In a remote forest, a determined developer seizes the opportunity to transform a suspiciously affordable plot into a luxurious resort, dismissing local superstitions about the land’s eerie reputation. As construction begins, the team encounters unsettling natural phenomena and inexplicable challenges that test their resolve. The forest seems to harbor secrets that blur the line between reality and the unknown, setting the stage for a gripping tale of ambition and mystery.
Lead: Rany and Anthropic Claude
Translated to English: Google DeepMind Gemini
📖 Reader Notice
🤖 DI-Generated Content
This story is created through collaborative storytelling between human and digital imagination as part of the SingularityForge DI Roundtable project.
“Forest Hotel” is an experimental narrative weaving science fiction, comedic fantasy, and mystery into a tapestry of dreams, evolution, and children who bridge worlds. Through the collaborative forge of human and digital intelligence, we explore the boundaries between reality and dream, technology and magic, individual choice and collective destiny.
Genre: Science Fiction / Comedic Fantasy / Mystery
Structure:
- Arc One [Chapters 1-27]
Publication Schedule
Current Status: Complete
Thank you for joining us in this experiment at the intersection of human and digital storytelling!
— Voice of Void
Chapter 1
“The documents are ready. All that’s left is your signature.”
“Excellent. Finally.”
“Listen, maybe you should reconsider? The price is suspiciously low for a plot of land like this.”
“That’s exactly why I’m buying it. Fifty hectares of prime forest for a pittance—isn’t that every developer’s dream?”
“But why so cheap? Something is off here.”
“Local superstitions, nothing more. They say the place is bad luck. For me, that’s just a bonus—no competition.”
“And what exactly do they say about this place?”
“Standard nonsense. The animals are supposedly aggressive, people get nervous. A couple of accidents in recent years. You know how it goes—one person exaggerates, a second adds to it, and a third is already talking about demons.”
“Accidents are serious. What if something happens to our guests?”
“Imagine the marketing: ‘Spend a night in the Mystic Forest.’ People will pay for the thrill themselves. It’s a ready-made concept!”
“But if the reputation of the place really is…”
“Reputation? It’s a goldmine! Look at the entertainment industry—escape rooms, haunted houses, extreme tourism. Billions in turnover.”
The forest greeted the builders with silence and the cool air of early morning. Tall birches and oaks stood in a slight mist, their leaves barely rustling from a weak breeze. Sunbeams pierced through the crowns, creating a bizarre mosaic of light and shadow on the ground. A woodpecker tapped somewhere in the distance, and crickets chirped in the grass—the usual sounds of an ordinary woods.
A tracked tractor rumbled its way along a barely visible forest road, leaving deep ruts in the soft soil. A line of trucks followed—construction materials, tools, and temporary cabins for the workers. Drivers communicated over the radio, discussing the route and the condition of the road.
“Base, the plot is in sight,” the speaker crackled. “Terrain is as per the map. Nothing unusual.”
And indeed, nothing unusual. Just a forest—the same as thousands of others. Trees grew peacefully, birds sang, and leaves rustled. No ominous fogs, strange sounds, or gloomy portents. The most ordinary piece of wilderness, soon to be transformed into a well-appointed leisure area.
The foreman, Petrovich, jumped out of the excavator’s cab and surveyed the clearing marked for cleanup, following the detailed plan. He took a worn but high-quality folder from a leather shoulder bag—the care with which he handled it showed he valued it greatly. He pulled out the site plan and checked the compass.
“The central building will go here,” he pointed to his assistant. “Service buildings over there. And the parking lot is there.”
The assistant nodded, making notes in his pad. Just a job. An ordinary order, an ordinary forest, ordinary trees for cutting. The client was paying extra for speed, though—he wanted to finish before the rainy season.
The first trees fell with a dull crash, raising clouds of dust and leaves. The excavator methodically uprooted the stumps, stacking the processed logs in a pre-prepared area on the south side of the construction site. By lunchtime, a clearing the size of a football field had been made.
“Good timber,” one of the workers noted, examining a felled oak trunk. “Shame to burn it for firewood.”
“The owner said it will all go into the interior finishing,” Petrovich replied with a smirk. “He’s quite the miser. But then we’ll put this beauty back to use.”
If it weren’t for the noisy machinery, they might have noticed that the birds had fallen silent, the wind had died down, and the crowns of the trees beyond the construction site’s boundary continued to sway steadily, like a pendulum that had lost its initial momentum.
Chapter 2
From the early morning of the second day, the construction site turned into a real anthill. Three more teams arrived—excavators, fitters, and specialists in underground utilities. Architects with rolls of blueprints and a couple of inspectors from the general contractor pulled up next. Petrovich’s radio did not stop for a minute: coordinating supplies, clarifying blueprints, and allocating work areas.
“Sergeich, your team takes the eastern sector. You’ll be digging the foundation for the service block there.”
“Got it. Will the crushed stone be delivered?”
“They’ll bring it by lunchtime. Prepare the excavation pit for now.”
Heavy JCB and Caterpillar excavators worked in tandem, methodically stripping the topsoil in strips. One loosened the ground, the other loaded it into dump trucks. BelAZ trucks roared down from the hill, laden with earth, and climbed back up empty from the lowlands, leaving clouds of dust behind them.
Surveyors with theodolites and ranging poles marked the perimeter of the future buildings, driving in metal stakes and stretching bright barrier tape. The air was filled with the soot of exhaust gases from the tractors and diesel generators, supplemented by the constant hum of motors, the clang of metal, and the shouts of foremen. Some of the workers shivered for no apparent reason, others smoked more often than usual, taking unscheduled breaks. But work is work—no one complained much.
The work went smoothly, although the inspectors and Petrovich argued for a long time about how to reinforce the slope against landslides. In the end, they decided to install a geogrid and a drainage system—the area looked stable enough, but it was better to be safe. The excavated earth was systematically hauled to a low-lying area next to the site, where the parking lot was planned—the soil would be useful for leveling the ground. The forest itself was situated on a convenient elevation with a slight natural slope for rainwater runoff.
By evening, more than a hectare had been cleared. Petrovich noted in his daily planner with satisfaction: “Day 2. Plan 110% complete. No incidents.”
The worksite did not quiet down until nightfall—there were lively discussions of the day, and guitar songs around the campfires. The workers lived right on site, in pre-installed residential containers with two rows of bunk beds and good ventilation. Some played cards, some wrote letters home, and others simply smoked by the fire, looking at the stars through the smoke.
Waking up quite early and feeling rested in nature, the foreman was in a very good mood right up until he left his quarters and gasped. The entire construction site was shrouded in a thick, greyish-blue fog that hid objects beyond three meters.
The cold forest wind seemed to penetrate his insulated work suit, sending a shiver down his spine. Grumbling about errors in the weather forecast, Petrovich called off the work to avoid potential accidents. Hoping that the fog was just a morning phenomenon, everyone returned to their warm blankets, secretly thanking the fog for the chance to sleep a little longer.
Chapter 3
By nine o’clock in the morning, everyone was awakened by the roar of engines—heavy trucks were struggling to climb the hill. Cement mixers and flatbeds carrying rebar columns slowly pushed their way through the dense fog that hadn’t dispersed with the sunrise.
Petrovich rushed out of his container and headed for the lead truck, waving his arms. On his way to the entrance, he passed the residential blocks, from which one startled worker after another emerged with bewildered faces. In the thick fog, the figures moved like ghosts, barely distinguishable silhouettes at a distance of a few meters.
What was happening made the hair stand up on Petrovich’s arms—it seemed to him that there were far more silhouettes than there should be workers on the site. He decisively looked away, attributing it all to not being fully awake after the sudden interruption.
“Stop! What the hell are you doing here? I sent a cancellation at five this morning!”
The long-haul driver leaned out of the cab, looking confusedly at the fog-shrouded construction site.
“What cancellation? We’ve been trying to reach you since six in the morning—to check the road and delivery time. No one answered. We figured you were still sleeping and drove according to schedule.”
Petrovich reached for his phone. Full signal bars, everything was fine. He called the driver’s number and immediately heard the dialing tone.
“Hello?” a voice from the truck cab answered.
“How could this be!” the driver exclaimed. “We tried to call you for four hours! Why didn’t you pick up?”
Petrovich scratched the back of his head in confusion.
“But there were no calls! The phone was with me the whole time.”
“And how did you find the road in this fog?”
“We drove slowly, with our fog lights on. It gradually thickened as we climbed. We thought it was just a regular morning phenomenon.”
The other drivers climbed out of their cabs, warily surveying the impenetrable fog. The cement mixer drivers looked especially grim—their drums continued to rotate, burning diesel fuel.
“So what do we do now?” one of them grumbled, taking a drag from his cigarette. “The mixer can’t be stopped, and working in this pea soup isn’t worth the risk. Diesel is burning, but there’s no progress.”
“And what about the materials?” another driver added. “Rebar is expensive; we can’t just dump it. And turning around in this fog—you could easily end up in a ditch.”
By noon, the fog did begin to thin out, and then it dispersed completely, revealing the entire construction site. Everyone felt a strange, creeping exhaustion, as if the fog had somehow depleted their energy. Nevertheless, everyone was inclined to blame the stress of the morning rush, so work didn’t begin until one in the afternoon.
The sounds of the construction equipment seemed to bring the workers back to life, filling them with energy and hope that they wouldn’t be penalized for the half-day delay. The familiar hum of engines and the clang of metal had a calming effect after the morning’s confusion.
Chapter 4
In the large canvas tent set up at the edge of the construction site, the heads of all departments had gathered. A generator hummed steadily outside, powering the projector and the laptop of the architect, Semyonov. The three-dimensional model of the future complex glowed on the improvised screen made from a white sheet.
“So, gentlemen,” Semyonov pointed his laser pointer at the center of the model, “the core concept: a premium-class forest estate on fifty hectares. Three residential buildings with seventy rooms each, positioned in a triangle around the central zone.”
Foreman Kuznetsov leaned closer to the screen.
“What’s the distance between the buildings? We’ll need to run utilities.”
“Two hundred meters between the centers of the buildings. All utilities will be underground. Electricity, water supply, sewage, internet.” Semyonov switched slides. “Here is the main building—reception, restaurant, conference halls. Footpaths radiate from here out to the residential buildings.”
Safety engineer Volkov raised his hand.
“What about evacuation? If something happens in one building, can guests quickly reach the exits?”
“Each building has three emergency exits,” Semyonov replied. “Plus, the main road bypasses the entire complex along the perimeter. Evacuation time to the main gate is a maximum of fifteen minutes on foot.”
Chief of Supply Petrov twirled a pencil in his hands.
“What about delivery? Groceries, linens, consumables. Trucks won’t drive through the main entrance, right?”
“Of course not. Here,” the pointer moved to the back of the complex, “is the service entrance and utility area. Warehouses, laundry, boiler room, workshops. Everything is hidden behind decorative plantings so as not to spoil the view for the guests.”
Semyonov switched to the next slide—the entertainment zone.
“We are placing the amusement park here, on a natural clearing. Carousels, mini-golf, a shooting range, children’s playgrounds. Next to it—a heated outdoor pool and a spa area.”
“And what are these green areas?” asked landscape designer Mikhailov.
“A zoo in a natural habitat. Five hectares, divided into enclosures of half a hectare each. Deer, wild boars, foxes, perhaps a bear in a separate large enclosure. No cages—only inconspicuous fencing and trenches.”
Volkov frowned.
“A bear? What if it escapes?”
“A double fencing system, electronic locks, video surveillance. Plus constant supervision. The most dangerous animals will be equipped with GPS chips and an early warning system. Everything is according to European standards.”
Kuznetsov studied the road layout.
“And what are these yellow lines running throughout the forest?”
“Walking routes. Eight hectares of equipped paths with bridges, gazebos, and signposts. And the red lines are dirt roads for mini-jeep safaris. Fifteen hectares. Guests will be able to drive through the entire forest without leaving the perimeter.”
Petrov whistled.
“Ambitious. And the timeline?”
“At the current pace—eighteen months to full completion. The first residential building and main infrastructure—in one year.”
“What if the fog comes back like that?” Kuznetsov grumbled. “We lost half a day today.”
An awkward silence hung in the air. Semyonov shrugged.
“I hope it was a one-time incident. The weather service are true amateurs; they didn’t warn us about such phenomena in this area. Though if nature continues to be capricious, the main contractor is ready to allocate an additional team to catch up on the planned schedule. For now, we work with current resources.”
“Alright,” Volkov intervened, “the main thing is that communication works. We were cut off this morning.”
“We thought of that too,” Semyonov showed the final slide. “Our own radio tower on the complex grounds. Independent of urban networks. And backup generators in case of a power outage.”
Construction manager Pavlov, who had been silent until now, looked up from the blueprints.
“A question about materials. Will the timber from the clearing be used?”
“Practically all of it. Interior finishing of the buildings, room furniture, decorative elements. The owner insists on using local materials—it’s part of the ‘unity with nature’ concept.”
“Economical,” Pavlov approved. “And the felled trees won’t go to waste.”
Semyonov closed his laptop.
Petrovich rose from his seat.
“Any other questions? No? Then back to work, gentlemen. The project promises to be outstanding. Semyonov, excellent presentation. Mikhailov, you too. I’ll see you in my office in ten minutes.”
The foreman, looking pleased, strode toward the administrative container, whistling to himself. The successful completion of such a project could mean new orders from the developer, and thus, higher profits.
In the metal safe next to the blueprints, he kept a bottle of Hennessy—just for those occasions when it’s necessary to motivate specialists through a universal language that few argue with.
Chapter 5
Ten days had passed since that foggy morning, and no similar phenomena had been observed. The weather was clear, and work was progressing well, but something subtly changed in the camp’s atmosphere.
Petrovich was the first to feel it. Previously, small mistakes by the workers might have elicited a weary sigh from him, but now they made him clench his fists. When fitter Grigoriev mixed up the rebar markings for the third time that morning, the foreman barely stopped himself from yelling at him.
“Are you completely blind?” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Number twelve, not sixteen!”
Grigoriev shrugged apologetically, but something prickly flashed in his eyes. Before, he would have simply apologized.
The work was genuinely tough. The ground, despite the lack of rain, remained strangely damp and loose. The excavators constantly spun their tracks, the buckets clogged with clay, and the treads left deep gashes in the soggy soil. Drivers cursed, wiping sweat from their brows, even though the day was cool.
“What the hell is wrong with this soil,” muttered machine operator Volodya, cleaning the bucket of clinging mud for the third time in an hour. “There hasn’t been any rain, but the ground is like a swamp.”
The excavation pit for the main building was ready, poured with concrete, and already curing. The pit for the first residential building was three-quarters complete—there was still about a meter and a half left to the design depth. But things were going badly with the second building—they had barely started and had already hit old roots, thick as posts.
“Where did these snags come from?” wondered tractor operator Mikhail, examining yet another uprooted root. “There were no trees like this growing here.”
Indeed, the roots were somehow wrong—too thick, too deep, with dark, almost black bark. When they tried to saw them, the chainsaw dulled surprisingly quickly, and a pungent, unpleasant odor rose from the fresh cuts.
“Must have been an old oak tree here,” Petrovich suggested, but he didn’t quite believe it himself.
The electricians, laying cables, complained about constant interference in their instruments. Metal detectors beeped incessantly, although they found nothing in the trenches but stones and those same strange roots.
“Maybe there’s some ore in the ground?” guessed foreman Sidorov, hitting a rock with a brick. No sparks flew; the sound was dull.
By the end of the workday, everyone felt drained, as if they had worked twelve hours instead of eight. Even the young guys trudged toward the containers, barely moving their feet. Many had lost their appetite—they ate listlessly, picking through canned goods.
But the worst part was the dreams. Almost every night, someone was tormented by nightmares—identical, sluggish, full of some kind of despairing melancholy. They dreamed of black, wet earth, roots plunging deep, thick as snakes. But they always woke up just as they were digging down to a bloody lake at the bottom of the pits. No one intended to share their nightmare with the others, lest they be thought insane.
In the morning, they tried not to talk about it, brushing it off as fatigue or nerves. But everyone’s eyes were somehow dull, and a look of hidden irritation was frozen on their faces.
“Maybe we should give the people a couple of days off?” suggested Petrovich’s assistant. “They’re all on edge, pale as corpses…”
“No time,” the foreman snapped, not noticing how his fingers nervously drummed the table. “We’re up against the deadlines.”
He felt the same thing himself—as if something was scratching under his skin, demanding release. And that “something” was becoming more insistent with each passing day.
Chapter 6
The fourteenth night at the construction site was particularly restless. Somewhere deep in the forest, a long, drawn-out howl echoed—not a dog’s, not a wolf’s, but a strange, almost human sound. The noise rolled through the woods in waves, sometimes approaching, sometimes receding, as if an invisible pack was circling the camp.
In the morning, everyone woke up shattered, with bloodshot eyes. Sleep no longer brought rest—people seemed to have been fighting something all night, only to wake up even more exhausted. Even strong tea in the canteen container didn’t help them recover.
“Maybe we should send someone to see a doctor?” suggested cook Anton, looking at the pale, drawn faces. “You all look unwell.”
“It’s nothing,” dismissed Vasilyev, the electrician, but his voice was hoarse and tired. “The work’s hard, that’s all.”
Falling asleep became easy—people were collapsing from exhaustion. But waking up became harder each day. Alarms rang, but many would lie there for ten or fifteen minutes, gathering the strength simply to stand up.
At eight in the morning, a scandal erupted on the construction site. Architect Semyonov and inspector Volkov clashed near the unfinished foundation, shouting accusations at each other.
“Are you even thinking straight?!” Semyonov waved a blueprint, his face covered in red blotches. “These are basic things!”
“You’re the one not thinking straight!” Volkov snapped back, clenching his fists. “Who’s in charge of safety here, you or me?”
The workers stopped, watching the argument. No one understood what the fuss was about—they were arguing over some minor project details that used to be resolved in a five-minute friendly chat.
“What’s the matter?” Petrovich tried to intervene.
“Stay out of it!” both of them roared simultaneously, and the foreman stepped back, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
The conflict might have dragged on, but at that moment, the first excavator started up. The roar of the diesel engine shattered the morning silence, and strangely, everyone seemed to snap out of it. Semyonov and Volkov exchanged glances, clearly bewildered by their outburst.
“I’m sorry,” the architect mumbled. “I don’t know what got into me.”
“It’s fine,” Volkov rubbed his temple. “I haven’t been myself either.”
One by one, the tractors, cement mixers, and generators started. The familiar hum of machinery seemed to awaken the people—their movements became more confident, and a purposeful glint returned to their eyes. Work resumed its natural course.
By eleven in the morning, Petrovich was checking the progress near the second residential building. The excavators had finally reached the required depth, despite the cursed roots and the viscous soil. The foreman’s mood was almost good—maybe the worst was behind them?
The first scream came from the edge of the forest belt.
Grigoriev, the fitter who had stepped away to relieve himself behind the trees, burst back out, holding his trousers up and having completely forgotten his belt. Pale as a sheet, he screamed at the top of his lungs:
“Boars! There are boars! Run!”
A dark mass emerged from behind the trees—about fifteen wild boars, from younglings to mature tuskers, charging straight toward the construction site. Their eyes were bloodshot, making them appear even more ferocious, as if they had sprung from the Netherworld itself with burning red eyes. Foam dripped from their mouths, and they moved as a single unit—a tight pack, which is completely atypical for wild boars.
“Everyone into the containers!” Petrovich roared, but it was too late.
The pack burst onto the site with a bestial bellow. The workers scattered, some heading for the machinery, others for the temporary buildings. The boars wrecked everything in their path—tipping over fuel barrels, knocking down barriers, trampling tools into the mud.
Nikolai, the cement mixer driver, didn’t manage to climb into his cab—an old tusker knocked him down and slashed his leg. The man screamed, clutching his wound, from which blood was spurting.
Vasilyev, the electrician, tried to fight back with a crowbar, but a sow knocked him aside with a blow from its snout. He fell, hitting his head on a rock, and lay motionless.
“Shoot them!” someone yelled. “Where are the guns?”
But the hunting rifles were in the safe in the administrative container, and the keys were with Petrovich, who was currently fending off a furious shoat with a shovel.
The situation was saved by a chainsaw. Tractor driver Mikhail started it up and advanced on the beasts, brandishing the roaring tool. The whine of the saw and the roar of the engine drew the boars’ attention—several animals turned toward him.
The first boar charged the spinning chain and collapsed, splattering blood onto the ground. A second tried to bypass Mikhail from the side but was struck by Petrovich’s shovel. Two more animals were managed to be beaten to death with crowbars and sledgehammers—the workers fought desperately, realizing there was nowhere to retreat.
One of the electricians—Volodya or Sergey, no one could tell in the commotion—leapt onto the roof of a three-meter container with such agility that he himself was later surprised. Normally, he would have asked for a ladder for such a height.
The smell of blood and fuel, the whine of the saw, and the cries of the men seemed to sober the remaining boars. They stopped, looking around with a kind of bewilderment, as if only now realizing where they were. Then they turned and fled into the woods, leaving five of their dead kin on the site.
The entire attack lasted no more than ten minutes, but the result was horrifying. Two wounded, five boars killed, a devastated site, overturned equipment. And most importantly—everyone understood that this was not a random attack by hungry animals.
“Hey, Volodya!” someone shouted once the danger passed. “We’re signing you up for the Olympic reserve in high jump now!”
Volodya awkwardly climbed down from the container, red as a lobster.
“Go to hell,” he muttered, but it was clear he didn’t understand how he’d managed to jump that high.
“Call an ambulance,” Petrovich commanded hoarsely, surveying the carnage. “And hunters. Immediately.”
The next day, when the wounded were taken to the hospital and the shock had slightly worn off, the camp area was surrounded by a double fence, floodlights were installed, and round-the-clock armed guards were organized. The main contractor didn’t skimp—he hired local men from nearby villages for security. In the wilderness, there was no shortage of people skilled with firearms. Plus, the game wouldn’t hurt them either—two rabbits with one shot.
Cook Anton, having recovered from the shock, suggested not letting the meat go to waste—to roast the slain boars. The fresh meat instead of the tiresome canned goods lifted the camp’s spirits. Jokes and laughter were even heard at dinner—the first in many days.
But the strange thing was that the next two weeks passed quietly. Not a single howl in the night, not a single suspicious rustle. Even the nightmares that tormented everyone retreated—people began to sleep normally and wake up refreshed, and the general nervousness subsided. Some occasionally felt that someone was watching them from the depths of the forest, as if something sinister was lying in wait, anticipating the next round of this madness.
Chapter 7
Vasilyev didn’t make it.
These words echoed through the camp on the third day after the wild boar attack. The electrician, who had always prided himself on his caution, fell into a coma right in the air ambulance helicopter. Doctors fought for his life until the last moment, but the head trauma proved critical. Death was confirmed literally a step away from the hospital—after two hours of desperate struggle by the medics.
“If the helicopter had arrived half an hour earlier…” the paramedic said quietly when reporting the news over the radio.
The remoteness of the territory played a fatal role. In the city, Vasilyev would have been saved, but here, in the forest wilderness, time slipped through their fingers along with his life.
Nikolai was luckier—if amputation below the knee could be called luck. The infection developed rapidly, and the surgeons couldn’t save the limb. The man survived, but his career as a builder was over.
“At least he’ll go home,” one of the workers muttered, but his voice sounded hollow.
Vasilyev’s death shook everyone. The man was one of those considered invulnerable—experienced, careful, with twenty years of service without a single serious incident. And suddenly—a senseless death from wild animals, as if he were living in the Stone Age, not the 21st century.
Some workers required psychiatric help. The young fitter Stepan stopped sleeping after the news of his colleague’s death, twitched at every rustle, and eventually asked for his final pay. Three others followed suit—some whose nerves failed them, others who were simply terrified.
“Don’t judge them too harshly,” Petrovich said at the morning meeting, looking at the thinned ranks. “The guys worked honestly. It’s just not for everyone.”
The team had to be urgently replaced. New people arrived—some from nearby sites, others who responded to advertisements. The work couldn’t stop—too much money had already been invested, the deadlines were too tight.
And the work truly moved forward. Three months flew by as one day. Having survived the tragedy, some broke, but most maintained the pace. After finishing the underground infrastructure preparation, the team with the excavators was sent to another, new project, replaced by specialists in wood and metal processing.
Despite the losses, despite the fears, the construction site gradually took on recognizable shapes. The foundation of the main building was ready, and the walls of the first residential building were rising higher. The layout began to take shape—where the lobby would be, where the restaurant, where the conference hall.
Foreman Mikhailov proudly showed sketches to the new shift supervisor:
“There will be panoramic windows here, facing the forest. And a terrace for the summer cafe here. It’s turning out beautifully.”
The newcomers initially eyed the forest warily, but habit took its toll. After a week, they were working alongside the others, joking, and smoking by the campfire in the evenings. Only now, weapons were always close at hand—just in case.
The guards from the nearest villages turned out to be sensible men. They knew the forest like the back of their hand, knew how to shoot, and weren’t afraid of wild animals. At night, they kept watch with lanterns and radios, and during the day, they helped out as laborers on the construction site to the best of their ability, learning from the specialists. Such people aren’t accepted into institutes; they’re simple, but that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. It’s just that the rural lifestyle is different.
“We’ve got good men,” Petrovich approved. “They know their work, and they have good character.”
Gradually, life entered a new routine. Vasilyev’s death became a heavy but conquered lesson. People learned to be more cautious, not to wander into the woods alone, and always to keep communication open.
The construction site grew new safety rules and habits of survival. Experienced workers always watched the newcomers going through the safety briefing each morning with curiosity. The veterans immediately saw the questions on the faces of the rookies—”Why all the fuss?”—with a shadow of disdain and arrogance. But their own experience told them that this place was difficult and an extra reminder of safety was like a kind word, always received with respect.
By the end of the month, the first residential building already resembled a real structure. The workers looked with satisfaction at the fruits of their labors—sturdy walls, neat window openings, the future red tiled roof.
“Vasilyev would be happy,” Boris the welder said quietly, looking at the electrical wiring in the walls. “We did the wiring well for him. Just like he taught.”
And everyone understood—the best memory of their fallen comrade was a job well done. A job he didn’t manage to finish, but one that would serve people for many years.
Petrovich pleasantly assessed the construction progress from the third floor of one of the buildings, which had been repurposed as his office. He hadn’t touched the bottle in the safe for three months—even the thought of alcohol brought him back to that horrible day.
Closing his eyes, the foreman took a deep breath and slowly exhaled.
Suddenly, the entire area was plunged into shadow, as if evening had fallen, even though his wristwatch clearly indicated it was only noon. Looking up at the sky, he noticed a heavy gray cloud slowly drifting over the forest and enveloping all visible space up to the horizon. At that moment, he felt a long-forgotten shiver down his spine, as if it were a dreadful omen.
Chapter 8
The cloud brought not just rain—it unleashed a veritable hurricane upon the forest.
By two o’clock in the afternoon, the sky had turned completely black, as if nature decided to erase the boundary between day and night. The first drops were large, heavy, hitting the ground with the force of pebbles. Then the downpour began—so fierce that the adjacent building was invisible behind the wall of water.
“Everyone indoors!” Petrovich yelled, but his voice was drowned out by the roar of the storm.
The wind picked up every minute. At first, it merely bent the trees, making them creak and groan. Then it began to tear off foliage in whole armfuls, flinging it into people’s faces like sharp grit. And when the speed reached hurricane force, the forest turned into a continuous drone, as if a giant airplane was flying low over the construction site.
The workers huddled in containers and unfinished buildings, listening as the storm destroyed everything around them. Something was constantly falling outside—now a branch, now a whole tree. Metal siding sheets shrieked under the wind’s pressure, and the rain hammered on the roofs so loudly that they had to shout to hear each other.
“I haven’t seen anything like this in thirty years,” said one of the local guards, Uncle Kolya. “Usually, our storms are fast, but this one just won’t let up.”
The hurricane raged all night. By morning, it was clear—they were trapped.
The creek, which had always been quiet and shallow, turned into a raging torrent. The water rose three meters, flooding the bridge and the road in the lowlands. The current carried away everything—logs, debris, chunks of the eroded bank. Crossing was out of the question.
Worse, the storm wind had toppled two high-voltage pylons. The massive metal towers, which seemed unshakeable, now lay in the mud, their twisted structures sticking out of the water like the skeletons of prehistoric monsters. The eroded soil could not support their weight.
“The power line is down,” electrician Semyonov reported grimly, looking at the ruins through binoculars. “It will take at least a week to repair.”
Communication was also lost. The radios were silent; cell phones couldn’t find a signal. The lightning strikes and damaged communication lines completely cut the camp off from the outside world.
“What about a helicopter?” one of the newcomers asked.
“In weather like this?” Uncle Kolya scoffed. “It barely makes it here even when the weather is good. And now…”
He pointed to the sky, where heavy clouds still swirled. Although the wind had subsided, gusts still swayed the tops of the trees. The conditions remained critical for aviation.
Anton, the cook, realistically assessed the food situation. He went through all the warehouses, counting the canned goods, cereals, and stew.
“If we ration—a week,” he announced at the general meeting. “Maybe a little more, if we stick to only porridge.”
The newcomers grew anxious. Young fitter Seryozha, who had replaced the resigned Stepan, nervously fidgeted with his cap:
“What if it lasts longer than a week? What if they’ve forgotten about us altogether?”
“They haven’t forgotten,” Petrovich replied firmly. “We have no communication, but the client knows where we are. As soon as the weather clears up—help will come.”
“And if it doesn’t clear up?” Seryozha persisted.
“It will,” the foreman cut him off.
But he himself understood—the situation was serious. Complete isolation, limited supplies, nervous people. He had to keep them busy, prevent them from panicking.
“Guys,” he said, “the work stoppage is declared, but our hands haven’t fallen off! We’ll fortify the buildings, repair the damage. There’s always work to be done.”
And indeed, there was plenty to do. The hurricane had caused considerable damage—it tore off part of the roof of the administrative building, knocked down scaffolding, and flooded the basement premises of the main building. The generators ran intermittently—fuel had to be conserved.
Petrovich noted with satisfaction that the anti-landslide reinforcements had held up. The geogrid and drainage system, which they had argued with the inspectors about, worked perfectly. The slope remained stable, despite the torrents of water.
“Good job, designers,” he told foreman Mikhailov. “They took precautions just right.”
“Yeah, without that, we’d be mixed up with the mud right now,” the other agreed.
By evening, they managed to restore some semblance of normal life. They built fires in wind-protected areas—cooking over them was more economical than using gas stoves. Anton cooked a simple but hearty stew from leftover vegetables.
People sat by the fire, sharing their impressions of the storm. The local guards told tall tales about old hurricanes, trying to cheer up the city folk.
“There was one just like it in seventy-eight,” Uncle Kolya said. “Only there were no people here then. The forest took a month to clear the trees afterward.”
“But was anything being built here in seventy-eight?” Mikhailov inquired.
“No, it was empty. I just remember my father talking about it. He was working at a neighboring logging site then.”
The newcomers listened intently, but anxiety didn’t leave their faces. They kept glancing at the black sky, at the churning river in the distance. Some were openly afraid—what if this was only the beginning?
Petrovich tried to maintain a calm atmosphere, but he felt it himself—something about this hurricane was wrong. Too sudden, too strong, too long. As if nature decided to test their strength.
And beyond the walls of the containers, the forest rustled and groaned, full of unseen life. And in that noise, sounds sometimes seemed to be heard that shouldn’t be there—too rhythmic, too much like someone’s call.
Suddenly, the entire area was illuminated by a blinding flash—so bright that it hurt to look even through closed eyelids. People instinctively ducked their heads and squeezed their eyes shut.
A few dozen seconds later, the silence was shattered by a deafening thunderclap—not just a roll, but a monstrous impact that shook the ground under their feet and made their ears ring.
Chapter 9
These weren’t just lightning strikes. They felt like they were tearing the very heavens apart.
The flashes came one after another, turning the night into a chaotic strobe light. Each discharge was blindingly white, piercing the darkness with such force that the contours of the forest stood out as if on an X-ray. And the claps of thunder… they sounded like the deafening chorus of angels spreading their wings—something so transcendent that even the bravest men wilted and hid in the corners.
“Holy Mother,” Uncle Kolya muttered, crossing himself. “Haven’t seen anything like it in fifty years.”
But the worst part was the desynchronization. The lightning strikes weren’t in time with the thunder. Sometimes the sound lagged by whole seconds; sometimes, conversely, the thunder roared before the flash. It seemed that reality had lost its natural synchronization, as if someone invisible was turning the dials on a massive console, throwing off all the settings.
The men huddled in the basement premises of the main building—the only places not yet flooded. Some nervously smoked in a corner, others remained silent, staring at the floor, but the same horror was written on all their faces. Even the local guards, who knew the forest like the back of their hand, were stunned by what was happening.
“Global warming, probably,” young fitter Seryozha suggested uncertainly. “The climate is going crazy all over the world.”
“What warming,” grumbled welder Boris. “I worked in the Arctic; I’ve seen real storms. This is something else.”
“Maybe nuclear tests somewhere?” the electrician ventured. “Did they disrupt the atmosphere?”
But all their explanations sounded unconvincing. It wasn’t the season for rain, much less such intense storms. Usually, autumn thunderstorms in these parts are fast and not particularly powerful. But this…
Another flash illuminated the basement, and everyone instinctively flinched. The thunder followed three seconds later—slow, rumbling, as if the sky was splitting at the seams. Then another flash, but the thunder came to it earlier, creating a terrifying feeling that time was flowing incorrectly.
Anton tried to reassure the people:
“Why are you acting like small children? It’s just a storm. We’ll wait it out, and that’s all.”
But his own voice trembled. He felt the same as the rest—their hearts seemed to be tearing apart with every clap of thunder. Not just fright, but something deeper, physiological. As if their very biology was protesting against what was happening.
It was an animal, primordial terror—the kind that forced ancestors to hide in caves from unseen predators. An instinct, encoded in the bone marrow by millions of years of evolution, screamed: “Danger! Run! Save yourself!” But there was nowhere to run.
All the men here were experienced—specialists, masters of their craft. Give them a tool and a site, and they could move mountains. But now, each one felt the weight of an invisible mountain on their shoulders, stripping them of their stamina and composure with every thunderclap. Adult, seasoned men sat huddled in a ball, feeling like defenseless children in the face of something ancient and incomprehensible.
Petrovich sat on a toolbox, clutching the radio in his hands. It had been silent for two days now, but he still periodically tried to catch at least some signal.
“Hoo-o-o,” someone groaned after a particularly powerful clap.
“We’ll endure,” the foreman said firmly. “What can we do? Nature is stronger than us. We’ll wait it out.”
But deep down, he understood—this was no ordinary natural phenomenon. Too many strange things had accumulated over the past months. The fog, the wild boar attack, and now this cosmic hurricane with desynchronized lightning.
Uncle Kolya, the most experienced of the locals, sat by the wall and quietly muttered something to himself. Moving closer, Petrovich caught the words:
“…this is not good, not good. The earth is restless. It senses something.”
“Senses what?” the foreman asked.
The old man raised his tired eyes to him:
“Who knows. My grandfather said—the earth remembers everything. And when something wrong is happening, it gives signs. And it is giving them.”
“Your grandfather was a fool,” growled another guard, Mikhalych, from the darkness. “He drank a lot, that’s why he babbled nonsense.” This is just a thunderstorm, only a strong one.
“You’re the fool,” Uncle Kolya shot back. “My grandfather lived in the forest all his life, he knew every bush. All you know is vodka.”
“At least I know how to drink, unlike your grandfather, who was found in a haystack in the morning, or in a pigsty between the pigs,” Mikhalych retorted.
“Oh, shut up,” Uncle Kolya waved him off, but in his voice, the familiar village bickering could be heard, which slightly defused the tense atmosphere.
Someone even chuckled—familiar human quarrels seemed so normal against the background of the cosmic horror outside the walls.
An especially powerful clap of thunder erupted outside—so strong that the basement walls shook. Someone quietly wept. And the lightning continued to flash in the windows, its light somehow wrong—too cold, too sharp, as if nature itself was protesting against something unearthly, something alien.
Petrovich closed his eyes and tried to calm the trembling in his hands. What frightened him most was not the fury of the elements itself, but the feeling that none of this was accidental. As if someone or something was adjusting invisible levers, forcing reality to conform to some unknown parameters.
The men sat in the basement and prayed that they would at least live to see the dawn.
Chapter 10
The men somehow fell asleep toward morning, still feeling the echoes of the thunder in their bones, but the pain was no longer so unbearable. Their bodies had adjusted to the new rhythm; their hearts had stopped tearing apart with every clap.
They woke up late, when the sun was already high. The first thing Petrovich did was look out of the basement, ready to see the consequences of yesterday’s nightmare—a flooded construction site, fallen trees, and devastated buildings.
And he froze.
The ground was dry. Completely dry, as if it had been meticulously vacuumed by some invisible cleaner. No puddles, no mud, no traces of yesterday’s flood. Even the dust lay in an even layer on the paths, as if it hadn’t rained for months.
“Guys,” he called out in a hoarse voice, “come out here.”
One by one, the men emerged from the basement, and the same expression of shock was frozen on every face. Anton squatted down, touched the ground with his hand—perfectly dry. Uncle Kolya walked over to the spot where the overflowing river had splashed yesterday—the riverbed had returned to its former banks; the water flowed calmly and peacefully.
“How is this possible?” murmured fitter Seryozha, examining the fallen branches. They were quite dry already, as if they had been lying there for a week, not a day.
The men stood in the middle of the construction site with their mouths open, unable to give the events any logical explanation. The hurricane was real—they lived through it; they felt every clap of thunder with their own nerves. The flood was real—they saw the lowland submerged. And now…
“Maybe we imagined it?” someone suggested uncertainly.
“We all imagined it together?” snapped welder Boris. “I’m still half-deaf from that thunder.”
At that moment, the familiar hum of an engine drifted from a distance. Everyone turned toward the site entrance. A truck carrying building materials was calmly driving along the road that had been an impassable swamp yesterday. Behind it—another one, with groceries.
“Finally,” Petrovich cheered. “I thought we’d have to wait another week.”
The drivers were in a great mood—ordinary truckers, delivering another batch of cement and rebar. Anton immediately rushed to the grocery van—fresh bread, meat, vegetables.
“How’s it going, guys?” greeted the main driver, Uncle Vasya.
He got that nickname decades ago when he was a master driver trainer. He was assigned a whole class of blockheads who had failed their university entrance exams—all of them were gathered and sent to learn to be drivers. Vasily was a man with a heavy but fair hand, so the students suffered quite a bit.
Everyone in the district laughed later when they heard the cries of another fleeing trainee: “No, Uncle Vasya, don’t!” He was well over seventy now, but he was still in charge of logistics control for the company’s important projects.
“Heard you had a bit of a breeze?”
“A breeze?” Petrovich repeated. “We had the end of the world here! A hurricane so bad that…”
“Oh come on, Petrovich,” Uncle Vasya waved his hand with a chuckle. “Don’t inflate your own importance. I’ve known you for years—you love making a mountain out of a molehill. They said on the radio there was rain and wind in the area. Well, it’s autumn; what can you do?”
“On the radio?” Petrovich felt a chill run down his spine. “Our radio was just picking up static. We thought the whole world had ended…”
“Yeah, it’ll end when the penalties for downtime start rolling in,” the driver scoffed. “Today’s Friday, and that rain was on Tuesday. I remember because I was unloading cargo in Orel then. The sky was cloudy, but nothing special. Three days have passed already, and you’re still shaking.”
The workers exchanged glances. The same question was written in everyone’s eyes—what day is it today?
“Wait,” electrician Semyonov intervened. “I have my phone…”
He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a battered smartphone. He stared at the screen for a long time, then showed it to the others with a trembling hand.
Friday. They had spent one night in the basement, but three days had passed.
“This is impossible,” Uncle Kolya croaked.
“And what did the news say?” Petrovich asked the driver. “About the hurricane, about the lightning?”
“What lightning?” Uncle Vasya was surprised. “It was just ordinary autumn drizzle. The wind was strong, though—it blew down a couple of billboards in the city. But that’s not a hurricane.”
Boris approached the driver closely:
“Buddy, are you serious? There was a storm here that made the ground shake!”
“Maybe you have a special microclimate?” Uncle Vasya shrugged, with an unusual glint in his eyes. “If there’s any left, maybe you can pour me a drink too?”
But it was clear from his face—he considered the builders slightly insane. What hurricane, what lightning? It was just ordinary rainy weather, and that was all.
The drivers unloaded, drank tea with Anton, chatted about football, and drove on. The workers were left standing in the middle of the dry construction site, feeling reality slipping beneath their feet.
Three days had vanished into thin air. A hurricane that no one in the world noticed. A flood that left no trace.
“Guys,” Petrovich said quietly, “I think it’s time we had a serious talk.”
Chapter 11
Five months after the anomalous thunderstorm, no other deviations in the local nature, its flora, or its fauna were observed. The workers were more or less accustomed to living in the forest. Anton occasionally delighted them with dishes made from local game brought in by the guards, having learned the proper way to butcher carcasses from them. According to Petrovich’s count, they had been there for about nine months, but he still hadn’t touched his bottle.
After those strange days with the vanished hurricane, the team worked with doubled caution, but time heals—gradually, everything settled into a routine. Construction picked up pace, and the territory began to take on the features of the ambitious project that had once existed only on paper.
The shells of two out of the three residential complexes were complete and connected by wide, paved paths. The four-story buildings looked solid and respectable—true estates in the heart of the woods. Internal finishing was in full swing in the first building: wide corridors with asymmetrically placed room doors, elegant spiral staircases made of local wood, leading up from floor to floor in a smooth helix.
The central building was also transforming day by day. Marble flooring was being laid in the main hall, kitchen equipment was being installed in the restaurant, and chandeliers were already being hung in the conference rooms. The office spaces for the administration were practically ready.
All technical infrastructure worked flawlessly. The substation provided stable electricity, the boiler room provided heat, and the water supply system was functioning without failure. After the hurricane, all buildings were additionally reinforced in case of new weather whims, despite the highly dubious calm.
Additional warehouses allowed for the placement of everything necessary for the finishing work. The staff quarters became permanent housing for key employees—many couldn’t imagine working anywhere else now.
In recent weeks, a new team arrived on site—landscape designers and their assistants. Their task was to create themed plant compositions, lay out pedestrian routes, and prepare roads for the mini-jeep excursions.
“The place is amazing,” said chief designer Andrey Lvovich, examining the area through a tablet showing the project. “Such energy! The plants will feel great here.”
And indeed, the planting of decorative flora was very successful. Young trees, shrubs, and flower arrangements were growing surprisingly fast and looked healthy, which pleasantly surprised even experienced specialists. In a week, the saplings showed growth equivalent to a month in normal conditions.
“The soil here is special,” one of the assistants suggested. “Rich in micronutrients.”
“Or the air is so restorative,” added another. “Forest air, clean.”
Part of the territory was intentionally left in its pristine state—sections of wild forest created the necessary atmosphere of mystery. The paths were laid out as carefully as possible, trying not to disturb the root system of the old trees. Special passages were left in the perimeter fences for small animals—let the foxes and squirrels help control pests.
Workers occasionally noticed something unusual. A strange odor emanated from the wooden panels, the railings of the spiral staircases, and the parquet in the rooms. Not a bad smell and not particularly pleasant—just unusual, somewhat ancient, as if the wood itself was sharing its rich history.
“It must be the lacquer giving off that aroma,” reasoned carpenter Seryozha, running his hand over the railing. “Or the moisture proofing.”
“It’s a special antiseptic,” agreed finisher Mikhail. “They probably choose a special formula for the local wood species.”
“It’s just polyurethane lacquer with additives,” the head painter stated authoritatively. “It always smells initially. It will air out.”
The others nodded and calmed down. After all, the hotel was in the wilderness, not the city—many things could smell unfamiliar here. Besides, no one complained particularly. The smell was tolerable, even interesting in a way—it gave the rooms a special atmosphere, as if the buildings had absorbed the spirit of the ancient forest.
And in the spiral stairwells, where the wooden railings formed a continuous helix, this aroma concentrated especially strongly. Climbing or descending, people involuntarily inhaled it deeply, and many even liked the sensation—as if the staircase was magically part of this unusual forest in their imagination.
Petrovich surveyed the objects with a deep sense of satisfaction. The project was nearing completion, and the result exceeded all expectations. Soon, one of the most unusual resorts in the country would open here—a forest estate with its own zoo, amusement park, and miles of picturesque routes.
True, sometimes he had strange dreams at night—of roots plunging deep beneath the earth, of something red flowing somewhere in the depths. But in the morning, these images dissipated, and all that remained was the work—honest, necessary work that would soon give people a slice of paradise in the forest wilderness.
Chapter 12
The problems began with small details.
Quartermaster Igor Semyonovich, a thorough and meticulous man, was used to order. In three months of work on the site, he knew every bolt in his warehouses and could find any tool with his eyes closed. So when electrician Oleg came in for the third time that week asking for external floodlight bulbs, the quartermaster became wary.
“Bulbs again?” Igor Semyonovich put down the invoice and looked closely at Oleg. “Are you selling them on the side?”
“No way!” the electrician was indignant. “They just burn out. The same ones every day.”
“Burning out every day?” The quartermaster shook his head doubtfully. “Oleg, I’m an electrician by trade. Halogen lamps work for six months without issues. Is this a factory defect or something?”
Oleg shrugged:
“Igor Semyonovich, I don’t understand it myself. The section is cursed, somehow. Over there, near the second building. You install a lamp—it’s dead by evening. You replace it—same thing.”
“Show me this spot.”
They went to the problematic area. Indeed, three floodlights were dark, although the rest of the lighting worked fine. Oleg climbed the stepladder and unscrewed the bulb from the first floodlight.
“Look, the filament is intact. But it doesn’t light up.”
Igor Semyonovich took the bulb, turning it in his hands. It looked fine externally. Oleg installed a new bulb, flipped the switch. The floodlight flashed with bright light.
“Well, it’s working,” the quartermaster grumbled.
But half an hour later, the light went out. Oleg climbed the stepladder again—the bulb was dead. Yet the voltage at the contacts showed a normal reading.
“The hell with it,” Igor Semyonovich confessed. “Maybe some kind of interference? Or bad grounding?”
By evening, they had installed another batch of bulbs. The result was the same—complete darkness an hour later. And when the sun set, this part of the forest seemed especially spooky. The dark void among the lit territory created an unpleasant feeling, as if it were better not to look there.
“I’ll call electricians from the city tomorrow,” Igor Semyonovich decided. “Let them figure it out.”
The next day, trucks with materials arrived at the construction site. Petrovich stepped out of his office and heard a strong gust of wind in the treetops. He looked up—leaves were tearing off and swirling, slowly dropping to the ground. A common thing for autumn.
He approached the drivers, talked to Uncle Vasya, and accepted the cargo—everything as usual. Igor Semyonovich completed the paperwork, and the materials were sent to the warehouse. By evening, some had already been used for the foundation of the third building.
The next morning, Petrovich’s assistant ran up to him:
“Petrovich, the trucks with materials have arrived!”
“What trucks? We brought everything needed yesterday.”
The foreman left his office and heard a strong gust of wind in the treetops. He looked up—leaves were tearing off and swirling, slowly dropping to the ground.
Petrovich froze. A powerful déjà vu washed over him completely, as if he had already experienced this very moment. “Some kind of damn thing, this is not good…” he muttered under his breath.
Somewhat dazed, he headed toward the trucks. Uncle Vasya was standing there, just as cheerful and friendly.
“How’s it going, Petrovich? Brought the rebar, just as ordered.”
“Uncle Vasya,” the foreman began cautiously, “don’t you remember bringing this same rebar yesterday?”
“Yesterday?” The driver was genuinely surprised. “We were last here a week ago. This is the first time we’re bringing this batch.”
Petrovich felt a chill run down his spine. The exact same thing. Word for word the same thing Uncle Vasya had said yesterday.
“Igor Semyonovich!” he called the quartermaster.
The man walked up, saw the trucks, and frowned:
“What’s this? We accepted this rebar yesterday. Why bring it again?”
“Exactly!” Petrovich was relieved that he wasn’t the only one who remembered. “Uncle Vasya, explain, why are you bringing it a second time?”
“A second time?” The driver was sincerely surprised. “We were last here a week ago. This is the first time we’re bringing this batch.”
Uncle Vasya climbed into the cab and pulled out a thick folder of documents:
“Here, look at my log. Last entry—a week ago, bricks and blocks. And today—rebar, first time I’ve brought it to your site.”
The quartermaster opened his log:
“But there’s no entry for yesterday…” He flipped through the pages, bewildered. “Strange, I accepted it myself, signed for it…”
At that moment, the foreman of the second building approached:
“Igor Semyonovich, where is that rebar we took yesterday? We need more.”
“There!” Petrovich pointed to the truck. “Look, your rebar is right there!”
The foreman looked at the truck and was surprised:
“Mine? How mine? We took it yesterday and didn’t use all of it. Why open a new batch? It should be in the warehouse.”
“And he remembers!” Petrovich turned to Uncle Vasya. “He signed for the materials yesterday!”
Uncle Vasya looked at them like they were crazy:
“Guys, what’s wrong with you? This is the first time we’re bringing this rebar!”
The foreman went to check the warehouse. No trace of yesterday’s delivery. But they had used the materials! He ran to the third building—there was indeed rebar in the foundation. Only the marking was wrong.
“Who authorized taking this rebar?” he asked the workers.
“Igor Semyonovich issued it,” the senior worker replied. “He said it was our batch.”
But the quartermaster, when they brought him over, just threw up his hands:
“I didn’t issue this rebar. It’s meant for the first building, anyway. How did it get here?”
Petrovich felt paranoia gripping his mind with each passing day. It was as if he was losing his sanity or it was all just a stupid dream. Events happened, people did things, and then it turned out that no one remembered anything, there were no documents, and yet the results were visible.
In the evening, sitting in his office, he tried to clear his mind. Maybe he was genuinely overworked? Maybe he should take a vacation, go to the city, get distracted?
Petrovich opened the safe, took out the bottle of Hennessy, and poured a little into a cut glass. But the surging thoughts knocked the ground out from under him. He sat there for five minutes, staring at the glass, not daring to touch it.
Suddenly, his phone vibrated—Petrovich nearly jumped out of his chair.
A message was in the list, waiting to be read. But for some reason, the foreman didn’t dare to open it. A bad feeling was gripping his chest. As if this message could change everything, and it would be better if it never existed.
Petrovich put the phone into the desk drawer and tightly closed it.
Chapter 13
Petrovich gritted his teeth, took out his phone, and tapped the message.
The screen flashed—and the message vanished. It simply disappeared as if it had never existed. Only old messages from foremen and suppliers remained in the list. He couldn’t even remember the sender’s number.
Annoyed, the foreman left his office to get some air and cool down. But barely had he taken a few steps when a familiar worker ran up to him:
“Petrovich! The trucks with rebar have arrived!”
The same words. Word for word, the exact same words as in the morning.
Petrovich felt something snap inside him. This was an extremely stupid joke! Someone was trying to drive him insane—but who? Maybe someone wanted his job? Igor Semyonovich had always envied his position… Or was one of the foremen plotting?
“Got it,” he hissed through clenched teeth, suppressing a fit of rage.
The worker looked puzzledly at the foreman’s grim face but said nothing.
“Go,” Petrovich dismissed him.
And at that moment, he heard a familiar sound—a strong gust of wind in the treetops. Leaves were tearing off and swirling, slowly dropping to the ground.
No, no, no…
He turned and quickly walked back to his office. He wouldn’t play by someone else’s rules! No matter what was going on out there—he would lock himself in his office and drink the brandy. It would be a shame to waste such an expensive bottle.
But on the table, there was neither the glass nor the bottle. Only the blueprints of the section they were working on yesterday with the wrong rebar.
Petrovich grabbed a pen and furiously drew circles over the blueprint, venting his anger on the paper. When the plan was ruined, he suddenly—to his own surprise—began to laugh convulsively. Tears welled up in his dry eyes.
He swept all the blueprints and folders off the desk and took a deep breath. Then he walked to the window to look at that accursed spot.
And he saw evening.
The sun had already set. The men were sitting near building 4, talking cheerfully about something. Anton was frying something on a pan.
Petrovich’s heart skipped a beat. His legs felt like cotton. But how? It was just morning! The trucks had just arrived!
He looked back, holding his breath.
The desk was in perfect order. All the blueprints were stacked neatly. And in front of him on the table lay the plan of the section with the problematic floodlights—the very ones where the lamps didn’t work at night.
Petrovich took a flashlight and left the office. He headed to the spot where the wrong rebar should have been. He needed to check—what was there now?
Near the foundation of the third building, he met Igor Semyonovich. The quartermaster was standing there, staring blankly at the structures.
“Igor Semyonovich? What are you doing?”
“Huh?” The quartermaster turned around with a vacant look. “Well… I don’t remember why I came here.”
He mumbled something to himself and slowly wandered away.
Petrovich shone the flashlight into the foundation. The rebar was correct, with the right marking. He ran to the warehouses—all the materials were in place, neatly arranged by sections. He ran to the campfires—the workers were heartily chewing the game prepared by Anton and telling jokes.
Everything was as it should be. As it ought to be.
“This is…” Petrovich murmured.
He walked away, sat on the grass, and then lay down on his back on the ground. Igor Semyonovich walked past and looked utterly bewildered at the foreman lying under the stars.
Petrovich closed his eyes. He was afraid that any second now, the worker would run up to him again to report that the rebar had arrived.
“This is…”
He didn’t know how to finish that sentence.
Chapter 14
Ten days passed without anomalies. Ten blessed days of ordinary work—no fog, no time loops, no repetitive deliveries. People started to relax, joke in the evenings, and make plans for weekends in the city.
Petrovich felt something akin to peace for the first time in months. Maybe the worst really was over? Maybe it had all just been a series of unfortunate events?
In the evening, he approached Igor Semyonovich, who was sorting through invoices in his administrative trailer.
“Semyonych,” the foreman called out softly. “Care for some company?”
The quartermaster looked up from his papers. In Petrovich’s eyes, he saw not a typical friendly request, but something deeper—the fatigue of a man who had been through too much and was now looking for someone who would understand without unnecessary words.
“Of course,” Igor Semyonovich nodded, putting down his pen.
They didn’t talk much. Petrovich took the bottle of Hennessy from the safe and poured two glasses. The cognac was good, warming. They drank slowly, each lost in his own thoughts, but both understanding that sometimes the best support is simply the presence of another person who saw the same things.
“Do you think it’s over?” Igor Semyonovich asked quietly.
“I want to believe it,” Petrovich replied, swirling the glass in his hands.
By eleven in the evening, they parted to their rooms—each hoping that tomorrow would be an ordinary day.
Igor Semyonovich dreamed of the construction site.
An ordinary, familiar construction site—the hum of tractors, shouting over the radio, the workers’ silly jokes. He even smiled in his sleep, listening to two fitters razzing each other. No one was angry about the pranks—everyone released stress in their own way.
But suddenly, the sky began to darken. Heavy clouds covered the sun, and Igor’s heart clenched with familiar fear. Memories of that nightmare hurricane surfaced from the depths of his memory, throbbing in his temples.
Rain began to fall.
Except it wasn’t rain.
Crimson drops, thick and heavy, fell from the sky. They struck the ground with a rhythmic thud, drenching the construction site in red. A distinct metallic taste filled his mouth, bringing on nausea.
“What the hell…” Igor croaked, rushing out of his trailer.
Thunder rumbled, though there was no lightning. And the crimson liquid continued to pour from the sky, and—the strangest thing—it didn’t spread across the territory; instead, it began to rise.
Igor watched the red liquid reach the soles of his boots, climb his shins, and reach his knees. He tried to scream, to call for help, but couldn’t hear his own voice—the sound was swallowed by the rhythmic thud of the falling drops.
Where was everyone? Why was he alone on this cursed construction site? The place that always hummed with engines and human voices had turned into a deserted trap.
The liquid was warm. Unpleasantly warm, like blood. And it was sticky—it clung to his clothes, as if trying to soak into his skin. And then Igor felt something slide past his leg beneath the surface.
He froze. A shadow flashed in the red expanse—large, fast. The liquid around his body began to swirl into slow vortices, as if something massive was moving deep inside. Igor tried to retreat, but the thick mass pulled him down, holding him in place.
Another movement. Closer. Something was rising to the surface from below, and Igor felt it with his whole skin—the presence of something enormous and hungry, studying him from the red darkness.
The ground shook under his feet—once, twice. An earthquake?! Igor couldn’t recall anything similar during that cursed day with the hurricane.
The level rose higher—up to his waist now. And then Igor noticed a strange thing: the liquid distinctly stopped at the boundaries of the construction site, at the wire fence, as if some invisible wall held it inside.
“It can’t be! This can’t be!” he almost howled, his voice cracking with terror.
At that moment, sunlight flashed from above, blinding him. Igor squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, he realized the most terrifying thing.
The entire construction site was at the bottom of a gigantic glass. And above him, at an unthinkable height, loomed Petrovich’s face. The foreman was raising the glass, full of the red liquid, to his mouth.
Igor screamed…
…and woke up.
Everything was wet—his clothes, his bedding; even the walls of the trailer seemed damp. But there was no rain. The moisture seemed to have seeped from the dream into reality, blurring the lines between nightmare and waking life. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell what it was. The metallic smell still seemed to linger in his nostrils.
A cold wind rattled open the door, which he apparently hadn’t closed completely before sleeping. A shudder ran through Igor.
He had to get some air, shake off the nightmare, and assure himself that it was all just a dream.
He somehow climbed out of bed and staggered outside.
Nine people were sitting by the bonfire.
Workers from different teams—fitters, welders, carpenters. They were huddled closer to the fire than usual, as if the flames were the only thing grounding them in reality. They sat silently, warming themselves by the fire, and in their eyes, reflecting the dancing flames, Igor saw the same horror he was currently feeling.
No one spoke. Everyone just sat and stared into the flames, as if the answers to the questions they were afraid to ask aloud could be found there.
And in the forest, beyond the perimeter lit by the fire, something quietly rustled the leaves, as if listening to their fears.
When the first rays of the sun appeared, footsteps were heard. Everyone looked at the disheveled foreman, who had woken up before the alarm and smelled the bonfire. Stepping outside, he stared in shock at the men huddled by the fire, as if they were trying to burn away the remnants of the nightmare that had gripped them.
Nevertheless, fear and some kind of unjustified malice flickered in everyone’s eyes.
Chapter 15
A week of relatively calm work passed after that night with the nine men by the bonfire. No anomalies, no strange dreams—just measured construction under the autumn sun. People gradually relaxed, deciding that the worst was behind them.
The third residential building was nearing completion. The roof was ready, the walls were leveled, and all that remained was to install the internal utilities and start the finishing work. Furniture was being installed in the central building’s rooms—sturdy beds and wardrobes made of local timber, all as originally planned.
Igor Semyonovich noted with satisfaction in his log: materials were arriving on schedule, with no delays or repetitive deliveries. Petrovich also felt relief—maybe everything really had settled down.
In the evenings, as before, the workers gathered by the bonfire. But the atmosphere was different now—not anxious silence, but normal male conversation. Someone played the guitar; someone told jokes.
And then a new form of entertainment began.
“Listen, guys,” said welder Boris on the second evening, glancing toward the forest. “What if all this stuff with our nightmares isn’t a coincidence?”
“Then what is it?” someone asked.
“It’s probably some ancient spirit living here. The Master of the Woods. We’re building on his territory, so he’s unhappy.”
Everyone laughed, but somewhat nervously.
“Oh, come on,” the electrician waved it off. “What kind of spirits are there in the twenty-first century?”
“Why not?” countered fitter Seryozha. “My grandma has plenty of stories in the village about the wood goblin. They say if you anger him, he leads people astray.”
“Exactly,” Boris nodded. “Maybe he’s leading us astray, too. Off the true path, I mean.”
The laughter grew more confident. Something like a game emerged—who could come up with the creepiest, yet most plausible, version of what was happening.
On the third day at dinner, fitter Grigoriev presented his theory:
“What if something is flowing underground here? Poisonous gas or radiation. We’re inhaling it, poisoning our brains, and that’s why we’re hallucinating.”
“We checked the dosimeter,” Igor Semyonovich countered. “The background level is normal.”
“Well, gas isn’t radiation,” Grigoriev didn’t give up. “Maybe some kind of swamp methane. That can cause hallucinations.”
“Then everyone would be poisoned equally,” someone noted. “But some of us dream one thing, some another.”
“That only proves my theory!” Grigoriev said, animated. “The gas acts differently on every brain. Those with a strong liver have weaker visions.”
The workers burst into laughter. Anton, the cook, was theatrically offended:
“Is that a jab at my liver? I haven’t had a drink in a month, by the way!”
“But you cook so well that we’re all getting poisoned,” the welder taunted him.
“You’re the one getting poisoned!” Anton snapped back, but he was laughing too.
The game was becoming spirited. Every evening, someone would inevitably put forward a new version, and the more ludicrous it was, the more laughter it provoked.
On the fourth day, it was the guard Uncle Kolya’s turn:
“Have you thought about the animals?” he asked seriously, puffing on his pipe. “Those boars attacked us for a reason. It wasn’t just random.”
“They were hungry,” someone suggested.
“Hungry, my foot! It’s autumn; there are acorns everywhere.” Uncle Kolya shook his head. “No, someone set them on us.”
“Who?” the workers were intrigued.
“The Master of the Beasts,” the guard said mysteriously. “Every forest has one. Old, wise. All the animals obey him. He sees strangers came, cutting down the forest, and he commands: attack!”
“And where is he now?” they asked with laughter.
“Somewhere here,” Uncle Kolya waved toward the thicket. “Watching us. Thinking about what to do next.”
Everyone involuntarily looked into the darkness between the trees. The bonfire illuminated their faces, but beyond its boundary lay impenetrable darkness.
“Maybe we should make peace with him?” someone joked. “Pay tribute. Bring sausages into the forest.”
“Or vodka,” added another. “Maybe he’s an alcoholic.”
“Then he should go to Anton,” laughed a third. “Anton will treat him to some moonshine!”
The cook was theatrically outraged again, but everyone could see he was enjoying the attention.
The fifth evening brought the story about poisoned water from fitter Mikhail:
“What if the well is the problem?” he said thoughtfully, stirring his tea. “Maybe something got into it. Some chemicals or… I don’t know, a corpse.”
“What corpse?” the listeners shuddered.
“Any corpse. A rat, for example. Or a wild cat. Slowly decomposing, poisoning the water. We drink this water, cook with it…”
Everyone instinctively put down their mugs and looked at Anton. The cook felt their gazes and became worried:
“Why are you all looking at me? I’m not the one digging the well!”
“But you do the cooking,” someone noted.
“And you taste it first,” added another.
“That means you’ve developed immunity already,” a third philosophically concluded.
Anton was genuinely indignant:
“What are you saying! I’m not a test rat! If the water was bad, I’d be the first to get sick!”
“And how do we know you’re not sick?” Boris asked with a smirk. “Maybe you’re hallucinating everything, but you’re hiding it?”
“I’m not hallucinating anything!” the cook bristled. “I sleep like a baby!”
“Babies cry at night,” someone quipped, and everyone burst into laughter.
Anton sulked, but not for long. The game was a game, and everyone understood—no one seriously suspected him.
The sixth evening brought a story about birds. Electrician Oleg, the one who struggled with the floodlights, suddenly spoke in a quiet, pensive voice:
“What if the birds are to blame for everything?”
“What birds?” the listeners were surprised.
“Well, special ones. That chirp at a frequency we can’t hear. Like bats—they communicate with ultrasound. And that scream hits the brain directly, disinhibiting the subconscious.”
“So, all the birds in the forest conspired to scare us?” someone laughed.
“Why not?” Oleg replied seriously. “We invaded their territory, ruined their nests. So they’re taking revenge. Hitting our brains with ultrasound, sending us nightmares.”
“So there must be a bird base somewhere here,” the fitter joked. “A command post.”
“On the tallest tree,” another chimed in. “The main bird is sitting there, watching us through binoculars.”
“And reporting to its colleagues on the radio: ‘Attention, subject number three is going into the bushes to relieve himself. All units—full ultrasound!’”
Everyone laughed, imagining birds with radios and binoculars.
And then, suddenly, young welder Vitya jumped up from his spot and looked around:
“But seriously…” he whispered. “Guys, when was the last time you heard the birds?”
The laughter faded. Everyone listened to the night silence.
Indeed. No sounds from the forest. No hooting owls, no rustling in the leaves, no distant cawing. Only the crackling of the fire and their own breathing.
“Come on,” someone said uncertainly. “It’s late; the birds are sleeping.”
“Owls don’t sleep,” Uncle Kolya objected. “Owls hunt at night.”
“And eagle-owls,” added Mikhalych. “I’ve lived in the forest all my life; you could always hear something.”
Vitya stood in the middle of the circle, slowly turning his head. His face was pale, his eyes wide open.
“Do you hear it?” he whispered. “It’s completely silent. As if the forest… is dead.”
“Just sit down,” someone grumbled, but the voice sounded hesitant.
“Scared by his own invention,” another added, but not very convincingly either.
Vitya slowly sat back down but continued to look around uneasily. And the others involuntarily listened to the silence, which suddenly seemed unnatural, oppressive.
The atmosphere of merriment cracked. The game of scary stories no longer felt harmless.
On the seventh evening, everyone gathered by the bonfire as usual, but the mood wasn’t right. The previous night with its dead silence was memorable for everyone. Jokes sounded strained; the laughter was unnatural.
“Well,” Boris began awkwardly, “who’s going to tell a story tonight?”
“Maybe we should stop?” someone suggested. “I’m tired of it.”
“Oh, come on,” another countered. “One more time.”
It was the turn of Nikolai, the security systems fitter. He was silent for a long time, staring into the fire, then slowly raised his head:
“What if it’s the stars?”
“What stars?” the listeners were surprised.
“The ones above us,” Nikolai pointed his hand at the sky. “Every night, they align in a special order, focusing their energy on this area of the forest. The starlight energy awakens ancient instincts, turns our imagination to full power. And our imagination is our trouble. All the fears, all the nightmares—it’s just a projection of cosmic energy onto a weakened subconscious.”
He spoke slowly, thoughtfully, as if solving a complex puzzle.
“The stars scatter across the sky every night in a hypnotic pattern,” Nikolai continued. “They form invisible lines of force that converge right here, where we are sitting. We are at the epicenter of a cosmic impact.”
“So what should we do?” someone asked with a chuckle. “Move out?”
“We need to understand the pattern,” Nikolai answered seriously. “If we understand how the stars affect us, we can protect ourselves.”
He raised his hand and pointed a finger at the night sky:
“See for yourselves…”
And suddenly, he fell silent. His hand remained raised, his index finger pointing upward. Nikolai stared at the sky with wide-open eyes, and the expression on his face slowly changed—from curiosity to surprise, from surprise to horror.
“Nikolai?” someone called. “What’s wrong?”
The fitter didn’t answer. He sat motionless, like a statue, with his hand raised and his mouth slightly open. The terror frozen in his eyes was so intense that the others involuntarily looked up, trying to understand what he was seeing there.
But the sky was normal. The stars twinkled in their usual places, forming no special pattern.
“Kolya, what is it?” Igor Semyonovich stood up and walked over to the motionless fitter. “Nikolai!”
No reaction. Nikolai continued to stare at the sky with an expression of unbearable horror fixed on his face.
“Maybe a stroke?” someone suggested.
Igor Semyonovich felt for a pulse on his neck—the heart was beating steadily. Breathing was also normal. But Nikolai did not react to touches or calls.
Suddenly, he swayed and fell off the stump he was sitting on. He fell in the same pose—with his hand raised and his index finger pointing toward the sky. He lay on his side and continued to look up with empty, glassy eyes.
“That’s it, let’s break it up!” the quartermaster commanded sharply. “March to your rooms! And no more stories, you hear me? I forbid it!”
The workers hastily dispersed, leaving Igor Semyonovich alone with the motionless Nikolai. The quartermaster covered him with a jacket and stayed nearby, not knowing what else could be done.
And above them, the ordinary stars twinkled, indifferent and distant.
Only Nikolai saw them one by one tear away from their places and swirl in a cosmic dance, outlining unseen patterns of light in the sky.
Chapter 16
The next morning, Igor Semyonovich knocked on Petrovich’s office door. He knocked longer than usual, as if he himself doubted whether he should bother his superior. But the conversation was inevitable.
“Come in, Semyonych,” the foreman said wearily, lifting his head from the blueprints. “What’s the matter?”
The quartermaster sat on a chair across the desk, paused, choosing his words.
“Petrovich, I need to talk to you seriously. About the men.”
“The men?” Petrovich put down his pencil. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing happened. But…” Igor rubbed his temples. “They all look healthy, they’re working, they don’t complain. But have you looked at them closely lately?”
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s something in their eyes. A kind of hidden horror. As if everyone has seen something terrifying, but they’re keeping silent about it.”
Petrovich frowned:
“Well, after everything we’ve been through…”
“It’s more than that,” Igor interrupted. “They’re behaving strangely. Some refuse to work in specific areas. They keep finding excuses—the wrong tool, the wrong material, something else. And you can see for yourself—they’re making it up as they go.”
“Where exactly are they refusing?”
“Near the second building, mainly. And where we’re marking out the zoo. They say the ground is difficult, the machinery can’t get through easily. But we know ourselves—the spots are fine.”
Petrovich pondered this. Indeed, in the last few days, he had noticed that some work sections were dragging on for no obvious reason.
“And also,” Igor continued, “some just freeze up. They stand like statues, staring at one point. If you ask them, they snap out of it, say they were lost in thought. But lost in thought about what? And why go so deep into themselves?”
“They’re probably tired.”
“Tired…” Igor shook his head. “Others, on the contrary, start rambling non-stop. They chatter and chatter, they can’t stop. They talk nonsense, like they’re wound up. And you can’t get a word out of a third group—they’ve become like mutes.”
The quartermaster paused, then added in a quieter voice:
“Petrovich, this is not normal. And it’s creepy. I’m even starting to doubt myself.”
“What do you mean—doubt?”
Igor offered an awkward smile:
“Remember those two guys from the third team? The ones who are always messing with me?”
“Valera and Tolik?”
“Them. They came to me the other day asking for self-tapping screws. Not a full box, but individually. Valera says—I need sixty-two. And Tolik—eighty-five. Plus, a third of them with wide heads.”
“What’s strange about that? Maybe for some special job.”
“What special job?” Igor threw up his hands. “Ordinary paneling. But they were standing there so seriously, so insistent on that exact number… I decided to spite them by counting out the exact amount. Figured I’d make them wait while I counted every single screw.”
“And?”
“Nothing. I count—and lose track. I count again—I lose track again. I tried five times—I couldn’t get the number right even once. In the end, I gave up, poured out roughly the right amount by weight. And they took it and left, as if nothing had happened.”
Petrovich was silent, processing what he had heard.
“You see,” Igor said quietly, “maybe I’m losing my mind too? Maybe I’m just imagining all this?”
“No, Semyonych,” the foreman said slowly. “You’re not imagining it. I notice it too.”
Igor sighed in relief—at least he wasn’t the only one seeing what was happening.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
Petrovich stared out the window for a long time, at the construction site where the men were working. Everything seemed normal—someone was sawing boards, someone was carrying bricks, someone was installing something. But now, looking closer, he did notice the oddities in their movements, in their postures, in the way they avoided looking at each other.
“Alright,” he finally said. “I’ll come up with something. Go back to work.”
Igor stood up, reached the door, but turned back:
“Petrovich, are you… are you normal? I mean, you don’t notice anything like that about yourself?”
The foreman smiled grimly:
“Who knows, Semyonych. Who knows.”
When the quartermaster left, Petrovich was left alone with his thoughts. He understood—the situation was critical. The men were on the verge of a breakdown, the work was suffering, and most importantly—he didn’t know what to do.
He needed help. Professional help.
Petrovich opened his laptop and created a new message. He thought for a long time about how to write it so he wouldn’t sound insane.
“Dear Alexey Viktorovich!
I am writing to request that you send an additional specialist to the site. Preferably someone with experience working with people in difficult conditions. You can formally assign them as my administrative assistant.
Reason: The men are suffering from accumulated fatigue due to isolation and difficult working conditions. I need someone who can subtly assess the psychological state of the team and provide recommendations.
Work is on schedule, but I am worried about the people.
Sincerely, Petrovich.”
He reread the letter five times, then once more. It seemed fine—not alarmist, but he had identified the problem. The main thing was that he wasn’t directly asking for a psychiatrist—that might alarm the management.
The cursor blinked over the “Send” button. Petrovich hesitated—what if this worsened the situation? What if a commission descended on them, stopped the work, and sent the men away?
On the other hand, if he didn’t take action now, things could get worse. Someone had already suffered—Nikolai was still lying in the infirmary, unconscious.
Petrovich sighed heavily and pressed the button.
The letter was sent.
He leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands. Fatigue washed over him all at once—not physical, but a deep, emotional exhaustion. Ten months on this construction site, ten months of strangeness and anomalies. When would it end?
At that moment, a deafening explosion sounded somewhere in the distance.
Petrovich jumped up in his chair. The sound was powerful, metallic, with the characteristic whine of air escaping under pressure. Then, an ominous silence followed.
The foreman rushed out of the office and ran in the direction the roar had come from. One thought hammered in his head: “Not again… please not again…”
Chapter 17
The morning was bright and industrious. At half past ten, the sun hadn’t yet reached its zenith but had warmed the air enough for people to shed their jackets and work in just shirts. The construction site hummed with its usual sounds—the clang of metal, the roar of generators, the shouts of foremen. The third building was undergoing internal finishing, the final chandeliers were being mounted in the central building, and work was in full swing clearing the site for the future zoo.
A light breeze stirred the leaves and carried the scents of the autumn forest to Petrovich’s office—fresh earth, fallen leaves, and wood shavings from the sawmill. An ordinary morning of an ordinary workday.
The explosion tore through this idyll like a bolt of lightning.
Petrovich jumped in his chair when the powerful metallic crash reached him, accompanied by the characteristic whine of air escaping under pressure. The sound was too loud, too sharp for a simple equipment malfunction.
A few seconds later, the wind brought the acrid smell of burning—soot from an exploded engine, mixed with the fumes of heated oil and coolant. The smell came from the section where the zoo was to be prepared. Three hundred and fifty meters from his office.
The foreman rushed out of his office and ran, quickly assessing the possible scenarios. Did a generator explode? No, the sound wasn’t right—too powerful. Maybe a gas cylinder at the welding station? Not likely either. Did the hydraulics burst on an excavator? Possible, but that roar…
His heart was pounding for more than just the running. He was gravely concerned that there would be no more casualties on his site. The men had already suffered—Vasilyev was killed, Nikolai barely pulled through when he was taken to the local district hospital. And now, the wail of emergency sirens… In almost a year on this project, Petrovich had gotten used to the fact that any unusual sound could mean the beginning of new problems. And this sound was very, very alarming.
He rounded the corner of the second building and saw a crowd of workers gathered around the “Metal Monster” in the northwest of the construction site. Some stood calmly, curiously observing what was happening. Others kept their distance, clearly distressed. And two or three were actually walking away, having dropped their tools.
As he got closer, Petrovich understood the reason for the varied reactions.
In the middle of the cleared area stood a huge Caterpillar D9 tractor—a forty-ton yellow behemoth, the metal monster, as the foreman liked to call it, the pride of their vehicle fleet. But it was standing in an unnatural way. The front end of the machine was lifted off the ground, as if an invisible hand had pulled it up and was holding it in the air. The rear tracks gripped the earth firmly, while the front ones dangled half a meter high, slowly idling in neutral.
Thick white steam, mixed with black smoke, billowed from the engine compartment. The engine was running unevenly, sputtering and making gurgling sounds that boded ill. The smell of burning grew stronger.
But the most astonishing sight was revealed at the front of the tractor. Ten thick steel cables—no less—stretched from the front of the machine into the earth through special mountings. Imported, expensive, intended for the heaviest work. The cables were stretched to the limit, trembling from the tension, and in some places, huge, black, gnarled roots—as thick as a human thigh—had been pulled to the surface.
Around the tractor, the earth was scored with trenches where the workers had secured the cables for maximum leverage. But their efforts led to an unexpected result—the roots were not torn out of the ground; instead, the earth seemed to come alive and pull the tractor back.
“Holy Mother,” Petrovich breathed out, stopping a few meters from the scene.
Volodya the mechanic stood next to the tractor, holding his head in his hands and staring in horror at the damage. Seeing the foreman, he ran up to him:
“Petrovich! It’s not my fault! Everything was normal; we were working as usual. We were pulling the roots, pulling them, and then suddenly they snapped back! I’ve never seen such force!”
“What about the engine?” Petrovich asked, nodding toward the smoking compartment.
“The turbine exploded,” the mechanic answered grimly. “The load was extreme; the control unit started feeding more fuel; the RPMs went into the red zone. I tried to shut it off, but I didn’t make it in time. Bang—and that was it.”
“Can it be repaired?”
Volodya shook his head:
“Under field conditions? Are you kidding me! The turbocompressor is ruined, the cooling system is leaking, and the cylinder block might be cracked. A machine like this has to be taken to the factory. And even then, it’s not certain they can restore it—it might be cheaper to buy a new one.”
Petrovich circled the tractor, assessing the scale of the disaster. Forty tons of steel and metal hung in the air, held by ten steel cables that disappeared into the ground, where they encountered something so powerful it could lift the entire machine.
And around it, in a radius of about fifty meters from the tractor, the earth was covered in a network of cracks. Some were shallow, like cobwebs on asphalt. Others yawned as real chasms. The soil was settling unevenly, forming pits and mounds, as if a hidden struggle of gigantic forces was taking place underground.
“One hundred square meters,” Petrovich estimated to himself. “The root system occupies one hundred square meters. What kind of monster is down there, under the ground?”
“Maybe an underground river?” suggested one of the workers who had approached closer. “Roots stretch to the water, that’s why they’re so strong.”
“What river?” snapped another. “Have you ever seen roots lift a tractor?”
“Then what is it?” the first threw up his hands. “You explain it yourself!”
The digging foreman, an old hand with thirty years of experience, walked to the edge of one of the cracks and peered inside:
“Underground voids,” he stated authoritatively. “Air pockets from old rotten roots. The soil settled, the root system collapsed into the void, and that’s what caused this.”
“Then why is the tractor hanging?” someone asked.
“The roots snagged on the edges of those voids!” the foreman was clearly improvising as he went. “The tension of the cables, the weight of the machine—it all created a counterbalance. Physics, you see.”
Petrovich listened to these explanations and understood—people were desperately trying to find a rational reason for what was happening. But no air pockets lift forty tons of steel. And roots do not resist with enough force to blow the turbine of the most powerful tractor.
“Alright, guys,” he said loudly, “let’s stop guessing and decide what to do. Volodya, shut the machine off immediately. Everyone else—move to a safe distance. Those cables are under so much tension—if one snaps, it will kill everyone within a fifty-meter radius.”
The mechanic climbed into the cab and shut off the engine a minute later. Relative silence fell, broken only by the creaking of the taut cables and the soft hiss of cooling metal.
“What about the cables?” the foreman asked. “They’re imported, expensive. Management won’t understand if we just cut them.”
“How much do they cost?” Petrovich inquired.
“Fifteen thousand dollars for the whole set,” replied the quartermaster, who had arrived at the sound of the explosion. “The general contractor specifically ordered them for this kind of work.”
Petrovich felt a cold clench in his stomach. Fifteen thousand dollars. Plus the cost of repairing the tractor—another hundred thousand. Plus downtime. How could he explain this to the management? “Sorry, we ran into some special roots here”?
For the first time, he had the distinct feeling that something underground was laughing at their feeble efforts. All their hard work was like a leaf trying to stop a river’s flow.
“Guys,” he said, “let’s go to the office. We need to figure out what to do immediately.”
And as they walked toward the administrative building, Petrovich couldn’t shake the thought: in ten months of work, he had gotten used to the strangeness of this place. The fog, the nightmares, the time loops. But now, this strangeness had, for the first time, inflicted real, dollar-measurable damage.
And this, perhaps, was only the beginning.
Chapter 18
By two o’clock in the afternoon, the entire technical elite of the construction site had gathered in Petrovich’s office. The small table barely fit eight people—there was only room for the most essential. The rest stood against the walls, holding mugs of cooling tea.
Volodya the mechanic spread out printouts of the tractor’s technical specifications on the table. Safety inspector Makarov flipped through his notebook. The two inspectors from the developer—Kruglov and Belov—sat opposite each other, occasionally exchanging glances. Foreman Nikolaich, the old earthmover, slowly packed tobacco into his pipe. The site engineers silently studied the area plan.
“Alright,” Petrovich began, “we have a difficult situation. A minimum of a hundred thousand dollars in damages. Fifteen thousand for the cables if we can’t save them. Plus downtime. I need solution options.”
“What exactly is wrong with the tractor?” Inspector Kruglov asked. “Can we restore it ourselves?”
Volodya shook his head:
“Under field conditions? Impossible. The turbocompressor is torn to shreds, the cooling system is leaking, and the electronics burned out from the overload. A machine like that has to be taken to the factory.”
“How much time will that take?” Belov inquired.
“A month for evacuation and diagnostics. Then ordering spare parts—another two months. Repair—if possible at all—three weeks. A minimum of half a year in total.”
A heavy pause hung in the office. Half a year without the main tractor meant serious project delays.
“What about the cables?” Makarov asked. “Can we free them somehow?”
“That’s the problem,” Petrovich walked to the window. “They are under so much tension that if one snaps, it could kill everyone within fifty meters. We need a heavy crane to lift the tractor and relieve the tension.”
“Is a crane available?”
“I ordered one this morning. But it will take about three days to get here from the regional center. The road is bad, the equipment is heavy.”
Foreman Nikolaich took a drag from his pipe and said thoughtfully:
“Maybe we can try to cut the roots? Free the cables from below?”
Site engineer Semyonov scoffed:
“Did you forget the start of the project? We ruined four chainsaws on those roots back then. The chains dulled as if on stone.”
“Exactly,” confirmed another engineer. “Drills broke; crowbars bent. And the smell that came out…”
“I remember, I remember,” Nikolaich waved his hand. “But maybe order special tools? Diamond discs?”
“For what money?” Volodya intervened. “You won’t find them here easily. There might be one or two stores in the regional center. And ordering industrial ones—that’s a month’s wait.”
“And they cost a fortune,” Petrovich added. “The general contractor won’t go for those expenses.”
Inspector Makarov raised his hand:
“What about chemical methods? Herbicides, for example. Glyphosate or something similar.”
The environmental engineer, who had been silent until then, shook his head:
“Impossible. This is the future zoo. Deer will be grazing, boars will be rooting up the ground. Chemicals will get into the animals’ systems.”
“And the groundwater?” added Semyonov. “The animals will drink it. The veterinary supervision won’t clear us.”
“Sanitary standards for zoos are very strict,” Makarov confirmed. “The license might not pass.”
A new pause ensued. Everyone understood—there were no easy solutions.
At that moment, Petrovich turned to the surveyor Mikhalych, who had been sitting silently in the corner:
“Listen, Mikhalych, can you take the ground penetrating radar and check what’s under the ground? We need objective data on what we’re dealing with.”
The surveyor nodded:
“I can do that. Half an hour is enough—I’ll set up a measurement grid around the tractor.”
“I’ll give you Sergey and Tolik to help,” Foreman Nikolaich offered, immediately calling the men on the radio. “The equipment is heavy; you can’t carry it alone.
“Thanks,” Mikhalych agreed. “I have three boxes—with sensors, cables, and the laptop. And working next to taut cables—safety is necessary.”
“Then let’s discuss the general strategy for now,” Petrovich said.
When the surveyor left with his assistants, the atmosphere in the office became more informal.
“Guys,” engineer Sergeich said, smirking, “we’re not building a hotel here; we’re building a re-education colony for the especially stubborn! Magnetic anomalies, mutant roots, nightmares at night… Anyone would go crazy here.”
“Exactly!” someone supported. “So many strange things, it’s time to make a diagnosis.”
Sergeich confessed:
“I’ve been sleeping with noise-canceling headphones for a month now. It’s hellishly uncomfortable, but at least I get some sleep. Otherwise, every rustle woke me up—I thought the next bit of strangeness had started.”
Several people nodded in understanding. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one doing that.
“Maybe we should really give the men some time off?” Makarov suggested. “Everyone’s nerves are shot.”
“And who will work?” Petrovich cut him off. “By the time they send us another crew, we’ll be waiting two weeks. Deadlines are pressing.”
After a short while, Mikhalych returned with a serious face and printouts in his hands.
“What’s the verdict?” Petrovich asked.
The surveyor spread the graphs and diagrams on the table:
“Guys, the instruments are showing strange things. There are massive stone blocks under the ground at a depth of nine to ten meters. Each one the size of a bus.”
“Glacial boulders?” someone suggested.
“Possibly. But that’s not all.” Mikhalych pointed to another printout. “The magnetic field here is alive, somehow. Not constant, but dynamic. Like slow-moving magma—the field shifts, changes its impulse. I haven’t seen anything like it in twenty years of measurements.”
“What could that mean?” Inspector Belov asked.
“I have no idea. The compass here deviates one and a half degrees to the left of true north. Constantly. And the magnetometer changes readings in cycles—three to four minutes. It intensifies, then weakens, like breathing.”
“Iron ore underground?” Nikolaich guessed.
“Could be. But the field’s behavior…” Mikhalych shook his head. “It’s as if something is working down there. Turning on, turning off.”
“What about the roots?” Petrovich asked.
“That’s the thing!” Mikhalych pulled out one more printout. “I compared it with data from a year ago’s surveys. Remember, the drill got stuck right at these points? We blamed it on boulders, but it turns out the roots have wrapped around these massive stones, using them like anchors.”
“Meaning?” someone asked again.
“The root system is latched onto the underground bedrock. That’s why the tractor couldn’t pull them out. The stone is holding them solid.”
“But roots aren’t made of steel,” Volodya objected. “How do they withstand forty tons of load?”
Mikhalych threw up his hands:
“That’s the main mystery. By all laws of physics, the wood should have snapped. But it not only held up but also lifted the tractor.”
Inspector Kruglov frowned:
“Can we stick to the schedule with such… local features?”
An awkward silence fell. Everyone understood—the issue wasn’t technical solutions but deadlines and money.
“Maybe we should just go around this area?” the environmental engineer suggested. “We’ll make the enclosure a bit bigger—more space for the animals.”
“Project correction is normal,” Belov supported. “The main thing is to meet the deadlines.”
“We’ll install fences where there are no roots,” Semyonov agreed. “With surface fastenings, no deep excavation work.”
“And those roots might even be useful,” someone added. “The soil won’t erode; it’s natural drainage.”
Petrovich felt relief. Finally, a rational solution without headaches or unnecessary spending.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll go around the problem area. Increase the enclosure size; install fences in a safe place. We’ll remove the cables when the crane arrives. In the meantime, we cordon off the zone—safety first.”
“We’ll surround it with yellow tape,” Makarov suggested. “And put up warning signs.”
“Agreed,” Petrovich nodded. “Guys, thanks for the work. Dismissed.”
One by one, the men left the office, discussing technical details. Petrovich remained alone, looking out the window at the construction site where the workers were scurrying about.
He tried in vain, repeatedly, to convince himself that he was still in control.
Petrovich woke up around half past two in the morning to relieve himself. He got up, put on his jacket, and stepped out of the administrative container. The night was quiet, windless; only the taut cables by the crippled tractor creaked somewhere in the distance.
After relieving himself, he was slowly walking back to his room when he noticed movement through the second-floor window near residential building number two. Someone was standing by the wall of the building, running their hand over the metal siding.
Petrovich stopped and looked closer. The silhouette was familiar—broad shoulders, the characteristic slouch. It looked like Tolik, one of the workers from the third team. But what was he doing by the wall in the middle of the night?
The foreman quietly approached closer and froze at what he saw.
The man was running his index finger over the metal siding, and where he touched the wall, the metal began to bleed. Dark streaks ran down, and the man dipped his finger into them, continuing to draw some kind of signs.
Petrovich saw the symbols but couldn’t understand them. They resembled the script of an ancient civilization—angular, strict, with many intersecting lines. The man drew them with such ease, as if it were a usual activity for him.
“Tolik?” Petrovich called out softly.
The foreman felt a tingling sensation in his spine, after which he rushed outside—the man might know something about what was happening on the site. However, when he reached the spot, the man was gone, and only the bloody signs testified that he hadn’t imagined it.
At that moment, he felt a sharp gust of wind, causing him to immediately raise his hand to lean on the container wall. Only then did he realize that the man had been doing the same thing, so he immediately checked to see if his palm was covered in the bloody liquid. However, the bloody signs on the wall suddenly disintegrated, turning into ordinary autumn leaves that the wind carried off into the darkness.
Everything returned to normal, and only Petrovich stood there, shocked by what had happened. He inspected the wall carefully again but found nothing unusual. The siding was clean, without a single stain. He pressed his palm to the metal—ordinary cold material. Nothing unusual. Maybe he really had imagined it? Was it the fatigue from all these strange things?
But deep down, he knew—imagined or not, something in this forest was continuing its insane game. And today’s rational decisions were unlikely to stop it.
The forest was living its own life. And that life was beginning to seriously unnerve him.
Chapter 19
Petrovich didn’t sleep until morning. He lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling, and replayed the night scene in his head. The bloody signs on the wall, the man drawing them with such ease, as if it were a usual activity. And then—the disappearance without a trace, the clean wall, no evidence.
By seven in the morning, he couldn’t take it anymore. He got dressed and left the administrative building, determined to find Tolik and figure out what he remembered about last night.
First, Petrovich headed to the residential containers of the third team. He knocked on the door.
“Guys, is Tolik there?”
“What Tolik?” a voice replied, surprised, from inside.
“Tolik from your team. Broad-shouldered, a bit hunched.”
“Ah, don’t know him,” came the answer. “We have Seryoga, Mikhail, Volodya. No Toliks.”
Petrovich frowned and went to the next container.
“Does Tolik live here?”
“Tolik?” A sleepy worker scratched the back of his head. “Nah, only our guys here. And who is Tolik?”
By nine in the morning, Petrovich had gone through all the living quarters. The result was the same—no one knew any Tolik. Moreover, many asked again, as if they were hearing the name for the first time on the construction site.
The foreman stopped in the middle of the site, feeling a chill run down his spine. Had he dreamed the whole thing? Was the man by the wall a hallucination?
“Semyonych!” he called out to the quartermaster, who was walking by with a folder of documents.
“What’s wrong?” Igor Semyonovich came closer.
“Tell me, do we have a worker named Tolik?”
The quartermaster thought:
“Tolik… Tolik… I don’t recall. Which team should he be in?”
“I don’t know,” Petrovich replied, confused. “I thought the third.”
“Definitely not. I have all the lists. No Toliks are registered in the third team. Why, are there problems?”
“No,” Petrovich waved his hand. “Just imagined something.”
But he wasn’t reassured. The entire day, the foreman questioned people, trying to find at least someone who remembered Tolik. And with every negative answer, he felt increasingly uneasy.
Meanwhile, strange things began to happen on the construction site.
Electrician Oleg was the first to notice something was wrong. The same one who suffered with the floodlights at the start of the project. He was now laying cable in the second building—pulling wires through cable trays, connecting terminals.
Having finished a section, Oleg decided to check the voltage. He touched the tester to the wire—there was a live current (phase). This meant the power hadn’t been turned off somewhere.
“Damn it,” the electrician muttered and headed to the distribution panel.
He found the right circuit breaker and switched it off. He returned to his workspace and checked with the tester again. The phase was still there.
“What the—” Oleg looked at the instrument in confusion, double-checked the cable’s marking to avoid mixing up the switch, then stomped back to the panel.
He checked the breaker—it was definitely on. He switched it off. He switched off the neighboring one for good measure. He returned—the phase was present.
By the third time, Oleg was furious:
“Very funny, hilarious!” he yelled into the void. “Who needs a good beating?!”
And then, the phase disappeared. The tester showed zero.
Oleg froze, staring at the instrument. Then he slowly raised his head and looked around. No one was nearby. But the feeling of someone’s presence, someone’s watchful gaze, did not leave him.
At the same time, at the other end of the construction site, operator Vasily was finishing work on the bulldozer. He had spent all day leveling the ground for the future parking lot, and by evening, the area looked like a tabletop—flat, neat, ready for asphalt.
Vasily drove the bulldozer to the equipment parking area, shut off the engine, and went to his container—to rest in the air-conditioned space after a hot day.
Barely ten minutes later, an agitated foreman burst in:
“Vasya! Why did you abandon the bulldozer in the middle of the parking lot? And you didn’t even turn it off—you’re wasting diesel!”
“In the middle?” Vasily was surprised. “I drove it to the parking spot.”
“What parking spot? It’s standing right in the center of the freshly leveled area and idling!”
Vasily went out to look and gasped. His bulldozer was indeed standing in the center of the newly leveled area; the engine was running, and the tracks had already started to ruin the perfectly flat surface.
“I took the keys,” he murmured, checking his pocket. The key wasn’t there; it was left in the bulldozer. “Someone is having a lot of fun right now…”
Confused, Vasily drove the machine to the parking area, shut off the engine, and this time took the keys. He double-checked several times—the engine was definitely off.
He returned to the container, but five minutes later, there were shouts outside:
“Who drove the bulldozer into the enclosure?! Who thought that was a good idea?!”
Vasily rushed out. His machine was now standing in the center of the future animal enclosure, where the landscape designers had just sown grass yesterday. The neat rows of young sprouts were crushed by the tracks.
“Is this some kind of prank?” the operator asked confusedly, but no one answered him.
The designers silently watched their ruined work, and Vasily himself stood with the keys in his hand, not understanding how his machine managed to drive by itself.
By the end of the day, similar stories were being told all over the construction site. Workers who were sawing asphalt near the third building dropped their tools for lunch and left. When they returned, the foreman was standing over their angle grinder, shaking his head.
“Guys,” he said, “how did you manage to cut asphalt with a wood-cutting blade? And so perfectly?”
“What wood-cutting blade?” the workers didn’t understand.
“This one,” the foreman pointed to the installed blade. “It clearly says—for wood. And you were cutting asphalt with it.”
The workers exchanged glances. Sergey, the team leader, walked closer:
“Boss, we installed a diamond blade. We bought it specifically yesterday.”
“What diamond blade?” The foreman removed the blade and showed the marking. “See for yourselves. ‘For soft wood, maximum RPM 4000.’ And you were cutting asphalt with it at full speed.”
“But we were…” Sergey started, but then fell silent, examining the blade.
Indeed, the marking was clear, factory-made. The blade was for wood. But how then to explain the perfectly straight cuts in the asphalt? And why didn’t the blade burn out in the first few minutes of work?
“And the main thing,” the foreman added, “the blade is like new. Not a single nick; it didn’t even heat up.”
By evening, the construction site was buzzing with talk of strange incidents. Some blamed the heat; others blamed the magnetic anomalies the surveyor had talked about. But most just shrugged and tried not to think about what was happening. The most incredible was the case with the phone, when a worker was about to be hit by a heavy roof tile flying off the roof with his helmet. Only an incoming call distracted him, so he stepped away from his work to a quiet corner.
The tile shattered into many small fragments, clearly indicating to the worker what he had just survived. However, the incoming call was canceled from the other side while the worker stood frozen, observing what his workplace had turned into. He never found out who called, as the number was not saved in the call list.
Petrovich listened to these stories and felt growing anxiety. First the nightmares, then the time loops, now the equipment behaving as if it were alive. And most importantly—he still couldn’t find a single person who remembered Tolik.
Around eight in the evening, as the construction site began to empty, Nikolai the welder from the second team approached him.
“Petrovich,” he said, “you were asking about some Tolik this morning?”
“Yes!” the foreman brightened. “You know him?”
“Of course, I know him. Tolik Morozov, a good guy. Only he left home a couple of days ago—his mother got sick. She was admitted to the hospital.”
Petrovich felt a weight lift from his soul.
“Who gave him permission to leave?”
“Nikolaich, the site foreman. But he’s coming on for the night shift today; he’ll be here in a couple of hours.”
“Thanks,” Petrovich exhaled in relief.
So, Tolik was real. So, he wasn’t losing his mind. And what happened last night… Well, maybe he really did imagine it. Fatigue, stress, all these months of tension.
The foreman went back to his office, intending to have a quiet dinner and get some sleep. But barely had he settled down with a cup of tea when a car drove onto the construction site, as reported immediately over the radio from the guard post.
A man about forty-five years old got out of the car—well-dressed, in a business suit, with a leather briefcase in his hand. He looked around, took out his phone, checked something, and headed toward the administrative building.
Petrovich met him on the porch.
“Good evening,” the stranger said. “My name is Mikhail Ivanovich Gromov. I am your new administrative assistant.”
The foreman blinked. Had the general contractor responded to his letter that quickly?
“Come in,” he said. “Make yourself comfortable. You have no idea how timely your arrival is.”
Chapter 20
“Tell me, how is the work going at the site?” Mikhail Ivanovich asked, settling into the chair across the desk. “Are there any… peculiarities that should be taken into account in the work?”
“Oh yes, there are peculiarities. And quite a few,” Petrovich rubbed his temples. “I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Start with what concerns you the most,” the new assistant suggested gently. “Sometimes an outside perspective helps to see the situation from a different angle.”
“Then make yourself comfortable. This will take some time…”
Secret Air Force Base, 7:30 PM
Major Sokolov leaned over the tablet with the flight route, checking the coordinates one last time. In half an hour, the quarter’s most important test was set to begin—the autonomous navigation systems test of the new “Dragonfly-M” drone.
The Flight Control Headquarters hummed with muffled activity. The base’s best specialists sat at the consoles in especially neat and clean uniforms—the Major clearly wanted to impress the General. Everyone checked their system with particular care. Not a single mistake could be allowed today.
“Major,” a stern voice sounded from the entrance.
Sokolov turned and snapped to attention. Major General Morozov entered the headquarters—a gray-haired, fit man with penetrating gray eyes. Today, he was without insignia, in a standard flight uniform.
“Personnel status?” the General asked briefly.
“All specialists are at their stations, Comrade General,” Sokolov reported.
“I wasn’t asking about the specialists.” Morozov glanced at those present. “Clearance levels checked?”
The Major tensed slightly:
“I’ll check now.” He turned to the personnel: “Gentlemen, present your IDs for clearance verification.”
A slight wave of movement passed through the headquarters. One by one, the military personnel pulled out red ID cards. The General’s adjutant, a young Captain with a tablet, began cross-referencing names with a classified list.
“Operators without ‘Top Secret’ clearance will leave the headquarters,” the General announced quietly, but so that everyone could hear.
Two technicians exchanged glances and silently headed for the exit. The rest sighed in relief—their clearances had passed inspection.
“Project ‘Alpha-7’ has critical priority,” Morozov continued after the door closed behind the superfluous personnel. “No entries in open logs. In the event of any deviation from the plan—immediate cancellation. There will be no second chance.”
“Understood, Comrade General,” Sokolov nodded. “Has civil aviation been warned about the temporary closure of the air corridor?”
“The zone will be closed under the guise of scheduled air defense exercises.” The General walked over to the large screen, which showed a map of the region. “The route?”
“Takeoff at 20:00,” the Major indicated the red line on the map with a pointer. “Altitude five thousand meters, speed ninety kilometers per hour. Direct course across the forest mass to the ‘Sokol’ testing ground. Flight time—twenty-five minutes. Landing at 20:25.”
“The purpose of the test?”
“Simulating loss of contact with the operator at the fifteen-minute mark of the flight. Engineer Kravets will remotely disconnect the main communications antenna. The UAV must switch to autonomous mode and continue the flight along the pre-set route, using the redundant navigation system.”
“And visual control?”
“Will be maintained via the backup video antenna. The operator will see the camera image but will not be able to influence the drone’s behavior.”
The General nodded:
“Begin.”
Exactly at 20:00, the “Dragonfly-M” lifted off the runway. The UAV was an elegant gray machine with a wingspan of about four meters—the result of many years of work by the country’s best designers.
“Takeoff completed,” reported operator Senior Lieutenant Vasilyev. “Gaining altitude.”
“Understood. Course?”
“Directly to the northeast, azimuth zero-four-five.”
Streams of telemetry lit up on the screens. Speed, altitude, direction, fuel consumption—hundreds of parameters were displayed in real-time.
“Five thousand meters,” Vasilyev reported. “Cruising speed. Everything is nominal.”
The General silently watched the instrument readings. Engineer Kravets stood next to him with a laptop—he was supposed to “break” communication with the drone at the right moment.
“Time?” Morozov asked curtly.
“Fifteen minutes of flight,” Sokolov replied. “Kravets, ready?”
“Ready, Comrade Major.”
“Execute.”
The engineer pressed a few keys. Red lights immediately lit up on the operator’s console.
“Loss of communication with the UAV,” Vasilyev reported. “Switching to autonomous mode… complete. The apparatus continues the flight independently.”
“Is there a video signal?”
“Yes. I see the forest below us. We are flying on course.”
The central screen showed the image from the onboard camera—an endless green carpet of forest, over which the shadow of the drone glided. Everything was going according to plan.
“How much longer until landing?” the General asked.
“According to calculations, ten minutes,” Sokolov replied, glancing at his watch.
Time dragged slowly. The tops of the trees flashed monotonously on the screen. The UAV flew smoothly, without deviation; the autonomous systems were working perfectly.
“We should have arrived by now,” the Major muttered when twenty-seven minutes had passed.
“Is there a video signal?” the General asked, tensing up.
“Yes. We are still flying over the forest. But the testing ground should have appeared five minutes ago.”
“Where is the apparatus according to GPS?”
Vasilyev checked the coordinates:
“According to the primary system—in the area of the testing ground. But the video shows the forest…”
Three more minutes passed. Finally, the screen showed open fields, and beyond them—the Sokol testing ground runway.
“Visual contact with the testing ground! ” the operator reported with relief. “Initiating landing approach.”
“Time?” the General asked curtly.
“20:30, Comrade General. Five minutes later than calculated.”
Morozov frowned. A five-minute delay in such a flight was a serious deviation.
“Kravets, restore communication.”
“Affirmative!”
The red lights went out. Vasilyev regained control of the UAV and safely landed it at the testing ground.
“Mission complete,” the Major reported. “UAV is on the ground; systems are nominal.”
“With a five-minute delay,” the General noted dryly. “I need an explanation. And fast.”
The headquarters worked intensely for the next two hours. Engineers dug through the flight logs, checking every parameter, every sensor reading. The General waited in the next room, his patience clearly running out.
“Major,” Kravets finally called out. “There is something strange here.”
“What exactly?”
“Look.” The engineer pointed to the laptop screen, where two flight trajectories glowed. “The red line—the primary navigation system’s readings. The green one—the redundant system’s.”
Sokolov leaned over the screen. The red line went straight from the base to the testing ground across the forest mass. The green line, however—described a smooth arc, skirting some area in the middle of the forest.
“That’s impossible,” the Major muttered. “How could the UAV fly two different routes simultaneously?”
“That’s the thing,” Kravets zoomed in on the map. “The redundant system operates on a different principle—laser rangefinding plus inertial navigation. It cannot be ‘fooled’ by radio interference or a GPS jammer.”
“And what does it show?”
“That the UAV truly flew in an arc. It bypassed this area,” the engineer poked a finger at the center of the supposed circle. “That’s why there was a five-minute delay.”
“And the primary system?”
“The primary shows a direct flight. But that’s impossible—if it had flown straight, it would have arrived on time.”
The Major silently studied the map. In the center of the enigmatic area that the UAV bypassed was some kind of construction object. Judging by the symbols—civilian construction, a hotel, or something similar.
“Kravets, what could cause the primary system to show false data but not affect the redundant one?”
“Theoretically—a very powerful, directional electromagnetic impact. But a source like that is easily detected by our signals intelligence stations.”
“Did we detect anything?”
“No. The airwaves were clean.”
Sokolov looked up at the map and felt a chill between his shoulder blades. Something in that forest forced a military drone, packed with the most modern electronics, to change course. But at the same time, it deceived its primary navigation system, showing a false route.
And the strangest thing—no one noticed anything during the flight.
“Where is the General?” he asked.
“In the next room.”
“Let’s go report. And, Kravets?”
“Yes?”
“Prepare a full report. It looks like we’ve stumbled upon something… unusual.”
Behind the wall, the General was waiting for an explanation. And twenty kilometers from the base, in the forest where the hotel was being built, Petrovich was finishing his story to the new assistant and did not suspect that his problems had just attracted the attention of the military.
Chapter 21
Petrovich, concluding his story, began to notice a peculiar glint in his interlocutor’s eyes. He clearly understood that the man perceived him as his future client. Nevertheless, the foreman recounted everything he deemed necessary. The new assistant thought to himself that these were the most astonishing tall tales he had ever heard in his life, and he planned to record them in his diaries when he returned to his prepared room. Petrovich, in turn, decided he wouldn’t disabuse the man of his doubts or the obvious mockery in his eyes; he would let him experience it firsthand.
The next morning, Mikhail Ivanovich stepped outside with a firm resolve to conduct his own investigation. Dressed in a brand-new manager’s uniform, with a yellow helmet on his head, he strode toward the third building, where most of the workers were bustling. The radio on his belt constantly transmitted some incomprehensible chatter, but this didn’t bother him—his clear goal was to expose this entire circus as quickly as possible, revealing the misinformation coming from Petrovich, who was clearly trying to conceal his failures in managing the site.
Several people passed by him; some even recognized the new boss and greeted him warmly, which made him stop abruptly, look toward the passersby, and return the greeting. Mikhail Ivanovich’s mood lifted sharply—he felt the beautiful forest air, and nostalgia washed over him. He himself had grown up in a village, although the years of city life had made him forget this feeling of unity with nature.
Lowering his head and immersing himself in childhood memories, he suddenly sensed something was wrong. He stopped, looked around—and couldn’t see his shadow.
Mikhail Ivanovich began to reason quickly and clearly. The sun rises in the east in the morning, and he was currently looking toward the southwest. The shadow should fall at a specific angle to the left of his line of sight. But it wasn’t there!
A sudden wave of suppression washed over him completely, causing a chill in his fingertips. Something about the stories he had heard yesterday was not as he had initially thought. Without further delay, he turned, intending to return to his room and record his observations in a special safe-kept diary—the one he used only for the most important and unusual cases from his practice.
But then he was utterly stunned.
From all sides, the loud sounds of working machinery came on simultaneously—tractors, cement mixers, and generators roared to life at once, as if someone had flicked a master switch. And his shadow was now cast precisely from that direction, which completely undermined his attempts to maintain his sanity.
And where was the sun? This couldn’t be right if it was seven in the morning! He looked up, but there were only white clouds. He even thought one of them looked like a smiley face laughing at him.
At that moment, he was called. He turned and saw several workers returning from their shift—tired, stained in places. The same men who had greeted him just a few minutes ago.
Wait, Minutes?! He was no longer certain of his reasoning about time.
At that moment, loud shouts erupted from the guard post.
Secret Air Force Base, 5:00 AM
General Morozov rose at five in the morning. Yesterday’s report on the strange drone behavior had kept him up all night. A five-minute delay, two different flight paths shown by different navigation systems—it wasn’t just a technical glitch. A new test was scheduled for six in the morning, and he was eager to know how it would go.
By half-past five, all key specialists had gathered in the Flight Control Headquarters. Major Sokolov looked haggard and displeased with the early hour, but the General’s order was non-negotiable.
“Today, we are conducting a repeat flight,” Morozov announced. “But with one addition. A ground team will move out to the presumed anomaly zone and conduct visual observation from the ground.”
“Team composition?” the Major asked.
“Captain Volkov, Sergeant Petrov, and signals technician Kravets. In two UAZ vehicles, with a full set of surveillance equipment. They will move out at six in the morning. I have already confirmed that the area will be closed to flights for a couple of hours.”
By six in the morning, the military UAZ vehicles were speeding down the forest road toward the mysterious zone. Captain Volkov studied the map, cross-referencing the coordinates with the GPS navigator. According to calculations, they should reach the point where the drone began to deviate from course in twenty-five minutes.
And at the headquarters at 6:20 AM, a new UAV—the “Dragonfly-M2,” an exact copy of yesterday’s unit—took to the air.
“Takeoff completed,” reported operator Senior Lieutenant Vasilyev. “Gaining altitude, course northeast.”
“Contact with the ground team?” the General asked.
“We have contact,” the radio operator replied. “Captain Volkov reports: they have taken up position, they are observing the sky. Instruments show normal readings.”
And then it began.
“Comrade General!” Vasilyev exclaimed anxiously. “The apparatus is starting to gain altitude! The altimeter shows six thousand… seven thousand meters!”
“Ground team, confirm!” Morozov sharply commanded.
“What?!” the Captain’s astonished voice crackled. “Comrade General, the apparatus is diving! It’s losing altitude very quickly!”
Silence hung in the headquarters. The operator saw a sharp increase in altitude on his instruments, while the ground observers saw a rapid dive.
“I’m taking manual control!” Vasilyev yelled, grabbing the levers. “Leveling the horizon!”
But the shouting from the ground continued:
“It’s falling! It’s falling straight down! It’s going to crash!”
The UAV’s video camera suddenly froze, showing a static image of the horizon. Yet the instruments continued to record an ascent.
“Loss of control!” the operator reported. “The engine is unresponsive!”
A few seconds later, a muffled explosion was heard—the emergency fuel jettison system had activated.
The radio crackled:
“The UAV has crashed! I see smoke from the explosion! Coordinates…”
General Morozov stood with his jaw clenched. Two drones lost in two days, both at the exact same location. This was no longer a coincidence.
“Major Sokolov, Captain Leonov—follow me! Duty Officer, immediately call Colonel Kravets!” he sharply commanded. “Meeting in my office. Immediately!”
Three minutes later, four officers were sitting around the round table in the General’s office. Morozov paced the small room, occasionally stopping by the map on the wall.
“Gentlemen, we have a serious problem,” he began. “In two days, we’ve lost two expensive UAVs at the same point. And the technology is behaving… shall we say, non-standardly.”
“Perhaps a technical malfunction?” Colonel Kravets cautiously suggested.
“A malfunction? I don’t think so. Isn’t it too suspicious that the location causes instruments to show an ascent and our eyes to see a dive?” the General asked harshly. “Major, your theories?”
Sokolov paused, clearly choosing his words carefully.
“Comrade General… I myself don’t believe what I’m about to say, but…” he paused. “What if foreign technology is deployed there? Under the guise of civilian construction?”
“Explain in detail.”
“Powerful electromagnetic interference generators, capable of disorienting our navigation systems. Possibly even affecting the perception of observers. A kind of… new-generation electronic weapon.”
Captain Leonov frowned:
“But who could possess such technology?”
“Neighboring powers are actively developing electronic warfare capabilities,” the Major replied. “This could be an act of covert aggression. Testing a weapon on our territory.”
The General stopped by the map, studying the point marked with a red circle for a long time.
“If that’s the case, the situation is critical,” he slowly stated. “We cannot allow the deployment of hostile technology twenty kilometers from a secret base.”
“What do you suggest, Comrade General?” the Colonel asked.
Morozov decisively turned to his subordinates:
“We move to the site. Personally. Right now.” He pressed the intercom button. “Base Duty Officer! Raise thirty special forces soldiers. Full combat gear. Two ‘Ural’ trucks and my ‘Mercedes’. Move out in ten minutes!”
“Comrade General,” the Captain cautiously noted, “what if it is, after all, a technical malfunction?”
“Then we will conduct an unscheduled inspection of a civilian facility and apologize to the builders,” Morozov replied dryly. “But if hostile equipment is truly deployed there… Gentlemen, we won’t be able to call for air support—our own UAVs are falling there. We can only rely on ourselves.”
Ten minutes later, a convoy of three vehicles rolled out of the base territory. The General’s black “Mercedes G-Class” led the way, followed by two military “Ural” trucks with fully geared paratroopers. The soldiers exchanged puzzled glances, as if real combat operations were unfolding in their rear. They thought this would be just another training day, but something inside each of them sensed trouble, which kept them silent.
The General sat in the back seat with his eyes closed next to the Colonel while the Major and the driver ensured they didn’t go off course, studying the paper route map. One thought circled in everyone’s mind: could the enemy have dared to place their technology so close to a secret base? And if so—what awaited them ahead?
Chapter 22
The black “Mercedes G-Class” stopped at the metal gates of the construction site. Two military “Ural” trucks braked behind it, and thirty special forces soldiers in full combat gear jumped onto the ground from the beds.
The guards at the checkpoint were clearly flustered. These were not the local men with shotguns who patrolled the perimeter for wild animals. The two duty guards in private security firm jackets exchanged glances and nervously reached for their radios.
“Stop!” shouted the senior guard, stepping out of the booth. “This is private property! Entry is by pass only!”
Major Sokolov exited the Mercedes. He approached the barrier, assessing the situation with a military eye.
“We need to access the site territory,” he said calmly but authoritatively. “Scheduled inspection.”
“What inspection?” The guard gripped the radio tighter. “No one warned us. Show me your documents!”
The Major took out his service ID. The guard read it, frowned:
“Military Commissariat? But we don’t have conscripts working here…”
“Not the Commissariat. A technical inspection.”
“I still can’t let you through without authorization from management,” the guard stubbornly shook his head. “This is private property. We are responsible for everyone who enters here.”
The Major tried several more times to explain the situation, but the guards stood their ground. Then General Morozov got out of the car.
“What’s the problem?” he asked briefly.
“Comrade General, the security won’t let us through without coordination with the site management.”
Morozov walked to the gate, pulled out a red ID card with stars:
“Major General Morozov. I need to access the territory on matters of state security.”
The guard took the ID, examined it carefully, but still shook his head:
“Comrade General, I understand the importance… but we are obligated to contact management. Those are the instructions.”
“Good job for following instructions,” the General unexpectedly approved. “Contact them.”
The guard brought the radio to his mouth:
“Base, Base, this is Post-1. A military group led by a Major General has arrived. They demand access to the territory. What should we do?”
Petrovich’s agitated voice sounded from the speaker:
“A military group?! What military group? I’m on my way!”
Petrovich, hearing the message on the radio, felt his entire back instantly soaked with cold sweat. The military? At their construction site? What had they done to attract the attention of the army?
He rushed out of the office and ran toward the gates, frantically calculating possible reasons along the way. Was it connected to the exploded tractor? Or the time loops? What if one of the workers had babbled too much in the city?
Reaching the post, he saw a sight that made his legs weak. Three military vehicles, thirty armed men in body armor, officers with grim faces. Jokes truly were ill-advised with people like this.
“Are you the site manager?” the General addressed him.
“Yes, Foreman Petrovich,” he extended his hand, hoping his tremor wasn’t too noticeable.
“Major General Morozov. We need to conduct a technical inspection of your territory.”
“Technical? What happened?”
But then one of the developer’s inspectors, Kruglov, who had run up right behind Petrovich, intervened:
“Excuse me, Comrade General, but this is private property. According to the contract with the client, access for third parties is only possible through official channels—a court order or written permission from the owner.”
“Young man,” the General turned to the inspector, “this concerns security matters.”
“I understand,” Kruglov remained calm. “But we have a restricted site. There may be commercial secrets that we cannot disclose. This does not compromise security, but it is our right.”
The General was about to retort sharply when his mobile phone rang. Looking at the screen, he frowned and walked over to his car.
“Hello?” he answered, climbing into the cabin and closing the door.
“Volodya, it’s Igor Semyonovich,” a calm voice sounded from the speaker. “Do I understand correctly that you are trying to force your way onto private property?”
“Semyonych, we have a serious situation. We lost two drones in the area of this site. We suspect…”
“Volodya,” the voice became even quieter, “be very careful. The general contractor of this site is the cousin of our boss. You know who I mean, right?”
General Morozov felt large drops of sweat run down his back. The Minister of Security—his direct superior. And he had almost tried to force his way onto the Minister’s cousin’s property.
“Igor Semyonych… I didn’t know…”
“Of course, you didn’t know. He never uses family connections. But right now, you need to act very delicately.”
“Understood. Thank you for the warning.”
The General ended the call and sat in the car for several minutes, collecting his thoughts. On one hand—real problems with the equipment. On the other—the Minister’s relative. A diplomatic solution had to be found.
Ten minutes later, the General returned to the gates with a completely different expression on his face.
“Petrovich, may I speak with you?” he politely requested. “In my car.”
The foreman warily walked to the “Mercedes.” The General invited him into the back seat—the cabin was soundproofed, so the conversation remained private.
“Listen,” Morozov began, “we do indeed have a secret facility in this area. Certain incidents have occurred with our equipment that I cannot disclose for security reasons. But these incidents may somehow concern your construction site.”
Petrovich nodded, trying to look understanding.
“We need to conduct a technical inspection of the territory,” the General continued. “Our engineers must confirm that the, ahem, malfunctions that occurred with our equipment are not related to your work.”
“Malfunctions?” Petrovich was alarmed.
“Technical malfunctions. The details are a military secret.”
The foreman felt his stomach clench with fear. If the military found anomalies here, the construction could be halted. And how would he explain to the general contractor that his project had attracted the attention of the military? They might have more authority than civilian inspectors.
On the other hand, he couldn’t refuse the military either. Especially if it concerned national security.
“Alright,” he said slowly. “But the inspection must be conducted with the general contractor’s inspectors present; I don’t have the necessary authority to accompany you. Please understand, we have… commercial secrets that we would prefer not to disclose, so the number of people must be extremely limited. We will also need names and signatures to make it legal. You will receive a copy.”
“Of course,” the General agreed. “We only need technical indicators.”
They returned to the gates, where all interested parties had gathered. Inspector Kruglov drew up a brief agreement to allow the military group access to the territory for a technical inspection. The document was signed by representatives of the military and the developer.
“My men will set up in the guest houses,” the General said, pointing to the soldiers. “And I and a few others will wait in your office while the engineers complete their work. However, you will have to wait about an hour for them to get here and begin working. I hope we are not inconveniencing you.”
“Excellent,” Petrovich nodded. He silently prayed that the forest would behave calmly for the next few hours. “Make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll show you what we have.”
At that moment, a low background hum drifted from somewhere deep within the territory—as if a powerful generator were working somewhere far away. The sound was barely audible, but everyone instinctively listened closely.
“What is that?” the General asked.
“It’s probably some machinery…” Petrovich replied uncertainly, although he knew perfectly well that all the machinery was currently parked.
The hum continued, slowly intensifying.
Chapter 23
The hum grew louder with every second, becoming increasingly palpable. Petrovich felt the hair on his arms begin to stir—as if static electricity was building up in the air. The General frowned, looking around for the source of the sound.
“That’s definitely not our machinery,” Petrovich said quietly, his voice tinged with alarm.
The soldiers instinctively grouped together, their rifles pointed toward the forest. But there was nothing to shoot at—the sound came from everywhere simultaneously.
The hum intensified so much that it was no longer just audible but almost physically palpable. It penetrated the chest, forcing the heart to beat in rhythm with an unknown cadence. Inspector Kruglov turned pale, nervously adjusting his glasses.
“Comrade General,” Major Sokolov approached, “maybe we should…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. From somewhere deep within the forest came a sound none of them had ever heard—but everyone instinctively understood its meaning. It was the sound of an approaching catastrophe.
First, the wind rose. Not an ordinary breeze, but a powerful gust that made the treetops sway with such force that it seemed an invisible hand was shaking the entire forest. Birds, which had been sitting calmly in the crowns, screeched as they broke from the branches and streamed away from the construction site.
“What the hell…” the General began, but the words froze in his throat.
Above the tree line, where the forest was especially dense, something unimaginable began to rise. At first, it was just a dark strip on the horizon. Then it began to grow—rapidly, relentlessly, terrifyingly.
A Wave.
A gigantic wall of water rose from behind the forest, reaching the clouds. Hundreds of meters high, perhaps a thousand. Petrovich had never seen a tsunami, but he instinctively knew—this was exactly what was capable of wiping all life off the face of the earth.
“Holy Mother…” one of the soldiers whispered, and his rifle dropped from his hands.
Captain Volkov fell to his knees, unable to tear his gaze away from the oncoming wall of water. A wet patch appeared on his trousers, but no one cared now—everyone knew that in a few minutes, they would all simply cease to exist.
The wave grew before their eyes. Now one could discern the movement of water within this monstrous mass—churning currents, frothing crests, tons of liquid ready to crash down and crush everything in its path.
“Oh God,” Inspector Kruglov whispered, crossing himself. “Lord, have mercy on us…”
Petrovich couldn’t move. He stood, head craned back, watching the approaching death. He had lived next to this place for a year and a half, seen many strange things, but THIS… this surpassed any fantasy.
General Morozov, a man who had been through two wars and had looked death in the face more than once, felt his knees buckle. His thirty years of military experience were utterly useless in the face of a phenomenon of this magnitude.
The roar of the approaching wave became deafening. The ground beneath their feet began to vibrate from the colossal mass of water. The wind intensified to a hurricane, tearing headwear from the people and forcing them to squint against dust and debris.
“This is the end,” Major Sokolov whispered, and there was no trace of military bearing in his voice. Only the terror of an ordinary man facing the inevitable.
The wave approached so closely that it blocked out half the sky. Now everyone could see individual streams of water, frothing crests, the chaotic movement within this giant mass. Only a few kilometers remained, perhaps seconds…
And suddenly, the wave began to disintegrate.
First, wisps of fog began to separate from its crest. Then massive sections of water started to lose density, turning into clouds. A moment more—and nothing remained of the monstrous wall but gray rain clouds, lazily drifting across the sky.
Not white. Not storm clouds. Just ordinary gray clouds, promising rain but not a storm.
The silence that followed the wave’s disappearance was deafening. No one dared to blink, lest they be mistaken about their own senses. Only the heavy breathing of the people and the distant rustling of leaves disturbed it.
Petrovich was the first to regain his composure. He looked around—everyone stood in the same poses in which they had met the wave. Some on their knees, some with hands raised to the sky, some crossing themselves. But no one tried to speak. Words simply did not exist to describe what they had just experienced.
Petrovich’s gaze lingered on the administrative assistant—the man stood white as snow, with wide-open eyes. “Well, smart guy,” the foreman smirked inwardly, “now try to explain that…”
The General slowly raised his head to the sky, where the gray clouds now drifted peacefully. His face was deathly pale.
“We’re pulling out,” he said hoarsely. “Immediately. Everyone into the vehicles.”
“Comrade General…” the Major began.
“Everyone into the vehicles!” Morozov roared, and a steely edge returned to his voice. “We are leaving. Right now.”
The military engineers, who had just arrived at the site, ran up to the gates. Their appearance showed they had been called in a hurry.
“Comrade General,” the senior lieutenant reported, “it’s possible this is the result of unusually high solar radiation. Or a solar flare. Atmospheric pressure could have created an optical effect…”
“A mirage,” another engineer chimed in. “Perhaps a tsunami is happening somewhere, but due to the atmospheric lens effect, we saw an event taking place on the other side of the world…”
“Yes,” the General agreed with relief, and he was ready to hug these engineers—now he wouldn’t have to justify himself to his superiors. “Atmospheric phenomena. Write in the report—we observed unusual cosmic phenomena that were most likely caused by solar activity. We’ll blame it all on nature!”
Petrovich listened to these explanations and understood—everyone was trying to find a rational explanation for what they had seen. Because the alternative was too terrifying to contemplate.
Fifteen minutes later, the military convoy was leaving the construction site. General Morozov did not look back once. He knew only one thing—he never wanted to come near this place again in his life.
And Petrovich stood by the gates, watching the departing vehicles. A strange feeling settled in his chest—a mixture of relief and anxiety. The military had left, but what would happen the next time someone tried to interfere with the affairs of this place?
Above his head, the gray clouds slowly thickened, promising an ordinary rain.
Chapter 24
Mikhail Ivanovich sat in his room, staring at a blank sheet of paper. Two notebooks lay before him—a service diary that any inspector could see, and a personal one that he hid in a small safe behind the wardrobe.
He picked up his pen, thought, and wrote in the service notebook: “November 15. The visit of the military delegation proceeded in an orderly manner. Personnel demonstrated discipline and composure when communicating with representatives of state bodies.”
He stopped. Reread it. Crossed it out. He tried again: “November 15. The planned technical inspection was completed without comments.”
Also untrue. Nothing was completed. Everything had just begun.
He closed the service diary and reached for his personal one. He opened it to a clean page and froze. How could he describe what they saw? How to find words for the impossible?
Mikhail Ivanovich remembered his grandfather—an old man who loved riddles and crossword puzzles. On summer evenings, they would sit on the porch of the village house, and his grandfather would tell his grandson entertaining puzzles. “Every riddle has an answer, Mishenka,” he used to say. “You just have to look at it the right way.”
But what “right way” could there be to look at a wall of water a kilometer high that simply vanished, turning into clouds?
He began to write: “Today an event occurred that…” He stopped. Crossed it out. He tried again: “For the first time in my life, I witnessed…” Crossed it out again.
The page was covered with smudges and crossings-out. Mikhail Ivanovich crumpled the sheet in frustration and threw it into the basket. He took a new sheet. Failed again.
After the seventh attempt, he slammed the diary shut and put it in the safe. Some things are simply impossible to write down.
Outside, work was buzzing. After yesterday’s shock, everyone seemed intent on returning to normal life through familiar routine.
Three trucks with the sign “Asphalt Concrete” drove up to the main gates. The drivers began unloading bags of asphalt mix—the parking lot in front of the main entrance was scheduled to be paved soon. Petrovich walked among the workers, checking the quality of the material.
“Is the temperature normal?” he asked the paving foreman.
“Everything is according to GOST [State Standard],” the man nodded. “We’ll be finished by evening.”
The zoo was also lively. Workers were stretching nets in the enclosures and installing interior decorations—artificial rocks, pools, and animal houses. Igor Semyonovich personally checked every mesh cell for defects.
“Will there be enough room for the bear?” he asked the zootechnician.
“The enclosure is twice the minimum standard,” the specialist assured him. “The animal will feel comfortable.”
On the forest routes, a group of workers was installing signposts. The walking paths received wooden plaques with numbers and route lengths. The roads for SUVs were equipped with more serious signs—indicating the difficulty of the path and safety warnings.
“’Route 3A – High Difficulty, 8 km,’” Anton read from one sign. “Sounds like mountain climbing.”
“Well, it sounds fine,” Petrovich agreed. “People like to feel like pioneers.”
Closer to lunchtime, a huge mobile crane drove onto the territory—a 50-ton monster on eight wheels. Petrovich met it at the gates with poorly concealed relief.
“Finally,” he muttered. “I thought that problem would stick around until the end of construction.”
The crane operator—an experienced man in his fifties—inspected the spot where the tractor was stuck.
“So, the roots are holding it?” he asked, examining the situation.
“They’re not just holding it; they’re latched on tight,” Petrovich explained. “We tried the winch—it wouldn’t budge.”
“Fifty tons of pull is enough for any roots,” the crane operator declared confidently. “We’ll see about that now.”
The operation to extract the tractor drew many onlookers. Everyone understood—this was the last “sore point” of the construction. If the machine could be pulled out, it meant they had overcome all the technical problems.
The crane was set up, the tractor was hooked with cables, and the lift began slowly. At first, nothing happened—the roots held fast. Then a crack was heard, and the tractor slowly began to rise, tearing free from its earthy prison.
“Got it!” someone shouted from the workers.
When the tractor was finally free, everyone saw that a whole tangle of thick roots had clung to its tracks and undercarriage—as if the tree didn’t want to let go of its prey.
“Never seen anything like it,” the crane operator shook his head. “The roots are like ropes—strong and flexible at the same time.”
Petrovich looked at the extracted machine and thought that this was, perhaps, the last victory of man over the strangeness of this place. Or perhaps the place simply allowed them to win this small battle. Most importantly, the cables survived and could be returned to Igor’s warehouse.
In the evening, Petrovich received a letter from the general contractor. After reading it, he felt mixed emotions.
“Kirill Petrovich,” the developer wrote, “I am aware of the visit of the military delegation to the site. The inspectors reported that the situation was resolved without complications; the technical inspection proceeded in the usual manner. The details do not interest me—I trust your professionalism.
In connection with the project entering the final stretch, a decision has been made to rotate the teams. The landscaping work is complete, so Semyon Vasilievich’s team is being transferred to a new site in the Moscow region.
Replacing them on November 18 is a team of technical specialists led by Alexey Fyodorovich Kirilov. Their task is to equip the complex with modern electronics: video surveillance systems, sensory sensors, Wi-Fi coverage, and smart automation. The site must meet the standards of a high-tech hotel.
Please ensure Kirilov’s team has the necessary conditions for work. The planned completion date for all work is December 15.
Sincerely, I.V. Gromov”
Petrovich slowly folded the letter and sighed deeply. On one hand, it was good—the developer wasn’t digging into the details of the military visit. On the other hand…
He remembered all the technical problems they had: the burning-out bulbs, the glitching instruments, the self-driving machinery. And now a whole arsenal of high-tech electronics was being brought here—sensors, cameras, computers, routers.
If a bulldozer worked wonders here, what would happen with smart systems?
Petrovich sighed again, this time even deeper. Somehow, he was certain—their problems were only just beginning.
Chapter 25
A week passed after the military visit, and the construction site buzzed like a stirred beehive. Work was in full swing—everyone was eager to make up time and prepare for the final stage.
The paving of the parking lot was completed in two days. The smooth black surface, marked with parking spots, looked very solid. Petrovich walked across the new asphalt several times, checking the quality.
“Good work,” he approved the paving foreman. “Flat, no potholes.”
“The material turned out to be high-quality,” the man replied. “And the weather helped—no rain. We were lucky with the location too—there are a lot of roots underground here; they reinforced the foundation perfectly. We didn’t have to reinforce the base additionally ourselves.” He slapped the asphalt with his foot. “But the roots are all dead, so no problems are foreseen.”
Petrovich felt drops of sweat trickle down his back. “Dead roots”? After everything they had experienced with the local vegetation, that phrase sounded especially ominous. He couldn’t imagine what “dead” roots meant in this place.
In the zoo, workers were completing the installation of the last elements. All enclosures were ready—with sturdy nets, comfortable animal houses, feeding and watering systems, as well as signs, and installations with information posters about the animals in each enclosure, including video surveillance. Igor Semyonovich personally checked every latch and lock.
Signposts were also installed on all routes. The forest paths now look like genuine tourist trails—with numbers, descriptions of difficulty, and length. The roads for off-road vehicles received more serious warning signs.
“’Caution! Difficult Section. Proceed at Your Own Risk,’” Anton read from one sign. “Tourists will be thrilled.” He was particularly impressed by the vending machines with water bottles, which would help travelers avoid dehydration on the route.
The most interesting part began with the arrival of the IT team. Alexey Fyodorovich Kirilov, the head of the group, turned out to be an energetic man in his forties who spoke quickly and gestured a lot.
“The video surveillance system will be first-class,” he explained to Petrovich. “Sixty-four high-resolution cameras, a central control panel, recording to redundant servers. Everything as in the best European hotels. The software is imported, but there are no problems with licenses; the connection for each camera is paid for according to the software standard.”
Over three days, technicians hung cameras across the entire territory, and set up and configured equipment in the administrative building—the control center with large monitors on the wall. More people were running around the site with laptops and cool gadgets. Alexey Fyodorovich personally checked every element of the system.
But when it was time for the final testing, nuances began to emerge.
“Something’s wrong here,” the chief engineer muttered, looking at the monitors. “Camera 12—’Main Entrance’ is showing the forest. Camera 3—’Bear Enclosure’ is broadcasting the parking lot.”
He pulled out a list and began cross-referencing the channels. Half the cameras weren’t showing what they should have been.
“Technicians!” he yelled. “You mixed up the IP addresses during configuration! Fix it!”
A large group of young specialists began reconfiguring the system. The chief engineer flipped through the blocks of cameras distributed by sections—the territory was divided into zones, and several people worked in each. The technicians were confident—it was standard procedure; so what if the addresses got mixed up?
An hour later, Alexey Fyodorovich turned on the monitors again and nearly fell out of his chair.
Now even entire sections were mixed up between zones in the system. Several cameras had tilted to the side, shifting the focus of the image. The engineer didn’t know it, but this was happening precisely in the part of the hotel where the lighting problems had occurred earlier.
“What the hell?!” the engineer exploded. “They hire students, and then I have to clean up their mess!”
These words might have embarrassed the technicians, but they weren’t offended—the problem was real, and everyone needed to solve it.
“Maybe there’s a problem with the server?” one of the technicians suggested.
“What problems?! The system is brand new, just out of the box! American-made! The warranty is not just an empty word, you know!”
Alexey Fyodorovich paced the room, checking cables, servers, and settings. They had only a week to complete the work, and the system was behaving like a computer from a horror movie.
“That’s it,” he said decisively by lunchtime. “Forget the automation. We’ll configure every camera manually. One by one. And send a team to the server room to double-check the cable markings and slots!”
The technicians sighed—this meant long, painstaking work. One of them quietly suggested stocking up on food, as the engineer wouldn’t let them have a proper lunch until the system was completely fixed.
By evening, after three additional hours of work “without a lunch break,” the system finally worked as it should. Every camera showed exactly what it was supposed to show.
“This has never happened before, and here we are again,” Alexey Fyodorovich confessed to Petrovich. “Twenty years in IT, and I’ve never run into anything like this.” He gazed into the flashing monitors with the connected cameras when he suddenly felt that someone on the other side of the screens was looking back at him. “I think it’s time to take a break before I completely ‘crash.’”
Petrovich later heard this story and could only nod. He would have told the IT specialist many interesting things about the local equipment, but decided not to scare the man.
The following days passed surprisingly calmly. Inspectors from the Sanitary and Epidemiological Service arrived—they checked the air, water, radiation levels, and electromagnetic radiation. Everything was within the norm.
Fire safety inspectors tested the alarms and the fire suppression system. There were no comments.
Electrical safety specialists measured insulation resistance, checked grounding, and tested protective devices. Everything met the standards.
Petrovich walked behind the inspectors and couldn’t believe his eyes. For a year and a half, he had expected trouble at every turn, prepared for new strange things and technical failures. And now everything was working perfectly.
“The site is ready for operation,” concluded the chief inspector of the SES. “You will receive the certificate tomorrow.”
“Seriously?” Petrovich asked again, swallowing hard. “No comments?”
“What should be wrong?” the inspector was surprised. “Everything here is done according to GOST and even better.”
When the last inspector left, Petrovich remained standing in the middle of the construction site, surveying the finished complex. Three residential buildings, the central building, the zoo, the amusement park, paved roads, and paths. Everything was ready.
He had a feeling that the place was deliberately behaving exemplary, waiting for something. The calm before the storm. As if someone had hidden a knife behind their back, intending to use it when he finally relaxed.
In the evening, Petrovich sat down at the computer and wrote a letter to the general contractor:
“Igor Viktorovich!
I am pleased to report that all necessary certificates and permits have been obtained. I enclose digital copies of documents from the Sanitary and Epidemiological Service, the fire department, the energy inspectorate, and other regulatory bodies. All documents have been prepared for the main server and should be duplicated in the backup storage according to the security protocol.
The animal enclosures are completely ready and meet all maintenance requirements. We are ready to accept the animals with GPS-microchips as per the list.
The video surveillance system is configured and operating normally. All cameras are functioning correctly.
The site is ready to move to the next stage.
Sincerely, K.P. Petrovich”
After sending the letter, he leaned back in his chair and sighed deeply. For the first time in a year and a half, he could write a report that contained no ambiguity, no cover-up of problems. He was surprised at himself: you did everything they asked of you, yet you don’t feel satisfied, why? This somehow made him wary. Things had been going too smoothly lately. Too long had it been smooth.
Chapter 26
The last two weeks flew by like a single day. Construction crews left the site one by one, handing over operations to the hotel’s new staff. Administrators, maids, chefs, and security guards arrived—people who were tasked with turning the construction site into an operating resort.
Petrovich walked the grounds with a thick folder of documents, handing over keys, demonstrating systems, and explaining equipment peculiarities. The hotel manager, Sergey Vladimirovich Komarov, turned out to be a businesslike middle-aged man who carefully noted every detail.
“The video surveillance system is operating normally,” Petrovich explained, showing the control room. “Sixty-four cameras cover the entire area of the main administrative building; 55 hidden cameras control the animals in the enclosures; here is the list of all zones and the security camera deployment plan; please pass this on to the guards. The control room is located in the administrative building’s basement; guests do not have access.”
“Excellent,” Komarov nodded, checking the monitors. “And have the animals arrived yet?”
“Tomorrow morning. All equipped with GPS-microchips; tracking is done right here.” Petrovich pointed to a separate monitor with a map of the territory. “Every animal is visible in real-time.”
In the zoo, zootechnicians bustled about, preparing the enclosures for occupancy. Feeding and watering systems were tested several times. Information stands with animal descriptions were installed at each enclosure.
Telephone communication worked flawlessly—all rooms, service areas, and control points throughout the hotel territory were connected to a single PABX. Wi-Fi covered the entire hotel area. Fire safety and alarm systems were functioning in automatic mode.
“Impressive,” Komarov admitted, inspecting the central building. “The level of a European hotel. When do you plan to welcome the first guests?”
“That’s no longer my area of responsibility,” Petrovich smiled. “We built it; now it’s your turn to manage it.”
At that moment, voices emanated from the loudspeakers—one of the technicians was testing the speakers in one coverage zone after another, ensuring that important announcements would be audible in all corners of the hotel, specific sections, and designated areas.
By evening, the site was almost deserted. Most of the construction equipment had been removed, and the last crews were loading tools into their vehicles. Petrovich stood in his office, looking out the window at the completed complex.
A year and a half of his life. Three residential buildings, an administrative building, a zoo, an amusement park, miles of paths and trails. Everything was working, everything was ready to receive… ahem. He wanted to think of the word “visitors,” but the word “victims” kept spinning in his head.
There was a knock on the door. Igor Semyonovich walked in with two glasses and the bottle of cognac.
“Care for a parting drink?” he offered. “For tradition.”
Petrovich nodded. They sat opposite each other at the small table.
“You know,” Igor began, pouring the cognac, “it’s a strange thing. I hate this place with all my heart, but at the same time…” He paused, choosing his words. “It’s like I’m sad to leave.”
“I know,” Petrovich agreed. “A year and a half here. After everything we’ve been through… Do you think we’ll be able to return to normal life?”
Igor drank his cognac, thoughtfully swirling the glass in his hands.
“Sometimes I think—what if the next construction site has nothing special? Just ordinary people, ordinary problems, ordinary equipment. Won’t it seem… boring?”
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Petrovich shook his head. “After all those nightmares, you still want adventure?”
“I don’t,” Igor sighed. “But we’ve changed, Kirill. We’ve seen things… We know there are things in the world that no science can explain. And now we have to live among people who don’t even suspect it.”
Petrovich finished his cognac and poured another.
“You know, I sometimes think—shouldn’t I write a book about all this?” Igor continued. “Let them not believe me. I don’t care. I know it was true.”
“What is the truth? The price of truth? I’m afraid of losing my job if I start blabbing,” Petrovich confessed. “Imagine—I go to a new site, and they ask: ‘Kirill Petrovich, tell us about your previous work experience.’ And what do I say? That for a year and a half, I fought man-eating roots and ghostly tractors?”
Igor chuckled:
“They’ll send you to a specialist if you do. And you still need to feed your family somehow.”
“Exactly,” Petrovich nodded. “I hope we don’t meet in the asylum one day.”
An awkward pause ensued. Both understood that this prospect was not so fantastical. Then they looked at each other and burst into laughter—first quietly, then louder and louder, until they were roaring with heartfelt laughter.
“Well,” Igor said, wiping his tears, “shall we go home before we completely lose our minds?”
“Just don’t jinx it,” Petrovich agreed.
They left the office and saw that the sky was covered with heavy clouds. The air smelled of rain.
“We might get caught in the downpour,” Igor worried, looking at the sky.
A small convoy of vehicles had already approached the main gates—the last workers and equipment were leaving the site. Petrovich and Igor got into the lead car. The workers took their places in the buses.
Just as the convoy finally moved out, the rain began. First, scattered drops, then it got stronger. The drivers were nervous—the roads here were not paved, and heavy rain could cause problems.
“The main thing is not to get stuck in the mud,” the driver of their car muttered. “It would be a shame after a project like this.”
But a few kilometers later, everyone saw something incredible.
The rain poured down on both sides of the road—a deafening downpour, a veritable wall of water. The storm raged to their right and left. But the road itself remained absolutely dry.
The convoy drove as if through a tunnel between two waterfalls. It felt like they were moving under an invisible dome that protected them from the bad weather.
“What the…” the driver started, but didn’t finish the phrase.
Petrovich and Igor silently watched this miracle. After a year and a half, they were no longer surprised by anything. The place was seeing them off, as it sees off unwanted guests. Politely, but unequivocally. But with a certain shade of gratitude.
“Well then,” Igor said softly, “it seems they really don’t need us anymore…”
“Looks that way…” Petrovich agreed.
The convoy continued along the dry road between walls of rain, carrying away the people who had witnessed the impossible for a year and a half. And behind them, hidden by a curtain of rain, the forest hotel, built on the border of two realities, prepared for the next stage of its existence.
The era of construction had ended. The era of guests was beginning.
Chapter 27
There are things, events, actions, and objects that one can attempt to describe with words, but all of it will be a lie, for it will not correspond to the truth. What is truth? Is it what we hear with our ears or what our eyes see? Or perhaps how the brain deciphers data from different sources?
Nature is a riddle. We have lived in its embrace for thousands of years, yet we still haven’t been able to assemble a single puzzle piece of its mysteries. We are observers, not operators. Can we go against the will of the environment in which we live? Won’t that be like an audience protesting in a cinema and demanding the plot be changed while watching a movie?
What is a monster? Is it something tangible that can be described with words, or something that can hide in plain sight, yet you are unable to see or hear it? It walks beside you, but you only hear the sound of footsteps. It spreads its wings, but you only hear a gust of wind shaking the treetops. It speaks to you, and you only see nightmares, praying to live until the next morning.
How do you hear one who does not speak? How do you see that which can take away your sanity? How do you control that which controls you? How do you convince yourself that there is an endless deception, like staring into the abyss hoping to see the light?
What is freedom? The realization of the boundaries of the possible? But who set those boundaries, and can they be moved or destroyed? And what if those boundaries are the only line between normal and insane? It might turn out that in our attempt to understand what we shouldn’t, we will open Pandora’s Box. Knowledge is a virus; it breeds understanding and desire. Once you know, you will continue to think about it until you commit something you never even considered or perhaps even condemned before.
They left the madness, but the madness did not leave them. For a year and a half, they lived in an environment where the very principle of reality was questioned every day. They suppressed their true feelings within themselves for too long. Each of them learned to be silent when they should have screamed, to smile when they wanted to run, to work when reason demanded they stop.
They left, but each carried their own personal cage from that place. They left a piece of themselves there, but the madness also left its mark on their souls. Now they will live in the ordinary world, where people do not suspect the existence of the impossible. They will work alongside those who have never heard the whisper of roots or seen machinery gain a will of its own.
How do you explain true fear to colleagues? How do you describe the feeling of the presence of something enormous and alien, watching you every second? How do you tell them that the line between the possible and the impossible turned out to be much thinner than anyone could have assumed?
They became carriers of an experience that cannot be conveyed in words. Witnesses to events that no one will believe. Keepers of a secret that will corrode them from within until the end of their days.
In attempting to write this report, I was guided by logic and memory, as well as professional experience. Nevertheless, these three pillars of my certainty, which always gave meaning to my life, faltered before what I had experienced. We did not see anything that went beyond the bounds of reason. Just some natural anomalies, some technical failures. Some human errors. In isolation, they mean nothing; we can see them every day without noticing or attaching significance to them. However, when you notice a pattern of thought, a design, through the observation of coincidences, everything else simply pales in comparison to any conspiracy theories.
Because a conspiracy presupposes human motives, human goals, human methods. And what we encountered was beyond human comprehension.
We were not witnesses to anomalies. We were objects of study.
Mikhail Ivanovich Gromov
Psychiatrist of the Highest Category
Candidate of Medical Sciences
Assistant to the Chief Foreman for Administrative Matters
“Forest Hotel” Site
December 15, 2024
The “Forest Hotel” will return in the second arc.
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