The Forsaken (W.I.P.)

A dystopian sci-fi horror told through the journal of a lone survivor. Still in progress — feedback welcome.

The Forsaken

““Fffoomttt.” With a hiss and thud, the hydraulic door opens - but not all the way.

“Alright, we don’t know what’s in here, but it isn’t good. Keep your guard up, and never stray from the group,” said the captain.

The group of astronauts enters the spaceship, guns ready. What greets them is a flickering flashlight illuminating a pool of blood. Laying in the blood is an astronaut helmet with cracked glass.

One of the astronauts says, “Captain Brian, I don’t think the crew is alive.”

Captain Brian gives him no attention.

He is a large, strong man - fifty, but in good shape. With far more experience than the rest of the soldiers, he treats his squad like family. As he moves deeper into the ship, the air thickens with the stench of blood.

They reach the epicenter of death. A sound echoes - loud, primal, a mix between an elk and a bear. Their faces pale with fear as they see the crew massacred by some wild beast.

Turning the corner, they see it: a dark figure, bear-like with antlers and the front legs of an elk. Its hide is riddled with scars, its black fur soaked in blood, and its face twisted with bloodlust.

It lunges.

Within minutes, only Captain Brian remains.

He walks through the halls, haunted by the images of his dead squad. Returning to the command area, he sees the monster feasting on the guts of his right-hand man.

It turns to face him.

Brian unleashes a flurry of bullets.

A month passes.

A recon team arrives at the crash site. The ship’s door is slightly ajar. They pry it open and find the bodies - their guts missing. They assume it’s the work of the creature.

As they wander deeper, horror crosses their faces. A large hole in the wall. It has escaped.

Outside, they find a deer. Its wounds are fatal, but it’s not dead. Just as they prepare to end its misery, the deer begins to squirm and contort. Blood sprays everywhere.

The deer mutates - crocodile’s lower jaw, bear legs, deer skull, cat eyes, rabbit ears.

The recon team braces for attack. But the creature freezes.

They sigh in relief. It still seems to be a deer mentally.

50 years later…

A man emerges from the woods and finds the wreck. The technology is ancient. Inside are the corpses of the crew, soldiers, and the creature.

He’s not surprised.

As he wanders, every creature he passes is mutated - similar to the monster from the ship. Some are docile, others aggressive. No cows or chickens remain, only monsters.

He hunts them.

He stumbles upon someone with four arms.

The wanderer says, “Hello, my name is Luck.”

Luck’s hair is black. His face shows hardship, but he’s cheerful, always smiling. He wears ragged clothes and a hooded cape to shield him from the elements.

Luck researches these monsters for a living. Sometimes, he must kill them.

In this year, only mutated animals remain due to the Transfiguration Virus, or T-virus. People infected are called Forsaken - feared and outcast due to their relation to the monsters.

The virus is transmitted by being killed by a Carrier - an immortal creature created by the original monster, The Devil’s Child. Though new carriers can’t be created, they also cannot die.

Encountering one means death.

Carriers are 100 ft tall, blind, and deaf. But if you get too close, they’ll track you until you die. They communicate telepathically and hunt in unison.

When you’re marked, a red symbol appears on your forehead. No one with this mark is allowed in town. If they approach, guards kill them on sight.

TVRS (Transfiguration Virus Research Specialists) estimate around 200 carriers exist globally, with 162 confirmed - 10 near Russia’s capital, where the ship landed. That area is now called The Dead Zone.

TVRS advises all survivors to stay within city limits and return before nightfall. Carriers are more active after sunset.

If killed by a carrier, you mutate. After a week, you begin attacking animals and people.

If you retain your humanity, you’re called Forsaken. If not, you become a Forsaken Drone (slow, blind) or a Forsaken Runner (fast, blind). Many other types exist, but these are most common.

Luck begins heading toward the capital of civilization: Utopia.

It’s rarely approached by carriers. If one gets close, a warning system activates. Everyone must shelter until the all-clear is given.

On the way, Luck is stopped by a TVRS patrol. They check for the mark. He’s clean.

At the city gate, he’s scanned for dormant T-virus and the forehead mark. He’s cleared and let in through a 50 ft tall, 2-meter thick gate.

Inside: a high-tech city with floating cars and holographic signs.

Outside the walls lie city ruins - overgrown and home to Forsaken who retained their humanity but are denied entry due to risk.

Inside the walls, order reigns. People live happily, but military presence is high. Crime is rare. The poor live outside with the Forsaken, unable to afford life within.

Luck hates how the world is run. But there’s nothing he can do.

Luck sees a man begging for bread.

A civilian flees as TVRS patrols approach. They throw a gun to the beggar. When he picks it up, the patrol leader shoots him in the head.

He radios in: “This is Echo Bravo 2-2-5. We have killed a terrorist. He was armed and dangerous. Requesting disposal team. Body is at 5 Calamity Street, in front of the bread store. Covered in a fire blanket to avoid attention.”

Luck checks into a hotel. It’s modern, but modest.

In his room, he opens his journal and writes:

“Day 47 of my wandering. I’ve finally stepped inside Utopia. The walls are taller than any fortress I’ve seen, thick enough to make the carriers outside feel like a distant nightmare. But once you pass through the gates, the city presses in on you. The streets are narrow, tighter than veins, and every one of them is clogged with bodies. It feels alive, but suffocating.

Buildings rise high, concrete and steel stacked so close together that sunlight barely touches the ground. Laundry hangs from balconies that almost kiss across the street. Neon signs flicker above food stalls, their glow fighting against the smoke of cooking fires and the exhaust of buses that wheeze through alleys too small for them. The air is heavy - sweat, oil, and the constant hum of voices.

Everywhere, the TVRS watches. Patrols march with rifles brushing shoulders, forcing crowds to press against walls. Loudspeakers bark the same words over and over: Safety is Freedom. Obey the TVRS.

People keep their heads down, but I see them watching from windows, eyes peering through cracks in curtains. They want to know what’s outside, but they’re too afraid to ask.

Inside these walls, life is orderly. Bread lines stretch around corners, ration cards clutched tight in trembling hands. Families cram into rooms barely big enough for a bed. The rich live higher up, in towers guarded by checkpoints, but even they cannot escape the press of the city.

Utopia is strong, yes. Modern, yes. But it feels less like salvation and more like a cage built of concrete and fear.

I smile, because that’s all I can do. I’ve seen the wilderness, the slums, the Forsaken. I know what waits beyond the walls. And yet, standing here, I wonder if the people inside are any freer than those outside.”

The TVRS is corrupt.

Luck knows this.

As the sun rises on a new day, Luck makes haste to head to a new town. On the way, he passes a Carrier - its skin pale, its four legs thin and impossibly long, reaching up to a torso that seems slightly too small. It has no neck and a featureless head.

Luck keeps to the trees so it can't get close to him. Once he’s made it past to a safe distance, he continues on his way.

“I will make my way to Moskva. I'm sure whatever I find there can do something about the dictatorship the TVRS enforces.”

Luck travels for about one day. He soon arrives in Moscow - the Dead Zone.

What he sees makes him stop in his tracks.

There are a dozen of them. Carriers. But not normal ones. Their heads are in the clouds - they must be at least 6,000 feet tall.

Luck speaks quietly, despite knowing they’re blind and deaf. His fear outweighs his common sense.

“This is mad. They’re like two thousand meters tall. This is absurd.”

He counts again. Twelve.

But the reports said ten.

“There are more than they told us,” he mutters. “Either the TVRS lied… or they don’t know everything.”

The thought chills him more than the cold wind sweeping through the ruins.

Luck crouches beside a man slumped against a crumbling wall, his breath shallow and panicked. The red mark on his forehead pulses faintly, like a beacon in the dark.

“They’ll come,” the man whispers. “I know what happens. I’ve seen it. Please… don’t let them find me.”

Luck doesn’t answer right away. He looks past the man, toward the skyline of shattered towers and skeletal cranes. The air is still - unnaturally still. The kind of stillness that means danger is near, even if it can’t see or hear you.

He draws his knife slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The man nods, tears streaking the grime on his face.

“Thank you.”

It’s quick.

Luck doesn’t linger. He drags the body into the shadows of a collapsed stairwell and covers it with rubble. Then he slips into a nearby ruin - a half-standing house with no roof and walls like broken teeth.

He finds a corner where the wind doesn’t bite so hard, crouches low, and pulls out his journal.

Day 49.

I killed a man today. Not for food. Not for defense. Just mercy. He begged me. I listened. I don’t know if that makes me a monster. But I do know the Carriers are worse.

I’m writing this from a ruined house. I don’t think they saw me. But I won’t stay long. Moskva is close. I can feel it. Whatever I find there… it better be worth it.

As Luck exits the building to explore the next day, he comes across a scientist - hunched over a rusted terminal powered by a solar rig.

The man looks up, startled, then relaxes when he sees Luck’s unmarked forehead.

“You’re not one of them,” the scientist says. “Good.”

Luck nods. “What are those things? The giants?”

The scientist glances toward the skyline, where the towering Carriers loom like mountains.

“They’re the Firstborn,” he says. “The original Carriers. Created before the virus stabilized. They’re older than any of us. That’s why they’re so large.”

He pauses, then adds, “They don’t move much anymore. But don’t mistake that for safety. They’re still out there.”

The snow hasn’t stopped for three days.

Luck is holed up in the shell of a collapsed metro station, tucked between rusted beams and shattered tile. No signal. No movement. Just time - and his thoughts.

He lights a small fire with scavenged wire insulation and scraps of cloth. The warmth is weak, but enough to keep frostbite at bay. Outside, the wind howls like a wounded animal, and the sky hangs low with grey weight.

There’s nothing to do but wait.

So he writes.

Journal Entry - Day 52

I’ve been thinking about the Firstborn. They don’t move, they don’t hunt, but they’re always there - looming like monuments to something ancient and wrong. I used to think they were just bigger monsters. Now I’m not so sure.

The way the Carriers move… how they coordinate… it’s too precise. Too unified. I think the Firstborn are more than just old. I think they’re connected. Like radio towers. Organic transmitters. Maybe even the source of the telepathy.

If that’s true, then killing one might silence the rest. Or worse - wake them up.

Day 53

I haven’t slept properly in two days.

The Firstborn make this sound - a deep, endless drone. It’s not loud, not exactly. You don’t hear it with your ears so much as feel it in your bones. Like the earth itself is humming in pain.

It never stops. Not even for a second. A low, vibrating note that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Sometimes I think it’s in my head. Other times, I swear I see dust ripple on the ground in time with it.

I asked the scientist about it before we parted ways. He said it’s a resonance - a byproduct of their biology, or maybe their communication. Said it might be how the Carriers stay linked, like a hive mind tuned to a single, terrible frequency.

I don’t know if that’s true. But I do know this: the longer you’re near it, the more it gets inside you. Thoughts slow. Muscles ache. You start to forget what silence feels like.

I’ve moved farther from them now, but the drone lingers - like an echo that refuses to die.

If this is what the world sounds like now, I wonder what it sounded like before.

Day 54

I saw one today. Not a full Carrier - something smaller. A scout, maybe. I’ve heard whispers about them, but never seen one up close.

It was about ten feet tall, hunched like it carried the weight of its own fear. Its limbs were long and thin, almost insect-like, and it moved with a kind of twitchy grace. No eyes. No ears. Just a smooth, featureless head and a slit where a mouth should be.

It didn’t make a sound. Not even footsteps. It glided through the ruins like smoke.

I stayed low, behind a collapsed wall, watching. It paused, tilted its head, and let out a pulse - not a noise, but something I felt. Like sonar. My ribs ached when it passed through me.

Then it shrieked.

Not at me. At something else. A Forsaken Runner, maybe. Within minutes, two full-sized Carriers arrived, stomping through the wreckage like gods with broken spines.

The scout vanished.

I think it’s a Whisperer - a biological alarm system. It doesn’t kill. It calls. And when it does, death follows.

I’m starting to think the Carriers don’t hunt randomly. They’re organized. They have scouts. They have signals. They have strategy.

And we’re still pretending they’re just beasts.

Day 55

Still snowed in.

The drone hasn’t stopped. It’s quieter here, but it’s always there - like a thought I didn’t think, humming just beneath everything. I’ve started tapping my fingers without realizing it. Counting cracks in the wall. Whispering to myself. Just to hear something else.

I saw two new ones today.

The first was a Lantern Maw. It crept through the snow like a shadow with a lantern for a throat. The glow was soft, almost warm - and for a second, I thought I saw a silhouette inside it. A child. But that’s impossible. Right?

It stopped near the metro entrance and let out a sound - not a roar, not a growl. More like a lullaby played backwards. Then it moved on.

The second was worse.

A Husk Weaver scuttled across the ceiling of the tunnel. Its legs clicked like bones on tile. It paused above a pile of rubble and began weaving - not a web, but a kind of cocoon. Inside was something still breathing.

I didn’t interfere.

I told myself it was too dangerous. That I couldn’t risk it. But the truth is, I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to see.

I think the cold is getting to me. Or the drone. Or both.

I’ll leave tomorrow. Even if the snow hasn’t stopped. I have to.

If I stay here much longer, I won’t be writing these entries.

I’ll be whispering them to myself in the dark.

Day 56

I left the metro.

The snow’s thinner now, but the cold hasn’t let up. My boots crunch through frostbitten ash. The sky is the same color as the ground - grey, endless, hollow.

I thought getting out would help. It hasn’t.

The drone is quieter, but it’s still there. Like a memory I can’t shake. I keep checking over my shoulder, even when I know I’m alone. I keep thinking I hear footsteps behind me. I don’t.

I passed a frozen lake. Something was under the ice. Big. I didn’t stop to look.

I found a rusted sign half-buried in snow: Kalininskaya. I think I’m close to the edge of the Dead Zone. The buildings here are more intact, but that just makes them feel more haunted. Like the world paused mid-scream.

I haven’t seen another human in days. Just shadows. Just echoes.

I’m not sure if I’m heading toward something, or just away from the metro.

But I’m moving. That has to count for something.

Day 56 (continued)

I made it out.

The snow broke just enough for me to move. I kept low, kept quiet, and didn’t look back. The Firstborn still hum, but I’m far enough now that it’s just a memory - like a bruise that hasn’t faded.

I don’t know what Moskva was supposed to give me. Answers? Closure? A weapon?

I didn’t find any of those.

But I did find truth.

The Carriers aren’t just monsters. They’re a system. The Firstborn hum to keep it running. The Whisperers scout. The rest follow orders. That means someone - or something - designed this. It wasn’t chaos. It was intent.

TVRS doesn’t know everything. Or they’re lying. Either way, the Dead Zone holds more than death. It holds design.

And if something designed this, maybe something can undo it.

I’m heading south now. Toward the old research stations. Toward the places where the virus first bloomed.

I’m done surviving.

I want to understand.

The journal closes. The fire dies. Luck steps out of the ruins, his hood pulled tight against the wind. His boots crunch through thawing snow as he moves with purpose - no longer just a wanderer, but a seeker.

He carries no map. Only knowledge.

The Firstborn hum behind him, distant and constant. But Luck doesn’t flinch. He’s heard their song. He’s felt its weight.

Now, he walks toward the silence.

Luck crouched behind the rusted car husk, breath shallow, watching the hunters fan out. They moved with purpose - not scavengers, not TVRS. Something worse. One of them wore a necklace of Forsaken teeth. Another had a branded mark on his cheek: a red spiral burned into the flesh.

Cultists, maybe. Or mercenaries. Either way, they were killers.

He reached for his knife, then stopped.

The air shifted.

A low, wet clicking echoed through the ruins - like bones snapping underwater. The hunters froze. One raised his rifle. Another turned in a slow circle, scanning the shadows.

Then it dropped from above.

A blur of limbs and teeth - the Crowned Wretch.

Its skull was split open like a blooming flower, brain matter exposed and pulsing. Bone blades jutted from its arms. It moved with terrifying speed, carving through the first man before he could scream.

The second fired wildly, bullets sparking off concrete. The Wretch shrieked - a psychic pulse that made Luck’s vision blur. The third dropped to his knees, clutching his head, blood trickling from his nose.

It was over in seconds.

The Wretch stood over the bodies, twitching. Then it turned - not toward Luck, but toward the sky. It let out a final, warbling cry, then vanished into the snow.

Luck didn’t move for a long time.

When he finally stood, he stepped carefully around the corpses. One of the hunters had a map. Marked routes. Supply caches. Notes about “cleansing the Forsaken.”

He pocketed it.

Not because he needed it.

But because someone else might.

Chapter 2: The Enemy Within

Author’s Note (WIP Planning)

This story is a work in progress.

Recent Changes

• Major Update! chapter 2 is being worked on

Current Plans

• I am working on chapter 2, I see it fit to make a new chapter as the story will take a slower and heavier note of self-discovery and confronting corruption, I won't elaborate on my plans, so I don't spoil anything

Author's Note

this is a work in progress, and your feedback will be considered and implemented if it fits my vision for what I want this story to be.

Reviews

[Chris]

You've written a good and considerate author's note.

The premise of your story is well considered. The entire story line will take concentration on your part. Stay focused and CHOOSE your words with more care. Details matter, concurrently your "numbers" don't add up.

Laters,
Chris

[DarkQuill]

fixed the contradictions

[Chris]

Fixing is a good beginning... now concentrate on the details again and you'll have less to fix... well done.

[Michael G.]

I will give you my thoughts on what I read of this story as honestly as I can. Those who know me know I usually don't pull many punches. I see Chris here, also. He is one magnificent writer. Listen to what he says. He will never steer you wrong.
I forced myself to read to "50 years later." This is not my cup of tea, as the old crowd would say. But; you asked me, (though I am not sure why?)
You first word is a "made up word!" I read the first sentence a couple of times. Actually, in my mind, the made up word sounds about right. But it would work better at the end of the first sentence.
They don't know what's here, but it can't be good? How do they know that? There is no back history at all, so there is nothing to support that statement.
How long has the flashlight been on and flickering? Why not a piece of panel lighting or something more solid pertaining to the ship? And one cracked helmet leads one of the team to assume the whole crew is dead? How big is the spaceship? How big of crew are we talking about? You need to describe what is being seen. Otherwise, it's just an empty room, like some sort of lab. Which I thought it was or envisioned it to be after reading the first two sentences. Then, in the third you tell the reader it is a spaceship.
If you would like me to continue, I will after you do a couple of things for me. Give me some background on yourself, if you don't mind. Why and how did you decide to ask me to review your work? And take note of what Chris has suggested.

[DarkQuill]

I had asked about 30 people, I'm new to writing, this is my first story, with that in mind, there is little i know so little advice i will not find helpful, the first part is more of a prologue and a sort of relic from my original idea, i write with a vague plan else I risk crating a bottle neck, I appreciate that you took the time to help, thank you very much

[Chris]

I did revisit... How large do you expect or plan for this to be?

[DarkQuill]

I was planning for it to be 3000 words but I'm past that already, so I'll continue till it reaches a natural conclusion

[Lara]

Thanks for inviting me for a read through, dq.
I think if you were crafting a video game type story line, you may be on point. 🙏

[DarkQuill]

That’s an interesting perspective. My goal isn’t exactly to make it feel like a game, but to give life to an idea. This style is the only way I know how to capture it right now, though I’m always open to learning new approaches.

[FlatDaddy]

I did not read all that you posted, partially because I am very busy at the moment, but mainly because I am put off by your structure. You don't seem to like using capital letters at the beginning of a sentence and sometimes you capitalize a name, but sometimes don't. Nor do you care for the accepted structure of story writing; you use run-on sentences, eschew punctuation and make it difficult for the reader to follow the story. Sometimes a writer can get away with making such egregious errors -- but not until they have become famous enough for their INTENTIONAL errors to be overlooked for some purpose which may or may not be obvious to the reader. Until then, I suggest you enroll in a writing class that teaches the fundamentals you need if you want to succeed in a very difficult profession or just want to write something others can enjoy without having to struggle to do so. I hope my comments help. Good luck to you.

[DarkQuill]

Fixed it :)