles, the walls, the legs of the men standing frozen in place.
Time didn't move.
For a second.
Or maybe longer.
No one screamed.
Shock had stolen that from them.
And then—
The man who had collapsed earlier—
stood up.
No one saw him move.
No one saw him breathe.
He was simply—
standing.
His body twisted at an unnatural angle.
His skin—
covered in swollen, red growths.
They pulsed beneath the surface.
Bulging.
Shifting.
As if something alive was crawling underneath his flesh, trying to push its way out.
His mouth opened.
Too wide.
Wider than it should.
And he screamed.
Not in pain.
Not entirely.
There was something else inside that sound—
something hungry.
Something that did not belong to a human throat.
The drivers stared.
One step back.
Another.
Then—
someone turned.
Ran.
Then another.
Then all of them.
Panic shattered the stillness.
Bodies slammed into each other as they rushed toward the exit.
Some slipped on blood.
Some fell.
Some didn't get back up.
Behind them—
The man moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
He lunged forward—
and the sound that followed was wet.
Violent.
Tearing.
Blood sprayed across the room like a burst pipe.
---
Outside—
The scream reached them.
Clear.
Sharp.
Inhuman.
Jones reacted instantly.
He grabbed Erwin and Jenny, forcing their bodies to turn away.
Not gently.
Violently.
Urgently.
They ran.
Shoes splashing against wet concrete.
Breath tearing through their lungs.
Hands pressed tightly over their ears—
as if that could block it out.
As if that could undo what they had already heard.
Jones muttered, voice shaking despite the force in his movements—
> "Don't look… don't look at anything…
There's nothing there… nothing—
Fuck…"
The cold air wrapped around them.
But their bodies burned.
Sweat clung to their skin.
Their hearts refused to slow down.
The darkness around them felt deeper now.
Heavier.
Like the night itself had thickened.
They reached the car.
Got in.
Slammed the doors shut.
Silence.
Only breathing.
Ragged.
Uneven.
Alive.
Erwin didn't say anything.
He just drove.
The engine roared.
The car shot forward into the night, tires cutting through puddles as speed replaced thought.
Faster.
And faster.
As if distance could erase memory.
Behind them—
the gas station lights shrank.
Faded.
Disappeared.
And from the opposite direction—
flashing lights emerged.
Red.
Blue.
Rapid.
Violent.
Police vehicles tore through the darkness—
heading straight toward what they had just left behind.
---
The Next Morning
Beep… Beep… Beep…
The sound cut through the quiet room.
A television flickered.
Static danced briefly across the screen before stabilizing.
> "This is Franta Times."
A reporter stood in frame.
Behind him—
the gas station.
Now sealed off.
Police tape.
Flashing lights.
Figures moving in controlled urgency.
His voice was calm.
Measured.
Too clean for what had happened.
> "According to our reports, last night, a man believed to be under the influence of stimulants—"
A brief flicker crossed the screen.
Almost unnoticeable.
> "—attacked civilians at a gas station along Route 216 in Franta City."
He gestured behind him.
> "One individual has been confirmed dead. Four others are currently hospitalized."
A pause.
The wind brushed lightly against the microphone.
> "Preliminary analysis suggests the possibility of a neurological or psychological agent affecting behavior and emotional stability."
Another flicker.
The image distorted—
just for a split second.
> "Citizens are advised to remain indoors and limit unnecessary travel—"
—tzzzzt—
The signal corrected itself instantly.
As if nothing had happened.
---
The television continued speaking.
But the room felt colder.
Quieter.
Heavier.
Erwin stood at the doorway.
His hand still resting on the metal handle.
Warm air from the heater brushed against his body—
but it didn't reach deep enough.
His eyes moved slowly.
From the television—
to the sofa.
A man sat there.
Tall.
Still.
Solid.
Blonde hair, parted neatly.
A face carved by time and experience.
A thick mustache.
Blue eyes—
fixed on the screen.
Unblinking.
In his hand—
a cup of black coffee.
His grip tightened.
Slightly.
Almost imperceptibly.
But the old scar across his palm stretched faintly as the muscles tensed beneath the skin.
His breathing was low.
Controlled.
But heavy.
Like something restrained.
Erwin stepped inside.
Quietly.
Adjusted his messy hair.
Trying to look normal.
Trying—
to act like nothing had happened.
> "Dad…
There's been a lot of strange stuff on the news lately…"
He sat down.
Leaning back.
Putting his feet up on the table.
Casual.
Too casual.
His body betrayed him.
Muscles tight.
Hands clenched.
A tension he couldn't hide.
Across from him—
Harry lifted his coffee.
Took a slow sip.
Set it down.
Then turned.
Their eyes met.
And in that moment—
Erwin felt it.
Not anger.
Not yet.
Something worse.
Certainty.
Harry's voice came low.
Deep.
Cold.
Carrying the weight of someone who had seen too much to be fooled.
> "You think you can fool a man who almost died in Vietnam…?"
Silence.
Then—
> "Tell me."
A pause.
> "Where were you last night?"
Erwin opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Nothing came out.
No lie.
No excuse.
Before he could even try—
Harry spoke again.
Cutting through everything.
His gaze locked onto Erwin's.
Sharp.
Unyielding.
Like a blade.
> "You went past that gas station last night…"
A breath.
Heavy.
Controlled.
> "…didn't you?"
Erwin froze.
Then—
slowly—
he nodded.
Once.
Harry exhaled.
Long.
Deep.
Like something had just been confirmed.
Something he didn't want to be true.
He stood up.
Walked past Erwin.
Then—
placed a hand on his shoulder.
Firm.
Heavy.
Not comforting.
Not gentle.
A warning.
Unspoken.
Clear.
Then he opened the door—
and stepped out into the hallway.
Leaving behind a silence that felt…
even heavier than before.
---
The corridor of the Smith estate stretched on like a pale artery, long and unnervingly quiet, its white wooden walls stripped bare of any decoration—as if the house itself had chosen to forget its past. No paintings. No photographs. Not even a crack to suggest warmth. Only silence… and the faint echo of footsteps.
Harry walked through it with measured strides.
Outside, beyond the narrow window slits, a weak morning light seeped through layers of drifting clouds, thin and colorless, like a dying breath of dawn. In the distance, the wail of police sirens cut through the stillness again and again—sharp, intrusive, relentless. Patrol cars flooded the streets below, their flashing red and blue lights tearing through the early morning haze like open wounds.
The world was already moving.
But inside this corridor… time felt delayed.
A single bird crossed the sky—alone—its wings beating slowly as it headed south, fleeing the coming winter. Harry's eyes followed it for a fraction of a second.
Then he stopped.
Just half a step.
His body stiffened, as if something unseen had brushed against the edge of his thoughts.
And then—
He walked faster.
Past one room. Then another. And another.
Each door identical. Each silence heavier than the last.
Until finally, he stopped in front of a door unlike the others.
Dark wood. Intricately carved. A design reminiscent of 18th to early 19th century aristocracy—elegant, deliberate… and suffocatingly formal. His hand reached out, fingers resting on the surface for a moment longer than necessary.
Then he pushed.
Creak—
The sound was low. Dry. Ancient.
Inside, the room revealed itself slowly.
A pentagonal chamber.
Five walls, each lined completely with towering bookshelves, filled to the point of collapse. Books of all sizes, all ages—stacked, pressed, suffocating one another. The air inside was thick with the scent of paper and time, tinged faintly with something metallic… something older.
At the center stood a single red leather chair.
And a worn wooden table.
Nothing more.
Harry stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a dull thud that seemed to swallow the outside world entirely.
His boots echoed softly as he approached one of the shelves.
Titles lined up like gravestones:
The Killing Zone: My Life in the Vietnam War.
If I Die in a Combat Zone, Box Me Up and Ship Me Home.
A Rumor of War.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, silent witnesses to a century soaked in blood.
His hand rose slowly.
Fingers brushed across the spines.
A faint tremor.
Not from age.
From memory.
For a moment, he didn't move.
It was as if those books… recognized him.
Or perhaps… he recognized them.
Then—
Without warning—
He shoved them aside.
Books fell violently, scattering across the floor, pages tearing loose as they hit the ground. The sound broke the silence like a gunshot.
Behind the empty space on the shelf—
A hidden mechanism.
Harry gripped the edge and pulled.
The entire shelf shifted sideways with a heavy, grinding sound, revealing what lay behind it.
A safe.
Old. Metallic. Painted in faded green, its surface marked by rust and time. A rotary dial sat at its center, worn from years of use.
At that exact moment—
Click.
Behind him, the door locked.
Harry didn't turn.
Didn't react.
As if he had expected it.
His hand moved to the dial.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
3… 0… 0… 1… 1… 9… 6… 8…
Each number aligned with a quiet, mechanical precision.
Then—
Tack.
The safe unlocked.
He opened it.
Inside—
Very little.
A moss-green identification card from the 1970s. Black edges. White embossed letters.
EASRS Foundation
Endure. Adapt. Secure. Restrain. Survive.
Level V access.
Name: Harry Smith
Date of Birth: 05/12/1948
Nationality: United States
And other details—blood type, classification, clearance codes…
He didn't care.
His eyes were fixed on something else.
A radio.
Old. Military-grade. The same moss-green, slightly corroded at the edges. Heavy. Solid. Real.
He picked it up.
Walked to the chair.
Sat down.
The leather creaked under his weight.
A long breath escaped him—slow, controlled… but heavy.
Then—
He turned it on.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Static.
Then a voice.
A woman.
Soft. Low. Calm—but professional. The kind of voice trained to remain steady, no matter what passed through the line.
???
> "Hello. This is Operator Aston from Communication Station 19C, Site 19, EASRS Foundation, Eastern United States Branch. Please confirm your identity and state your purpose of contact."
Harry didn't respond immediately.
He sat there.
Silent.
The radio crackled faintly in his hand as if waiting.
Or watching.
Seconds passed.
Then—
He raised it to his mouth.
The sound of interference scraped through the air.
Tzzzt—
His voice followed.
Low. Measured.
But beneath it… something strained. Something that didn't want to be here.
Harry
> "This is former Colonel Harry Smith… formerly assigned to ESM—EASRS Security and Military… Special Operations Force Alpha-4… 'White Vanguard'… And currently—"
The voice on the other end cut in immediately.
Sharper now.
Not loud.
But alert.
???
> "Sir, we're sorry, but we require you to repeat your unit designation. There appears to be… some discrepancy in our records."
The static deepened.
The air in the room seemed to tighten.
And for the first time—
Harry's grip on the radio… hardened.
[To be continued]