EASRS: The Cycle of Hatred I
Chapter 5
Two days later.
Time did not pass.
It dragged.
Like a rusted blade scraping slowly across bone—refusing to cut clean, refusing to end anything quickly.
"Good evening… I am reporter ███████… from Franta Times…"
The voice leaked out of the television like something half-alive.
Thin.
Distorted.
Unstable.
Beep… Beep… Beep…
Static spread across the screen in jagged veins, gray-white scars crawling over the image as if the signal itself was decaying in real time.
The sound drilled into the air—
sharp.
Repetitive.
Unforgiving.
Erwin's jaw tightened.
His patience snapped faster than the signal.
Erwin
"For fuck's sake… is this a joke? This is what the government's holding together?"
His palm struck the side of the television.
Once—
a hollow thud.
Twice—
harder.
The entire device rattled weakly, like something that had already given up but hadn't been allowed to die yet.
The image lurched—
twisted—
then barely stabilized.
What returned to the screen…
was worse.
A stadium.
Massive.
Empty of its purpose.
The vast concrete structure loomed behind the reporter like a carcass stripped of meaning.
Where crowds once roared—
there was only silence.
Or rather—
a different kind of noise.
Rows upon rows of white tents flooded the field, stretching endlessly like pale growths spreading across infected flesh.
They were too uniform.
Too clean.
Too many.
Inside them—
movement.
Chaotic.
Frantic.
Desperate.
Doctors in stained coats moved like shadows that had lost their owners, hands trembling as they worked faster than human precision should allow.
Stretchers slid across the ground.
Figures writhed beneath sheets.
Some moved.
Some didn't.
The reporter continued speaking.
But his voice…
no longer matched his face.
His eyes shifted.
Not naturally.
Not casually.
They flicked to the side—
again—
and again—
as if something stood just beyond the frame.
Something that didn't belong on camera.
Something he couldn't acknowledge.
Reporter #3
"Protests continue to escalate across southern and central Franta City…"
A pause.
Subtle.
But wrong.
"…and casualties are rising at an alarming rate due to increasingly aggressive behavior from the crowds…"
His lips tightened slightly.
"…including physical assaults… and repeated scratching incidents directed at civilians…"
The word scratching hung in the air.
Heavy.
Out of place.
Like it didn't belong in a news report—
yet somehow had become normal.
Behind him—
something shifted.
A silhouette inside one of the tents jerked—
unnaturally.
Too fast.
Too sharp.
Then—
stillness.
The reporter didn't react.
But his eyes did.
A flicker.
A warning.
A silent don't look.
"Hospitals across the city have exceeded capacity. Local medical organizations, with support from the WHO, have repurposed Orange Stadium into an emergency field hospital in response to the rapidly escalating threat…"
A scream—
muted.
Cut off.
Barely audible.
"Additionally, the government—"
Beep—EEP—Beep—
The screen convulsed.
Violently.
The image tore apart into fractured lines.
Sound warped—
twisted—
collapsed.
Then—
nothing.
Black.
Erwin slammed his hand against the television again.
Harder.
The impact echoed in the cramped interior of the vehicle, sharp and final.
No response.
He exhaled.
Slow.
Rough.
The anger drained out of him as quickly as it came—
leaving behind something heavier.
Fatigue.
Erwin
"Out of fuel… again…"
His voice dropped.
Flattened.
"…this piece of shit generator…"
Silence settled in after that.
Not peaceful.
Not calm.
Just empty.
Outside—
the world felt distant.
Muted.
Like everything had taken one step back from reality.
Jenny slept in the back seat.
Curled slightly.
Breathing softly.
Her face was relaxed.
Too relaxed.
Strands of reddish-orange hair clung faintly to her cheek, catching the dim light that filtered through the dusty windows. Her lips parted slightly with each breath, slow and steady—
untouched by the tension suffocating everything else.
She looked…
fragile.
Or maybe—
isolated.
Like someone standing in a different world entirely.
Outside the car—
Jones sat beside a small fire.
The flames struggled.
They flickered unevenly, bending under the weight of damp air, each spark fighting to exist before being swallowed by darkness.
A dented metal can rested between the embers.
Heating.
Slowly.
The faint smell of processed meat mixed with smoke and wet earth.
It wasn't comforting.
It was survival.
Jones stared at it.
Unblinking.
The firelight danced across his face, casting shifting shadows that made his expression harder to read.
Then—
he spoke.
Jones
"Hey… your old man…"
A pause.
"…how the hell did he know about all this, Erwin?"
No humor.
No teasing.
Just a question.
Erwin leaned back against the car door, eyes drifting toward the fire.
Then—
a shrug.
Erwin
"Does it matter?"
His voice was quieter now.
Less sharp.
"Before worrying about that… maybe we should look at what we've got left."
His gaze shifted.
Toward the supplies.
Cans.
Bottles.
Fragments of time.
Erwin
"Between me, you… and her…"
A breath caught in his throat.
Not visibly.
But it was there.
"…this lasts three days."
The fire cracked.
Loud.
Sharp.
Like something breaking.
Erwin's jaw tightened slightly.
"At best."
Silence followed.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Then—
quieter—
almost reluctant—
"After that…"
He stopped.
Didn't need to continue.
Jones already understood.
He raised his hand slightly.
A small motion.
Enough.
His gaze shifted.
Toward the car.
Then downward.
The tire.
Flat.
The rubber sagged against the ground, lifeless, a jagged piece of stone still lodged nearby like a silent accusation.
Jones rubbed his forehead.
Slowly.
Jones
"Yeah…"
A breath.
"Means we're going back into the city."
The words felt heavier once spoken.
Like a decision that couldn't be undone.
Jones stared into the fire again.
Eyes narrowing.
Jones
"And if this keeps going…"
The flames dipped.
Lower.
"…in two days…"
His voice dropped.
Colder.
"…it won't just be bad."
A pause.
"…it'll be hell."
The wind shifted.
The fire bent violently to one side.
Shadows stretched—
twisted—
For a moment—
just a moment—
it looked like something inside the flames moved.
Not burning.
Watching.
Neither of them spoke.
Behind them—
Jenny slept.
Or pretended to.
Above—
the sky hung low.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
No stars.
No light.
Just a vast, silent weight pressing down on everything below.
And far in the distance—
Sirens.
Faint.
Endless.
Not getting closer.
But never fading away.
Like a warning that had already come too late.
[To be continued]