Something in the Orange

Posted on Fri Mar 14th, 2025 @ 8:59am by Dmitri Volodin
Edited on on Fri Mar 14th, 2025 @ 9:00am

556 words; about a 3 minute read

Mission: Before
Location: English Country Side
Timeline: Unknown - English countryside

The rain came down in sheets, drumming against the cracked roof of the abandoned barn where Dmitri had taken shelter. He crouched near the warped wooden door, peering through a splintered gap at the muddy lane outside. His breath fogged in the chill air, and his fingers tightened around the handle of a rusted machete he’d scavenged from a garden shed. The world was quiet—too quiet—save for the patter of water and the distant groan of a biter somewhere in the fog.

Dmitri shifted, wincing as his bruised ribs ached. Three days ago, he’d barely escaped a collapsing cottage after a pack of Infected chased him through a village. His ammo was gone, his water canteen nearly empty. He muttered under his breath in Ukrainian, “Chort zabery, yakshcho tse kinec…”—Devil take it, if this is the end…

A sharp sound cut through the rain—a low, guttural growl, followed by a bark. Dmitri froze, his brown eyes narrowing. He pressed himself closer to the gap, scanning the gray blur outside. A shadow moved near the rusted gate: small, four-legged, hunched against the downpour. Not a zombie. A dog.

It was a scruffy thing—matted fur plastered to its bony frame, one ear bent at an odd angle. The mutt stood in the mud, staring straight at the barn, its dark eyes glinting with a wary defiance. It barked again, louder, a challenge or a warning. Dmitri cursed softly. “Tykho, tykho,” he hissed, as if the dog could understand. The last thing he needed was noise drawing the dead.

The dog didn’t budge. It growled, then took a step closer, its tail low but wagging faintly. Dmitri’s grip on the machete loosened slightly. He’d seen strays before—feral packs roaming Drohobych’s outskirts—but this one was alone. Hungry, maybe. Desperate, like him.

He dug into his jacket pocket, pulling out a stale corner of bread he’d been saving. “Dobre, malyy,” he murmured—Okay, little one—and tossed it through the gap. The bread landed in a puddle with a soft plop. The dog flinched, then crept forward, sniffing the offering. It hesitated, glancing up at Dmitri, then snatched the bread and bolted back a few steps, devouring it in two bites.

Dmitri watched, a faint smirk tugging at his scarred cheek. “Shvydkyy, ha?”—Fast, huh? The dog’s ears perked, and it barked again, softer this time, less hostile. Rain dripped through the barn’s roof, pooling near Dmitri’s boots, and he sighed. He was tired—tired of running, tired of silence. Maybe the mutt was too.

He pushed the door open a crack, just enough to lean out. “Come, sobaka. Burya here now.” The name slipped out—Storm—a nod to the chaos they were both caught in. The dog tilted its head, then trotted closer, cautious but curious. Dmitri held out an empty hand, palm up. The mutt sniffed, then pressed its wet nose against his fingers, a tentative truce.

A groan echoed in the distance, closer than before. Dmitri tensed, and Burya’s hackles rose, a low growl rumbling in its throat. “Dobre,” Dmitri whispered, grabbing his machete and nodding to the dog. “You watch, I fight. Deal?”

Burya barked once, sharp and sure, and followed him into the shadows of the barn.

 

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