Gohar: An Extremely Chilling Horror

Gusta

The highly secured Clifford prison bus rumbled down the narrow, twisting hill road in Dilijan. The landscape was eerie—gut roads cutting through wheat fields, the moonlight barely piercing the dense, owlish darkness. The road itself seemed to slither, boggy and uneven, as if leading them deeper into the unknown.

Inside the bus were six prisoners, all bound by iron chains, their hands and feet locked together. Each step, each movement, relied on the others. Among them was Benjra Gustavew, known as 'Gusta,' his face covered in a thick blond beard, and his right arm marked with the Russian 'Masto' gang tattoo. Gusta was responsible for seventeen murders, leading the gang from Armenia. His green eyes, hidden under bushy blond eyebrows, scanned the desolate fields through the dark bus window.

Sitting in front of Gusta was Helena Ivanova—known to everyone simply as Helen. She had a past darker than most. Born Grigor Barthasar in Moldova, Helen had lived a life shrouded in mystery. From a young age, his body had taken on feminine traits, and by the time he was a teen, he had embraced a new identity, turning to prostitution under the name Helena Ivanova. The dragon tattoos just above her eyes, where her eyebrows should have been, hinted at her troubled life. When she smiled at Gusta, her copper-plated teeth gleamed in the darkness.

Gusta began to hum, his deep voice masking the faint clinking of chains as Helen's hands shifted ever so slightly. Musa, seated next to her, leaned in. Musa was an Iranian refugee, bald in the front with a thick beard, and his eyes met Gusta's for a moment—a signal. They had freed their hands from the chains.

Gusta closed his eyes, listening to the creaking of the bus as it navigated the dangerous curves of the Dilijan road. He knew what was coming. If the plan failed, death would come swiftly.

As the bus swerved around a tight bend, Gusta sprang into action. In an instant, he lunged at the officer beside him, snatching his gun and firing at the guard in the front row. The bullet tore through the man's neck, blood spraying across the aisle as he collapsed. Without missing a beat, Gusta smashed the butt of the gun into the head of the officer next to him, sending him crumpling to the floor.

Helen, quick as a shadow, scrambled forward, grabbing another gun that had fallen. She fired toward the front, and the bus erupted into chaos. Bullets flew, lights shattered, and the once-deadly quiet was consumed by the sound of gunfire, screams, and the blinding flashes of muzzle fire.

The driver slumped over the wheel, shot, and the bus careened wildly off the road, crashing into a wheat field and flipping on its side. Flames ignited in the front, thick black smoke quickly filling the air.

Gusta crawled from the wreckage, the gun still in hand. His feet were chained, and as he pulled himself out, the prisoner beside him tumbled down too, his body riddled with bullets. The man gasped for breath, his eyes pleading for mercy, but Gusta had none to give. He calmly raised the gun and ended his suffering, then shot the chains on his feet to free himself.

The fire was spreading fast, threatening to consume the entire bus. Gusta moved swiftly, dragging Helen from the wreckage. Musa crawled out next, blood pouring from a gunshot wound in his leg. Behind him was another prisoner—Zhora, a hulking figure from Gyumri, his face streaked with blood. One of his ears had been blown off, and he pressed a hand to his head to stop the bleeding.

Suddenly, a deafening explosion rocked the night as the bus burst into flames, a massive fireball lighting up the dark sky. Then, silence.

Gusta looked out over the wheat field. Soon, people would come to investigate the explosion, and he had no intention of being there when they arrived.

In the distance, past the Dilijan boundary, lay the village of Spitak, nestled between the mountains. If they could reach Spitak by dawn, they might find a way to disappear. Without a word, Gusta, Helen, and Zhora began to run, dragging the injured Musa with them, the flames of the wreckage flickering behind them.