Midnight voices. Shouts in the streets. The rush of feet on concrete. Screeching tires. Scraping sounds. People running underground. Heavy percussions. Rhythms and waves. Some close. Some far. Children with empty eyes. Mothers with sad faces. Fathers’ faces hardened in the night. Yellowed teeth. Bloodshot eyes. Days without sleep. Running like rabbits. From hole to hole. Hiding from the hounds. Howls tear through the night. Hunting rabbits. Voices cackle in the villages. No one is safe. Nowhere is safe. The hounds keep coming and coming. Hungry for rabbit. Hungry for blood. Hungry for the hunt. Waves of flesh pound the earth. Rotten forms fall. Sicker ones still stand. No one deserts the High Command. Hounds that flee hit the ground. No more laughter. No more sounds. No more hunts. No more howls.
Hounds bark. War dogs bite.
Burning village. Lungs full of smoke. Nostrils full of chemicals. Smell of sulfur. Scent of Satan. Pagan forms filter through the haze. Checking the dead. Shooting the living. Looting the corpses. Gold teeth. Mother’s silver. Half-empty flasks. Rusty liquor. Dulling the pain. Dulling the hate. Dulling the mind. More wallets and jewels. More fruitful loot from fruiting bodies. Desecrated desserts from desiccated dead. Orders on radios. Static warping. Apocalyptic voices. Boots moving out. Haze clearing. Eerie quiet. No more voices. No more life. Just another dead town. Under a rising sun. Shadows of ruins. Blasted-out silhouettes. Echoes of lost hope. Faith and regrets. Crows defile the dead. Stray dogs feast. Rats devour what remains. Mewling kittens. Abandoned in the dark. Hungry and cold. No one remembers. Another feast for worms. Another meal for maggots. Tooth and claw rule a hungry world.
Unlike worms and maggots, Russians waste the dead.
Sunlight fades. Moonlight shimmers. Spirits dance in the dark.
The Domovyky mourn their kin. Spirits of hearth and home. Shattered and homeless. Shedding tears. Tearing out hair. Wailing over their defiled children. Who will bury the dead? They wonder. Who will remember their names? They cry. Who will visit their graves? They moan. Who will honor their remains? They sigh. Who will offer them food and flowers? They weep. Who will save their sorry souls? They wail. Who will light candles for them in the dark? They lament. Who will save their bodies from the rats? They torment. The Domovyky shiver and shake. Quake and quiver. Clawing their faces. Gouging their eyes out. Offerings of blood. Offerings of hate.
So they no longer have to see the children.
So they no longer have to see the rats.
Blood pours. Flesh rots. Earth absorbs. Suns rise and set. Seasons turn. World keeps on spinning. Time keeps on ticking. Flowers bloom from rotten earth. Brimming with life and love for the sun. Sunflowers tower above the fields. Golden wheat ready to reap. Sweet corn heavy on the stalk. Cherries and apples and apricots fall. Lusty trees. Overripe and busty with life. Vegetables pour into the markets. Villages marred by war. Verdant vines and green life. Cover the scars. Tragedy turns to history. Life lingers on. People forget. Names and places. Seasons lost. Sacrifices made. Soon we can’t even remember their names.
But the Domovyky never forget their faces.
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