The type-79 Dragunov sniper rifle was equipped with .50 caliber bullets, each of them propelled at speeds nearing - or in some cases exceeding - Mach 1 velocity the second the trigger was pulled. The bullet itself (armed with a pointed tip to enable deeper penetration) was propelled across the spiral-shaped grooves of the gun barrel, twisting and turning with increasing velocity until it was little more than an invisible lead-lined drill, screaming through the air as it headed for its target. The bullet’s drilling motion, combined with the Dragunov’s propelling power, made it one of the hands-down most dangerous weapons in the hands of an expert.

Its efficacy was only deterred (or aided) by the ability of the man using it. Sanjar Yasavi was one of the men best suited to the gun. Top of his class in Arystan, a veteran of a hundred tiny wars that had torn Kazakhstan apart in the last decade with almost fifty confirmed kills in his name back in the time when that meant something, Nergui was pretty much a dead man walking.

The shot was going to be point-blank, the bullet driving through the scout’s eye and splattering the back of his head across the forest floor. But the bullet could be released only as fast as Sanjar could pull the trigger. And while Sanjar was pretty fast, he had not counted on the scout slapping blindly at the barrel and screaming at the top of his lungs, taking the commando by surprise. Turning the barrel to face the Mongol in an instant, Sanjar pulled at the trigger with the ghost of his trigger finger.

His confusion didn't last for more than a second but it was more than enough time for the Mongol to blindly grasp at a rock hidden under the foliage and toss it at the commando. The rock struck his shoulder, throwing off his aim and the two men came tumbling down among the bushes, biting and kicking and clawing and grunting at each other. The Mongol breathed hard inside his decorated demon-mask helmet as he reached out gloved hands that clumsily punched at Sanjar’s flak jacket, connecting only occasionally, each blow driven by brute force. And while the commando could easily repel most of them, the couple that connected with his jaw and left eye caused a shower of white-hot sparks to flood his vision.

The Mongol’s hands found purchase on Sanjar’s throat and the Kazakhstani roared, bent his fingers halfway down and smashed his knuckles at the point beneath the Mongol’s helmet, striking the base of his neck. The blow wasn’t intended to kill: it was going to shake the Mongol and make him panic, let go of his throat just long enough for Sanjar to retaliate.

True to form, the Mongol let go, choking. Sanjar grabbed at the rim of his helmet and tugged it upward, even as he released himself from the Mongol’s grip. The strap  bit into the Mongol's neck, choking him. He knew that he was blind and that his mad, confused thrashing would end with a harsh tug from his wrist, breaking the scout’s neck.

What he didn’t expect, however, was that the Mongol would have enough sense to twine his arms around Sanjar’s ankles and roll, tugging him along. The commando rolled down and fell down in the bushes again, the helmet suddenly loose and free in his hand. He saw something glinting from the corner of his eye and caught the mad-eyed expression of his enemy. The blow was a feint that perhaps would have connected if the Mongol hadn’t struck with such blind rage.

Sanjar struck his foe at the wrist and disarmed him in one deft motion, pinning his other arm behind his back and pulling him close. The fight (as far a Sanjar knew) was now well and truly over.

And then the Mongol leaned in and sank his teeth in Sanjar’s eye.  

***

Nergui spat the fluid from his mouth as he turned and ran. Behind him, the Kazakhstani was screaming bloody murder. He looked for his knife, tangled in the bushes and broke into a limping gallop across the trees, his scalp-jacket flapping behind him.

An eternity of running later, Nergui stopped, gasping for air. His leg had bled down his camo trousers and had even soaked the wind-resistant suit under his clothes. Heat was radiating from his wound, his muscles throbbing feebly. Panting, he leaned against a pine tree, took a deep breath and then finally let himself go, collapsing on the forest floor, face-first into a thick carpet of pine needles.

Nergui woke twice, in his diminished state, halfway through a dream. He thought of Jinquan and the screaming Mongols. He dreamt of his brother, crushed in a manufacturing line for Mongol mounts. He dreamt of his mother, screaming, laid out on the hood of a dented car, with a scar faced warrior heaving as he thrust into her.

He woke screaming his mother’s name, half-dead from bleeding. Somehow, he mustered the strength to crawl to a nearby tree and rip his shirt in long strips which he soaked in alcohol from his vodka flask and dress his wound, already covered in layers of dirt too thick to even make out the torn flesh underneath. In desperation, Nergui pleaded for help, seeking some small amount of comfort and rescue, if he could have it. Exhaustion set in and with it, the visions.

This time, Nergui was haunted by the image of his father burning, sitting in the ruins of their kitchen, atop the rubble. His mother - dead in the town square, her head bashed in against a windshield - had set the table: his father stirred a cup of cracked porcelain with his immolated fingers.

“…your sister is a good girl. She works hard, so she can be a doctor.”

I’m sorry father, Nergui thought. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…

“Why can’t you be more like your sister?” his father said, as he brought the cracked cup to his lips, cutting the flesh, bleeding black blood on the kitchen table. His left eye boiled in its socket and ran down his cheek. “We love you so much, I and your mother. We only want you to not end up like your brother. Is that so hard?”

I didn’t want it to get this bad, father. I never wanted it to be this way. I was a fool dad, I’m so sorry…

“I only spoiled you rotten because you were my favorite. You were the only one we could have. Maybe we shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you” said his father, as the flame grew in intensity, hissing as it burned down the hairs on the top of his head, bore through the top of his skull and erupted through his eye sockets and mouth. “Maybe we loved you too much” he said and finally collapsed as Nergui jumped across the table, cutting his knees and legs at the bits of porcelain, uselessly beating his hands against the fire that consumed his father’s body.

He woke up pounding his fists on the forest floor, weeping openly like a child. His voice was hoarse and his cheeks were wet with tears. He wiped at them and knew he had been smeared with his own blood. Above, the forest was quiet. The sun had moved in its appointed midday position, shining down through the branches. 

From the corner of his vision, he caught a shape shambling through the trees, the outline of a face twisted in anger and terror, madly swinging a rifle in its hands like some sort of makeshift club. Nergui got up and ran, with the Kazakhstani hot on his heels.

The hunt of the damned was on again, overseen by the indifferent, tiny gods of the forest.