Private's Notes (III)

Private's Notes (III)

To... Well, I don't know who I can even write to. Maybe I should address this to myself. To prove that — before this land and its abominations consumed me utterly — my pitiful, fragile mind was, for a moment, still my own. My name is Pyotr Dmitriyevich Orlov. I hail from the 6th Company, deployed to Nod-Krai in service to Snezhnaya and our Tsaritsa. I am the second son of Dmitriy Sergeyevich Orlov and Yevfrosinya Ivanovna Orlova. I am unashamed of my birth. Our entire company was wiped out here. Only Private E. Smirnova escaped the gorge at the cost of Fourrier A. Volkov's life to send the Design Bureau a distress call from dead men and women. If you find this piece of paper, please hand it to my superiors. Inform them that Private Smirnova was no deserter — nor was she complicit in the calamity that befell us here. A. Z. Karnatsky and V. A. Preobrazhensky... it was their dastardly experiments that birthed the catastrophe here. They are dead. May Her Majesty curse their deaths — may they never rest in the pure snowfields. I don't know what blasphemy they committed, nor do I wish to. That... "color" devoured everything. There's nothing left. Nothing at all. They were inside those damned rocks at first. Those detestable rocks. Those detestable rocks that fell from the moon. Karnatsky and Preobrazhensky awoke them, each in turn... (This is followed by a dozen or so counts of barely legible and base vulgarities.) I don't know what they want. They are coming. Dearest Paraskeviya, my Parashka, please forgive your big brother. Your Majesty, forgive me in all things... They are coming. Save me. They are coming. I don't want to die I don't want to die Idontwanttodieidontwanttodiedontwanttodiedontwanttodiedontwantto