Дмитрий Мансуров - Invasion

The dog was lagging behind now. The fox felt it based on his departing howl. She refused to turn her head to look at the creature and check his location. She was too scared to see THAT kind of dog, particularly as he was still flying. Watching nightmares for a whole year would feel better than that.

Plopping into the water in the middle of a large river, the fox began to quickly work her paws, running as if she was doing it across the ground. A loud splash behind told her that the dog hadn’t managed to repeat her success.

The fox had time for a short break, but she felt that if she stopped, she wouldn’t be able to move again. So, she continued on without slowing down.

The wolf pack through which the fox had unceremoniously slipped by was left behind with a feeling of great bewilderment. It was replaced by fear and fury, though, when a small wet mongrel with green lights instead of eyes brazenly jumped on their backs and dared to bark at them, spitting obscenities.

The elderly leader shook his head incredulously, apparently deciding that he’d gone a bit crazy in his senior years. However, similar behavior in half of the wolves in his pack showed that his health was perfectly fine. And if he did experience temporary glitches, it wasn’t happening here and now.

“Follow that little mongrel!” the leader growled fiercely, launching in pursuit. The pack howled in excitement. There was only one way in which the dog could pay for his insults, and that was by offering his soul to God. And the wolves intended to provide fervent support and assistance in this difficult task.

Upon noticing a lonely house ahead, the fox rushed straight to it. Whoever lived there, they would hardly be scarier than the green-eyed monster stalking her. Flying through the open door, the fox’s sixth sense helped her determine that the house had a spacious cage inside, so she dived into a narrow passage and slammed the door shut.

“Try chewing on this!” the fox screamed hysterically, breaking into a wild laughter that ran through her with a huge sense of relief. But the dog didn’t even attempt to enter. Making sure that the playful animal was delivered to the final destination, the dog lost all interest in the fox at once and rushed to help the miller. From here, it was impossible to understand what was happening at the mill, but the dog hoped that he would have enough time to get there. But instead, it ran right into the wolves.

At the first glance, the miller was as old as the mill itself. He was slowly grinding the flour, the blades spinning, the flour falling into the sack. He didn’t want to sleep, and sitting around doing nothing wasn’t a particularly thrilling idea either, so instead, he was working.

It was past midnight when he heard someone’s call through the familiar rustling of the millstones. This surprised him. No one came to the mill at night, fearing wolves. And not without reason. After the epidemic, the wolves grew bolder. So, if someone came here, it could only be because of some extreme necessity or emergency. And neither promised anything good. The miller had to check, though.

Two completely unfamiliar men were looking at the mill doors blankly. They had no weapons, but their clothes betrayed them as foreigners. And travelers without weapons were like a windmill without the wind.

“What happened?” the miller asked. The men were obviously expecting that the gates would open, not the window, so they began to look around, puzzled, before accidentally noticing the miller.

“Let us stay the night!” they demanded in a tone that tolerated no objections.

“What for?” the miller inquired. He didn’t like these travelers. Were they bandits? But if so, why didn’t they have any weapons? “Where did you come from?”

“None of your business, old man!” one of them spoke, glaring as if everything was already obvious.

“Wolves are wandering about here, so you’d better leave,” the miller advised. The meaning of the foreign word was unknown to him, but considering how it was uttered, it was clearly an insult. Good guests didn’t behave like this.

“Your wolves, you save them,” the second guest grumbled, dissatisfied. “Will you open the gates or not?”

The miller shook his head.

“Look, old man, we asked you nicely!” The foreigners looked at each other and the miller realized that he wouldn’t be allowed to sleep peacefully tonight after all. Not to mention that their confident demeanor started to make him angry.

“Better go home now,” he offered. “I would so hate to make a meaty and bony kind of flour again… It takes ages to clean the millstones afterwards.”

“Without food?” the guests looked at each other again. “Not. In. This. World.”

They were definitely bandits. They had come to steal some flour.

“Leave!” the miller warned them. “You won’t be getting anything here. Apart from black eyes. Take this as a warning.”

“This is a moot point!” the second one stuttered, but the first one interrupted him.

“Open up!” he snarled, grabbing the handle and yanking it hard. The windmill suddenly shone with a piercing blue light, making the man jump back with a cry, pressing his scorched hand to his chest. The mill went dark.

“Told you so!” the miller announced. He was just as puzzled as his guests but decided not to miss the opportunity and pretend that this was intended.

The second guest turned out to be smarter and avoided direct confrontation. Cautiously approaching the door, he touched it with the back of his hand and immediately withdrew it. Nothing happened. Chuckling, he tried again. And again, nothing happened. Then he boldly grabbed the handle and paused in anticipation. There was no glow.

“I’ve got grandfather for our lunch!” he shouted happily. “Come on! Let’s open this stupid door and drink the old man’s blood!”

The miller was taken aback.

“What the hell have you been smoking?” he exclaimed.

The tension on the second man’s face gave way to a victorious smile, and he grabbed the handle with both hands. There was a roar and the mill went alight with sparks, shining so brightly that the miller briefly ceased seeing anything but bright spots in his eyes. A booming snap threw the second man far to the side. The two men cried out against the unbearable light, showing the fangs that were sticking from their mouths.

“What nonsense is this?” the first of them shouted. “Why can’t we come inside?”

“I’m going to get you, old man!” the second one shouted, forgetting about his role as a peacekeeper. “I’m not leaving until I drink your blood!”

“Good luck with that,” the miller said and closed the window. He had noticed that the upper canines of his guests were longer than usual, and he didn’t want to test the strength of their bites. “Filthy scum!”

The vampire gritted his teeth and looked at his partner.

“Think! What’s helping him? I’ve never dealt with windmills before!”

“Well, I haven’t, either!” the first one argued. “I prefer to drink the blood of the townspeople!”

“And where do you want me to find townspeople in the village at one in the morning?”

The miller heard this, opened the window, and asked in an innocent voice,

“You still here?”

“We sure are!” the first man lifted his head to stare at the sky. “Oh, I’ve got it!”

The second one sent him a puzzled look.

“You’ve got what?”

“Why the mill doesn’t strike every time! Look at it! What do you see?”

He received a puzzled look once again.

“The same thing as before.”

“It’s a windmill!”

“So?”

“Nots and crosses,” the first one said. “When the blades become a cross, we turn into a not!”