Chapter-6 The Gunman's Shadow (A Chapter from the book "The Gray Horde")

 CHAPTER 6: THE GUNMAN'S SHADOW

The monsoons had turned Veraopur's streets into rivers of black ink when Kahlil received the report. His contact inside the CBI—a gaunt, hollow-eyed clerk who sold secrets for morphine—had whispered the name over static-filled phone lines:

"They're calling him The Gunman."

Kahlil's polished Oxfords clicked against the marble floor of Hamir's war room as he paced past the evidence boards. Black-and-white CCTV stills showed blurred figures near Edwin's assassination site. Grainy, useless—except for one frame. A man's silhouette, half-turned from the camera, the outline of a long coat, and the unmistakable angular bulge of a rifle slung across his back.

"Ex-military," murmured Vasily, the Serbian mercenary hunched over the images. His tattooed fingers traced the posture. "See the shoulders? Only trained men carry weight like that."

Kahlil's network of spies—embedded in police stations, hospitals, even the coroner's office—had spent three sleepless nights cross-referencing disgruntled ex-soldiers. The list narrowed to fourteen names. Then to six. Then to one.

Ratan Raj.

Discharged two years ago after the border skirmishes. Expert marksman. Reported missing by his sister last month. The address led them to a crumbling tenement in the old textile district, its stairwell reeking of urine and stale opium.

Kahlil kicked in the door with the barrel of his suppressed HK45.

The apartment was a tomb.

Neatly made bed. A single photograph of Raj in uniform on the nightstand. And in the center of the room, Raj himself—slumped in a wooden chair, hands bound behind him with military-grade zip ties. The bullet hole between his eyebrows still glistened. Fresh. Very fresh.

"He was waiting for us," Vasily growled, nudging the corpse's knee. A spent shell casing rolled from the man's lap—7.62mm. Soviet. "Professional courtesy."

Kahlil crouched, examining the dead man's fingers. No gunpowder residue. "He didn't fire this."

From the shadows near the bathroom, a child's voice piped up:

"The tall man did."

A boy of no more than eight stood barefoot in pajamas, clutching a rusted toy truck. "He gave Uncle tea. Then... pop." The child mimed a pistol with his fingers.

Kahlil's stomach iced over. "What tall man?"

The boy shrugged. "Smiled like the bad men in movies."

As if on cue, the apartment's lone lightbulb flickered. The boy vanished into the hallway shadows. Outside, thunder cracked like a second gunshot.

Vasily exhaled through his nose. "The Gunman knew we'd come."

Kahlil stared at Raj's lifeless eyes. Worse—he'd left them a message.

Tucked in the dead man's breast pocket: a playing card. The Ace of Spades.

The jungle breathed.

Kahlil stood frozen as Vasily’s body collapsed behind him, the rifle’s thunder rolling through the mist-shrouded trees. Warm blood sprayed across his neck before he heard the shot—a sniper’s trick, the bullet traveling faster than sound. The round had punched through Vasily’s forehead with clinical precision, leaving a fist-sized exit wound that painted the ferns crimson. The Gunman wasn’t just still here. He was toying with them.

Six hours earlier, the war room had been thick with the scent of expensive cigars and fear. Satellite images of Veraopur’s northern jungle glowed on the screens, that emerald hell where the second suspect—an ex-Special Forces sniper—had vanished. “He’s not running,” Hamir had purred from his leather chair, swirling amaretto in a crystal glass. “Men like this don’t run. They reload.” The ice in his drink had clinked like a countdown.

Now, under the jungle’s suffocating canopy, Kahlil’s men scrambled for cover that didn’t exist. The drone footage had shown them everything and nothing—five abandoned trekker camps with tents flapping like ragged ghosts, bootprints swallowed by mud, and finally, the bunker: a concrete tomb half-buried in the earth, its rusted door grinning at them. Then static. The Gunman had shot their $2 million surveillance drone from the sky like it was a clay pigeon.

They’d come in Jeeps, fanning out through the jungle to converge two hundred meters behind the bunker. Too confident. Too loud. Kahlil’s Italian loafers sank into the rotting vegetation as they advanced, the stench of cordite and wet earth choking them. The bunker loomed ahead, its open door a black joke.

“He’s gone,” muttered the mercenary to Kahlil’s left, sweat glistening on his shaved scalp. “Saw the drone and—”

The shot took him mid-sentence.

This time Kahlil saw it—a flicker of movement 300 meters east, sunlight winking off glass. The Gunman wasn’t in the bunker at all. He’d been waiting in the trees the whole time, watching them walk into his kill zone.

As his men’s screams filled the air, Kahlil understood with icy clarity:

They weren’t the hunters anymore.

They were the prey.

The explosion tore through the jungle like a thunderclap. One moment the Jeep was reversing through the ferns—the next, a perfect shot to its fuel tank turned it into a fireball, the concussive blast sending Kahlil sprawling behind a moss-covered boulder. Shrapnel whined through the air as the realization struck him: this was no ordinary sniper. No military-trained marksman wasted ammunition on vehicles when personnel were available. And the precision—God, the precision—to hit a moving target at this range without zeroing in first? This was something else. Something worse.

The jungle had gone eerily quiet. No traps. No mines. Just the occasional crack of a high-caliber round finding another skull. The Gunman wasn’t just killing them—he was hunting them. Personally.

Kahlil pressed his back against the boulder, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Most of his squad had melted into the green hell, their retreating footsteps swallowed by the undergrowth. Alone. He was alone.

”Oh, Lord—“

The bullet came so close he felt its heat. It sheared off his right ear in a spray of blood and cartilage before he even heard the shot. Pain exploded through his skull, white-hot and nauseating. He collapsed, biting back a scream that would have given away his position, his fingers clawing at the damp earth as blood poured down his neck.

Training took over.

Gritting his teeth, Kahlil dragged himself beneath the gnarled roots of a kapok tree. His vision swam as he grabbed a fallen comrade’s AK-47, its stock slick with rain and sweat. The first aid kit came next—field dressings torn open with his teeth, a tourniquet cinched around his ruined ear, painkillers dry-swallowed. His hands shook as he keyed the walkie-talkie, voice barely above a whisper.

”All units... converge on my position. Bring snipers. He’s still—“ A pause. A bloody cough. ”He’s still here.”

Then he began to dig.

The trench took forty minutes—a shallow, body-length scrape in the earth, just deep enough to bury himself up to the chest. He packed mud around his legs for stability, slapped a helmet over his bleeding head, and braced the AK-47 against the roots. No more Italian leather. No more vanity. Just the waiting.

Five hours passed.

The jungle breathed around him, its chorus of insects and birds taunting his paralysis. Every rustle of leaves sent his finger to the trigger. Every shadow seemed to shift.

Then—

A sound. Deliberate. Close.

Kahlil swung the rifle toward the noise just as the grenade arced into his trench.

”Grenade!”

Instinct hurled him clear before his brain registered the truth—it was a dummy. A fucking training grenade. His own scream echoed back at him, raw and humiliating.

The Gunman stepped from the foliage like a ghost materializing.

The punch came faster than thought. Kahlil’s head snapped back, his spine slamming into the kapok’s roots. Through the ringing in his ears, he heard the click-clack of his AK being dismantled with methodical precision.

”Soldier.” The voice was a graveled whisper, close enough to taste the mint on the man’s breath. ”Get up.”

Kahlil’s knife flashed from his boot—a last, desperate lunge.

The Gunman caught his wrist mid-thrust, twisted, and drove a fist into Kahlil’s sternum hard enough to lift him off the ground. He landed in a heap, ribs screaming, as the shadowy figure loomed over him.

”You’ve got skill, boy,” the Gunman chuckled. The jungle’s dappled light glinted off the matte-black half-mask covering his nose and mouth. His eyes were voids. ”Your reinforcements coming to get me?”

Kahlil spat blood. ”To put you down.”

”They’ll need better toys.” The Gunman tilted his head, long hair swaying like a pendulum. ”Tell your Hammir... next time, he comes himself.”

He turned to leave.

Kahlil launched again—a wild, pain-blinded tackle.

The counterstrike was inhuman. A single open-palm strike to the chest sent Kahlil flying backward, his body crumpling against the kapok like a broken doll. By the time his vision cleared, the jungle had swallowed the Gunman whole.

Only the Ace of Spades remained, impaled on a branch where no card had been before.

Chapter-5 Dawn of a lover (a chapter from the book -"The Gray Horde")

 Chapter 5

Dawn of a lover

The CBI lawn lay in ruins—scorched earth, shattered glass, and the metallic tang of blood hanging thick in the rain-soaked air. Five protesters and two officers lay motionless under tarps, their outlines barely visible through the downpour. Ambulance lights pulsed like a failing heartbeat, casting eerie reflections on the puddles gathering around their boots.

Antonio stood frozen, rainwater mingling with the tears streaking his cheeks. His breath came in shallow gasps, fingers trembling at his sides. Beside him, Vanya surveyed the carnage with detached indifference, her posture rigid, her eyes dry.

An armored van idled nearby, its engine growling like a caged beast. They climbed inside, the heavy doors slamming shut behind them, sealing them in muted silence. The vehicle lurched forward, carrying them toward temporary sanctuary at the army base.

Antonio wiped his face with his sleeve, then turned to Vanya, his voice low but urgent.

”Vanya... last night, I went back to the bunker.”

She didn’t look at him, her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window. ”Hmm.”

”It was worse than we thought,” he continued, his words spilling out in a hushed rush. ”They weren’t just records—they were experiments. On children. Orphans. Most of them didn’t survive, but some... some got out.”

Vanya exhaled sharply, finally glancing at him with a flicker of something—annoyance? Disinterest? ”And?”

”And—don’t you see? This connects to everything. The killings, the protests—“

”God, Antonio,” she snapped, rubbing her temples. ”Not now. I have a splitting headache.”

His shoulders slumped. ”I just thought... you’d want to know.”

Silence settled between them, the van’s tires humming against the wet asphalt. After a long moment, Antonio shifted closer, his voice barely above a whisper.

”What about... what I asked you?”

Vanya’s jaw tightened. She didn’t pull away, but her voice was ice. ”I told you. It’s a yes. Just not now.”

Antonio’s breath caught—hope and heartbreak warring in his chest. He searched her face for any sign of warmth, any flicker of truth behind her words.

But Vanya had already turned back to the window, her reflection a ghost in the glass.

The armored van rumbled through the storm-lashed streets, but Antonio had already retreated—into the hollowed-out caverns of his own mind.

What do I lack?

The question pulsed in his skull, a second heartbeat of shame. Outside, rain blurred the world into streaks of gray, but inside him, the images burned sharp and cruel:

Vanya laughing with Commissioner Roy in the break room, her fingers lingering on his sleeve.

Vanya slipping into a taxi with that banker last winter, her breath visible in the cold as she leaned in too close.

Vanya, always Vanya, giving so easily to men who demanded nothing—while he poured out his devotion like an offering at a shrine no one visited.

Is it the face? His fingers twitched toward his jawline—too sharp, too severe. The money? He thought of his cramped apartment, the peeling paint, the second-hand shoes.

A spasm of pain lanced through his chest, so visceral he almost gasped. She’s with someone right now. The certainty of it was a knife twist. Some faceless man running hands over the skin Antonio had only ever dreamed of touching.

Antonio turned to the window, his reflection a ghost over the bleeding city.

”You okay?” Vanya asked, not looking up.

”Just tired,” he lied.

She hummed, already bored. ”Sleep, then.”

But sleep required peace. And peace required forgetting.

Antonio kept his eyes open, staring at the rain until it washed everything away.

The Panjim police station ceiling fan groaned under the weight of the coastal humidity as Nasir burst through the doors, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. His eyes—red-rimmed and swollen—scanned the room with the frantic energy of a man clinging to the last frayed thread of hope.

”My wife—Selema—she’s gone,” he choked out, slamming his palms on the duty officer’s desk. ”Two days. No note. No calls. Her purse is still in the house.”

The constable behind the typewriter didn’t look up. ”Fight with husband?” he droned, fingers hovering over the keys.

”Never!” Nasir’s voice cracked. ”We were happy. She was... she was everything.” His wedding band caught the fluorescent light as he gripped the counter—still polished to a shine after twelve years.

Across the room, Inspector Rao sighed and reached for the FIR booklet. The pages stuck together with monsoon damp as he wrote ”Housewife missing (suspected elopement)” in lazy blue ink.

”We will check brothels first,” Rao announced, watching Nasir flinch. ”Many good women go there for secret life.”

Nasir’s knees buckled. ”You don’t understand—“

”Sign here.” Rao slid the form forward, already reaching for his stamp. ”We find her. One week.”

Outside, a street vendor fried fish in coconut oil, the scent mixing with the station’s mildew and sweat. Nasir stumbled into the sunlight, clutching the FIR copy like a death certificate.

Somewhere beneath Veraopur, Selema’s head watched from a steel table as Hamir hummed along to the radio.

CHAPTER 4

HORDE

The basement smelled of copper and bleach. Dr. Hamir sat motionless on the leather couch, staring through the barred window at the sliver of twilight beyond. A bloodstained towel lay crumpled in his lap, his long fingers methodically working the fabric between them as if he could erase the crimson embedded in his cuticles. Behind him, Selema’s remains decorated the concrete floor like a grotesque still-life—her head positioned neatly on the stainless-steel table, glassy eyes fixed in a permanent expression of surprise. Let her see, he thought. Let her understand what betrayal costs.

He rose, stepping carefully around the visceral debris, and began collecting the organs—lungs like deflated balloons, the liver’s dense weight, the kidneys nestled in their fatty casing—depositing each into a galvanized metal box with the precision of a coroner.

”Kahlil!”His voice carried up the stairs, sharp but controlled. ”Come downstairs. Now.”

The old man arrived within moments, his polished Oxfords tapping a genteel rhythm against the steps. Even before the knock came—three precise raps—Hamir caught the scent of his sandalwood cologne cutting through the metallic stench.

”You called for me, sire? “Kahlil’s voice brimmed with reverence, as though summoned to a royal audience rather than a slaughterhouse.

”Clean this,” Hamir said, gesturing to the carnage without looking at it. ”The vigilantes have started targeting our associates. That fool butchered poor Edwin last night—thinking himself some crusader against corruption.” His jaw tightened. ”We cannot waste time on these insects. Not when true purification awaits.”

Kahlil bowed. ”Your council convenes in an hour, sire. The White Horde expects you.”

Hamir exhaled through his nose. Upstairs, the mansion hummed with preparation—crystal clinking, silk rustling, the murmur of servants executing their duties with military precision. He ascended to his chambers, where steam from the marble shower already fogged the mirrors.

By the time he emerged, every detail was perfected: the gold-threaded tuxedo, the razor-sharp part in his hair, the citrine cufflinks that matched his eyes. Below, Kahlil remained in the basement, scrubbing tile grooves with a dentist’s focus. Above, laughter and violin music spilled through the halls as Veraopur’s elite arrived—beautiful, oblivious, and hungry.

Hamir adjusted his tie in the mirror. Tonight, the Horde would feast twice.

The servants moved like shadows under Kahlil’s silent command—polishing silver, lighting candles, their eyes never lifting above waist-level. None questioned when their master’s right hand vanished into the basement, arms laden with industrial polythene rolls, stainless steel tools, and the distinctive amber bottles of nitric acid. In the glittering world above, his absence went unnoticed.

The dining hall stretched cavernous before the gathered elite, its endless mahogany table groaning under candelabras and tiered platters of saffron-rice towers, quail stuffed with figs, champagne flutes catching the chandelier light. Yet the air hung thick with uneaten delicacies and unshed tears. Ten chairs stood occupied where there should have been eleven. Edwin’s empty seat at the center gaped like a missing tooth.

A hush fell as the rear doors swung open.

Hamir entered like a stormfront, his golden tuxedo absorbing the light as if it might ignite. The sharp crack of his knuckles against oak silenced the last murmur.

“My brothers and sisters of The White Horde...

We gather tonight under the weight of unbearable loss. Edwin’s chair sits empty, his wine glass untouched, his laughter silenced forever by the hands of some self-righteous *vermin* who dared strike at one of our own.

This was no random act of violence. This was *declaration of war* against everything we have built. Against the order we maintain. Against the very laws we crafted with our own hands to protect this city from the filth that would see it burn.

And I ask you now...

Shall we let this stand?

Shall we cower behind our gilded doors while common street thugs think they can murder our brothers and face no consequence?

No.

We will *hunt* this animal. We will drag him through every court, every prison, every dark corner of this city until he begs for the mercy he denied our dear Edwin.

But this is bigger than one killer.

The police look the other way. The judges grow complacent. The so-called ‘vigilantes’ multiply like rats in the shadows, thinking their *petty morality* gives them the right to judge us?

No more.

Starting tonight, we remind Veraopur who truly controls its fate.

Burn their stations.

Raze their homes.

Let every last one of them choke on the ashes of their defiance.

And when the city wakes tomorrow to the smoke on the horizon, they will know one truth above all others...

We are justice.

We are order.

We...are...THE WHITE HORDE!”

The Horde erupted. Fists pounded tables hard enough to crack porcelain. A diamond necklace snapped in someone's fervor, scattering stones across the table like hail.

Through the chaos, Hamir remained still—a statue of cold fury. Only his eyes moved, tracking the servants who flitted along the walls. Their faces remained carefully blank, but their hands trembled as they refilled glasses.

Let them tremble, he thought. Let them all tremble.

Chapter-3 The Bad Road (a chapter from the book -The Gray Horde)

 CHAPTER 3

THE BAD ROAD

 Hammir watched the woman before him with clinical detachment as she dissolved into performative tears. Selema’s mascara bled down her cheeks in inky rivulets, each shuddering breath a calculated performance. He saw through her immediately—another middle-aged housewife playing the victim while her silk scarf still carried the musky cologne of her latest affair.

Pathetic, he thought, even as his hands moved with practiced sympathy, offering a tissue, squeezing her shoulder just above the strap of her scandalously tight dress. The scent of her perfume—overripe jasmine and vodka sweat—clung to his fingers.

”Dr. Hammir, I must leave now,” Selema hiccuped, dabbing at eyes that remained suspiciously dry. ”I have to pick up my son from school. But why does everyone judge me? So what if he’s not my husband’s? Men do worse every day!”

Hammir’s smile remained fixed. This was the third session where she’d rewritten history—first accusing him of inappropriate questions, then fabricating spousal abuse, now this grand feminist stand. He’d humored her long enough.

”You should go,” he said, withdrawing his touch abruptly. The sudden chill in his voice made her flinch. ”We wouldn’t want you to be late.”

Selema’s tears evaporated. She stood so fast the couch shuddered, her designer bag swinging like a weapon. Hammir opened the door with exaggerated courtesy, watching as she snatched her scarf with a white-knuckled grip. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—her rage, his amusement—before she stormed out, stilettos stabbing the hardwood.

He exhaled, rolling the tension from his shoulders. His next appointment—that lovestruck Aditya boy—could wait. Let the puppy-eyed teenager languish in the waiting room with his poetry and pathetic crush. Hammir had more pressing matters.

---

The Porsche swerved violently as Selema took another pull from her flask. Sunglasses hid her bloodshot eyes, but nothing could mask the tear tracks cutting through her foundation. She barely noticed the speedometer needle trembling at 140 km/h.

Until the engine died with a death rattle.

”No, no, NO!” Her fists pounded the steering wheel, the horn blaring into the deserted stretch of Bad Road—an ironic name for the loneliest highway in Veraopur. When kicking the tires yielded nothing but a broken heel, she slumped against the car, the flask slipping from her fingers.

Headlights flooded the asphalt behind her.

The black Mercedes glided to a stop, its tinted window descending with a whisper. Dr. Hammir’s profile emerged, backlit like a villain in some noir film.

”You forgot your phone,” he said, dangling the device between two fingers. His gaze flickered to her trembling hands, the empty flask glinting near her feet. ”Though it seems you found alternative comforts.”

Selema’s laugh was too loud, too sharp. ”Are you my guardian angel now?”

Hammir stepped out, his tailored suit absorbing the moonlight. ”Let’s say I’m... invested in your wellbeing.” His knuckle brushed her cheek, coming away damp. ”My driver can fetch your son. As for you...” He leaned close enough for her to smell the amaretto on his breath. ”I’m hosting a little gathering. You look like someone who appreciates... private parties.”

She was in the Mercedes before he finished speaking.

---

The driver disappeared with discreet efficiency, leaving them alone in Hammir’s foyer. Selema swayed against him, her fingers fumbling with his tie.

”I’ve wanted this so—“

”Shhh.” He pressed a crystal glass into her hands. ”Drink first.”

Her eyelids fluttered as the drugged champagne hit her lips. By the third sip, she was limp in his arms, her whispered fantasies dissolving into nonsense.

Hammir hummed as he carried her downstairs, her head lolling against his shoulder. The basement lights flickered to life, illuminating the soundproofed walls, the surgical table, the tools arranged with military precision.

He set her down gently, almost tenderly, before reaching for his favorite drill.

The bit gleamed like a promise.

-----

Antonio vaulted over the crumbling section of the perimeter wall, his shoes scraping against decades-old brickwork that should have been reinforced years ago. Typical CBI priorities, he thought bitterly—impenetrable front gates, but a back wall a schoolboy could scale. His knees absorbed the impact as he landed in the overgrown courtyard, the scent of trampled marigolds and tear gas clinging to the air.

The canteen’s emergency exit stood ajar, held open by a janitor’s mop bucket. Antonio slipped inside, the sudden blast of chilled air conditioning raising gooseflesh on his sweat-drenched arms. Through the wired glass windows, the mob swelled like a living creature—faces contorted, fists pumping the smoke-choked sky. A rock shattered a street lamp, spraying glass across the compound.

Vanya materialized beside the vending machine, her pressed uniform at odds with the chaos outside. Without speaking, she jerked her chin toward the riot—getting worse—then tapped her wristwatch—you’re late again. Antonio responded with a hand signal they’d developed during the bunker investigation: two fingers to his temple, then pointed outward—any survivors spotted?

Before she could answer, the window above them exploded.

”THE Christians ARE DEVILS!” The scream rode a wave of burning tire stench. A Molotov cocktail arced over the wall, bursting against the forensic van in an orange blossom of flame.

Antonio’s fingers found the identity card in his breast pocket—the one with his full name and Religious Affiliation: CATHOLIC printed in unforgiving black ink. He folded it in half, then in half again, until the laminated edges bit into his palm. The motion felt absurdly inadequate, like hiding a bullet wound with a Band-Aid.

Somewhere beyond the smoke, a child was still missing.

And the bunker’s secrets were burning hotter than the van outside.

Author- Siddhartha Singh 

Chapter - 2 War crimes ( Chapter of the Novel - The Gray Horde)

 CHAPTER 2: WAR CRIMES

Ranne had made three critical mistakes the night before:

1. Eating two double-cheese “Border Special” burgers from the sketchy food truck behind the police station.

2. Following them up with six chili-glazed “Dragon Breath” wings.

3. Washing it all down with a milkshake that had the consistency of industrial lubricant.

Now, as dawn bled through the grimy apartment windows, Ranne sat hunched on the toilet like a gargoyle, sweat beading on his forehead, his toes curling against the cracked tiles. His intestines had declared war.

“Antonio...” he groaned, gripping the sink for support. “I think I’m dying.”

Outside the bathroom, Antonio paused mid-step. “Again?”

“No, for real this time—oh sweet mother of—” A sound like a foghorn cut through the apartment, followed by a whimper. “Why did I eat that? Why?”

Antonio pinched the bridge of his nose. “Because you said, and I quote, ’I have a stomach lined with steel, brother.’”

“I lied,” Ranne moaned, his voice echoing off the bathroom walls. “I’m a fraud. A weak, weak man.”

Antonio was about to fire back when his foot caught on the radio cord. It sparked to life with a burst of static, and then—

”—breaking news. A decapitated body has been found near the St. Ivan church drainage system. Early reports indicate the victim was a child—“

The air in the apartment thickened.

Ranne’s next groan died in his throat. Antonio’s hand froze halfway to the volume knob. Even the pipes in the walls seemed to hold their breath.

The radio crackled on, relentless. ”—widespread riots targeting Christian neighborhoods. Police are urging citizens to remain indoors—“

A beat of silence. Then, from the bathroom:

“Turn it off,” Ranne said, his voice suddenly flat.

Antonio killed the broadcast. The silence that followed was heavier than before.

Somewhere in the city, a siren wailed.

Ranne emerged from the bathroom, his face ashen. All traces of humor had drained away, replaced by something hollow. “That was near the old bunker,” he said quietly.

Antonio didn’t answer. He was already reaching for his boots.

A thud at the door.

The newspaper lay in the hallway like a coiled snake. CRIME SPOT screamed the hand-stencilled masthead, the ink still damp enough to smear on Antonio’s fingers.

XMan’s signature marks were all there:

- The grainy crime scene photo (too graphic for official papers)

- The handwritten note in the margin: “Check the hands. Same as those experiment victims”

Ranne’s breath hitched as Antonio flipped to page two. The victim’s hands – small, pale, and unmistakably marked with the same surgical scars they’d seen in the experiment files.

The apartment’s pipes groaned. Or maybe it was Ranne, as the last of his chili-induced dragon wings drained away.

Somewhere in Veraopur, a church bell tolled.

Dr. Hammir watched the woman before him with clinical detachment as she dissolved into performative tears. Selema’s mascara bled down her cheeks in inky rivulets, each shuddering breath a calculated performance. He saw through her immediately—another middle-aged housewife playing the victim while her silk scarf still carried the musky cologne of her latest affair.

*Pathetic*, he thought, even as his hands moved with practiced sympathy, offering a tissue, squeezing her shoulder just above the strap of her scandalously tight dress. The scent of her perfume—overripe jasmine and vodka sweat—clung to his fingers.

”Dr. Hammir, I must leave now,”Selema hiccuped, dabbing at eyes that remained suspiciously dry. ”I have to pick up my son from school. But why does everyone judge me? So what if he’s not my husband’s? Men do worse every day!”

Hammir’s smile remained fixed. This was the third session where she’d rewritten history—first accusing him of inappropriate questions, then fabricating spousal abuse, now this grand feminist stand. He’d humored her long enough. 

”You should go,” he said, withdrawing his touch abruptly. The sudden chill in his voice made her flinch. ”We wouldn’t want you to be late.”

Selema’s tears evaporated. She stood so fast the couch shuddered, her designer bag swinging like a weapon. Hammir opened the door with exaggerated courtesy, watching as she snatched her scarf with a white-knuckled grip. For a heartbeat, their eyes locked—her rage, his amusement—before she stormed out, stilettos stabbing the hardwood. 

He exhaled, rolling the tension from his shoulders. His next appointment—that lovestruck Aditya boy—could wait. Let the puppy-eyed teenager languish in the waiting room with his poetry and pathetic crush. Hammir had more pressing matters. 

--- 

The Porsche swerved violently as Selema took another pull from her flask. Sunglasses hid her bloodshot eyes, but nothing could mask the tear tracks cutting through her foundation. She barely noticed the speedometer needle trembling at 140 km/h. 

Until the engine died with a death rattle. 

”No, no, NO!” Her fists pounded the steering wheel, the horn blaring into the deserted stretch of Bad Road—an ironic name for the loneliest highway in Veraopur. When kicking the tires yielded nothing but a broken heel, she slumped against the car, the flask slipping from her fingers. 

Headlights flooded the asphalt behind her. 

The black Mercedes glided to a stop, its tinted window descending with a whisper. Dr. Hammir’s profile emerged, backlit like a villain in some noir film. 

”You forgot your phone,”he said, dangling the device between two fingers. His gaze flickered to her trembling hands, the empty flask glinting near her feet. "Though it seems you found alternative comforts.”

Selema’s laugh was too loud, too sharp. ”Are you my guardian angel now?”

Hammir stepped out, his tailored suit absorbing the moonlight. ”Let’s say I’m... invested in your wellbeing.” His knuckle brushed her cheek, coming away damp. ”My driver can fetch your son. As for you...”He leaned close enough for her to smell the amaretto on his breath. ”I’m hosting a little gathering. You look like someone who appreciates... private parties.”

She was in the Mercedes before he finished speaking. 

--- 

The driver disappeared with discreet efficiency, leaving them alone in Hammir’s foyer. Selema swayed against him, her fingers fumbling with his tie. 

”I’ve wanted this so—“

”Shhh.” He pressed a crystal glass into her hands. ”Drink first.” 

Her eyelids fluttered as the drugged champagne hit her lips. By the third sip, she was limp in his arms, her whispered fantasies dissolving into nonsense. 

Hammir hummed as he carried her downstairs, her head lolling against his shoulder. The basement lights flickered to life, illuminating the soundproofed walls, the surgical table, the tools arranged with military precision. 

He set her down gently, almost tenderly, before reaching for his favorite drill machine. 

The bit gleamed like a promise. 

Antonio vaulted over the crumbling section of the perimeter wall, his shoes scraping against decades-old brickwork that should have been reinforced years ago. Typical CBI priorities ,he thought bitterly—impenetrable front gates, but a back wall a schoolboy could scale. His knees absorbed the impact as he landed in the overgrown courtyard, the scent of trampled marigolds and tear gas clinging to the air. 

The canteen’s emergency exit stood ajar, held open by a janitor’s mop bucket. Antonio slipped inside, the sudden blast of chilled air conditioning raising gooseblesh on his sweat-drenched arms. Through the wired glass windows, the mob swelled like a living creature—faces contorted, fists pumping the smoke-choked sky. A rock shattered a streetlamp, spraying glass across the compound. 

Vanya materialized beside the vending machine, her pressed uniform at odds with the chaos outside. Without speaking, she jerked her chin toward the riot—getting worse—then tapped her wristwatch—you’re late again. Antonio responded with a hand signal they’d developed during the bunker investigation: two fingers to his temple, then pointed outward—any survivors spotted? 

Before she could answer, the window above them exploded. 

”THE CHRISTIANS ARE DEVILS!” The scream rode a wave of burning tire stench. A Molotov cocktail arced over the wall, bursting against the forensic van in an orange blossom of flame. 

Antonio’s fingers found the identity card in his breast pocket—the one with his full name and Religious Affiliation: Catholic printed in unforgiving black ink. He folded it in half, then in half again, until the laminated edges bit into his palm. The motion felt absurdly inadequate, like hiding a bullet wound with a Band-Aid. 

Somewhere beyond the smoke, a child was still missing. 

And the bunker’s secrets were burning hotter than the van outside. 

 Author-

Siddhartha Singh 

Chapter 1 Following (Book - The Gray Horde )

Chapter 1 

Following 

The door groaned open on its own.

Antonio and Ranne froze, their torch beams slicing through the darkness beyond. Dust swirled in the light, thick enough to choke on, obscuring whatever lay inside. The air smelled of mildew and something sharper—chemical, stale.

They’d been down here for hours, picking through the carcass of this forgotten bunker. What should’ve been a military facility felt more like a derelict orphanage: toys strewn across warped floorboards, tiny dresses rotting in puddles, lab coats dangling from rusted hooks. Water dripped from broken pipes, the sound like a ticking clock.

And now this. A door moving by itself.

Antonio exhaled sharply, his breath ragged. “We’re leaving,” he muttered, but Ranne was already stepping forward, torch raised.

“Not yet. Look—an office.”

The room beyond was a graveyard of paperwork. Desks overturned, filing cabinets gutted, a single chair lying on its side like a fallen soldier. Antonio’s skin prickled. Something was wrong here.

Then his legs buckled.

He hit the ground hard, his vision swimming. Ranne’s voice sounded distant: “Antonio!”

For a moment, the world blurred. Then, just as suddenly, clarity returned. Antonio pushed himself up, his muscles tense.

“We need to go. *Now.*”

Ranne hesitated, but the look in Antonio’s eyes cut off any argument. He grabbed the two metal boxes they’d scavenged, tossing one to Antonio. “Then move.”

They retraced their steps—or tried to. The sticky notes they’d left as markers were gone.

“What the hell?” Ranne whispered.

Antonio didn’t answer. His pulse hammered in his throat. He could *feel* it—the weight of unseen eyes tracking them. Every shadow seemed to shift just beyond the torchlight.

“Dining hall,” Antonio hissed. “Third hallway. Go.”

They ran, their boots splashing through stagnant water. The bunker’s layout twisted in on itself, rooms bleeding into identical rooms. But Antonio remembered. He *always* remembered.

Behind them, a soft *click*.

Ranne spun, torch sweeping the darkness. “Did you hear—?”

“Don’t look back.” Antonio’s voice was low, urgent. “Just *run.*”

They burst into the storage room, the exit window still unguarded. Antonio boosted Ranne up first, then passed the boxes through before hauling himself out. Mud sucked at their boots as they crawled through the undergrowth, the fence’s severed wires snagging at their clothes.

Then Antonio saw it—a fresh boot print, sunk deep into the earth.

Too large to be his or Ranne’s.

He didn’t mention it. Just kept moving.

The jeep waited where they’d left it, half-hidden in the trees. Ranne collapsed against the hood, chest heaving. “What the hell was *that*? You drop like a corpse one second, then sprint the next. And those notes—they didn’t just vanish!”

Antonio didn’t answer. His hands shook as he fumbled with the keys.

Because he’d seen it too. Back in the office, just before he collapsed.

A face in the archive window.

Pale. Watching.

And *smiling.*

[At Rannes Apartment]

The boxes landed on Ranne’s sofa with a thud that seemed too loud in the quiet apartment. He rubbed his hands together, fingers twitching with restless energy. “Let’s see what we’ve got,” he muttered, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it over the armrest. His sleeves were already rolled up—no patience for formalities now.

Antonio didn’t move. He stood rigid by the door, his back pressed against the wood as if bracing for something. Or someone.

Ranne pried open the first box—a standard-issue file container, unremarkable except for one unsettling detail: it was *clean*. No dust. No water damage. The plastic sleeves inside gleamed under the lamplight, their contents perfectly preserved. Government files weren’t supposed to last like this. They were meant to dissolve into pulp, to be shredded and burned and forgotten.

“This is—” Ranne’s voice hitched as he lifted the top file. A photograph slipped free: a boy, maybe eight or nine, his face bleached of color by the flash. Hollow eyes. A clinical detachment in the way he stared at the camera, like a specimen pinned to a board.

Antonio finally stirred. He crossed the room in three strides, snatching the file from Ranne’s hands. His thumb brushed over the word stamped in red ink across the first page:

RETIRED.

Not discharged. Not relocated.

Retired.

“Failed subject,” Antonio said, too quietly.

Ranne grabbed another file. Same stamp. Another child—a girl this time—her before-and-after X-rays showing a skull subtly changed, the bone warped in ways that made his stomach twist.

“Check the dates,” Antonio ordered. His fingers trembled as he flipped pages, skimming jargon-filled reports—dosages, cognitive assessments, procedural adjustments. The earliest experiment was dated two decades ago. Two months of trials. Two months before the first subject was stamped *retired*.

“They kept trying,” Ranne whispered. “Even after the kids—”

“Died. Yes.” Antonio’s voice was gravel. He pointed to a series of charts. “Look at this. They were injecting something directly into the brain. Testing cognitive enhancement, maybe. Or—”

“Or control.”

The silence between them was thick enough to choke on.

Ranne reached for another file, then recoiled. A photograph stared back at him: a child on a gurney, mouth slack, pupils dilated to black pits. Notes scrawled in the margin read Subject 12: Neural decay accelerated post-injection.

Antonio slammed the file shut. “We shouldn’t have taken these.”

But it was too late.

The boxes were open.

And whatever slept inside them was awake now.

Ranne’s fingers tightened around the file’s edge, the paper crinkling under his grip. "You think the Cradle-Snatcher could be one of them? A survivor?” His voice dropped to a whisper. ”Christ—what if they did something to him? Turned him into... whatever this was supposed to make?”

Antonio’s jaw clenched. He could still see those X-rays in his mind—skulls reshaped, sutures fused too soon. ”Even if this isn’t linked to the Veraopur killings, it’s worse than we imagined. These weren’t experiments. They were factories." He slammed the file shut. ”The public should know. But first—“ A beat. The unspoken truth hung between them: We’re already in this. No backing out now.

"First, we find the killer,” Antonio said, low and deliberate. "Because if he’s one of those scientists? He deserves worse than a cell. And if he’s one of their subjects?”He met Ranne’s gaze. ”Then God help us. Whatever they made him into... we might not be able to stop it.”

 

Author 

Siddhartha Singh