Note from early April, 1985: Ruski crouches down with a beaten look. He whines sadly through the room, skitters away from me and down into the basement with his little cries. The cry of a half-formed mutant creature...hope withering...the cry of that hope dying. Ruski is now crying in the basement. Whenever I get close to him he cries and moves away. The mutant that doesn't quite make it, the only one of his kind, the little lost voice always fainter.
Down in the basement looking for Ruski. Nothing and nobody there but the stink of death, the dank old stagnant air, the gun cabinet,targets covered with dust.
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