Zero Pleasure
Copyright© 2026 by Sandra Alek
Chapter 1: Dead Whiteness
Hiss walked with a spring in her step, as if those three days on the road meant nothing. Stan couldn’t help but admire her. Fast, athletic, and yet feminine. The ponytail of black hair swayed with every step, her slender back curved, her legs coiled like springs.
Only one thing was wrong: she didn’t love Stan.
Stan sighed. Not that he desperately needed her love—partners were just partners—but being a little closer would have made their shared business easier.
Sensing something was off, Stan pulled his eyes away from the young woman and scanned the surroundings.
The stones underfoot were too clean. The wind blew from the east—dry, empty, carrying no scent of salt or dust. Stan hated that kind of wind. It never brought anything but bad news.
They had been marching for six hours without a break. Hiss was up ahead, breaking the rhythm of her stride—speeding up, then suddenly slowing down. Her pauldrons clattered unevenly, as if someone at her side was testing their patience.
Stan stopped twice, shifting his battle-axe from shoulder to shoulder, listening. Quiet. Too quiet. Even the insects had gone silent. Even his own breathing sounded foreign.
“It shouldn’t be this quiet here,” he muttered, finally coming to a halt. “Something’s wrong.”
“You’re just tired of looking at my ass,” Hiss replied without turning around. “You’re seeing things.”
I’ll never get tired of looking at it, he thought, but didn’t argue. But I’m not imagining things. I know these parts. There’s always birdsong, always the hum of flies. Now, there’s nothing.
He tightened his harness strap. The air turned strange—dry and cold at the same time, as if someone had sucked the life out of it and left only the husk.
Stan mechanically counted the steps to the next bend in the trail. Forty-seven. Exactly as it always was. It didn’t calm him. It put him on edge.
He was about to tell Hiss to pick up the pace when the world ahead suddenly dimmed, as if someone had wiped the sky with a filthy rag.
A dead bird dropped right in front of Hiss. She recoiled and turned to Stan, but before she could speak, a gust of ice-cold wind hit with such force she staggered. It smelled of rot.
The air turned dry and jagged; every breath felt like swallowing crushed glass.
The White Blight didn’t arrive—it happened.
A gray shroud surged from behind the rocky ridge so suddenly it felt as if the earth itself was exhaling a cold, gray death.
Stan waved her forward. “On me! Get off the low ground, move up. I know the trail. Keep close.”
Hiss cursed and broke into a fast stride.
“Breathe every other breath,” he barked over his shoulder, covering his mouth and nose with his palm.
Hiss didn’t answer. She was two paces behind. All Stan could hear was the steady clatter of her pauldrons, the creak of leather armor, and her ragged gasps for air.
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