Chernobyl’s Revenge

Hello everyone. I wanted to thank everyone who is reading this book. I know it is not what you are used to reading, so if you decide to still give this book a chance because I am the author, I truly appreciate it. Regarding the book, I won’t put TW in all the chapters because this book talks about a murderer; therefore, there will be different explicit scenes. This was the first book I wrote, it contains different hidden messages. However, some of them may be lost because of the translation. For example, La Venganza de Chernóbil has four letters; they represent the 4th month of the year because the accident in Chornobyl occurred in April. Keep that in mind as you read, and as always, I love you all. I "All available units, we have a corpse in front of Parliament. Report immediately to Abingdon Street and Avenue 3212. Suspected killer on the run." That was what Kreves heard that afternoon, Thursday, April 15, 1999. It was the typical London weather—cold and rainy, with gray clouds blocking any sunlight from reaching the city. The streets were flooded, and people rushed to shield themselves from the falling rain. Hundreds of umbrellas could be seen as Kreves roamed the streets. Kreves was a solitary man nearing 27. He had the classic Londoner look: blue eyes, ivory skin, a muscular build, and thick black hair. His face bore clear traces of sadness and the exhaustion caused by his job. That afternoon, at around 3:15 p.m., Kreves heard about the incident on Abingdon Street and Avenue 3212. Being only ten minutes away, he decided to head to the crime scene. Upon arrival, the first thing he saw was the yellow police tape put up to block unauthorized access. Forensics personnel were present, collecting samples and taking photos of the area for the investigation. Police officers were stationed around the scene, ensuring that onlookers didn’t contaminate it. They were also the ones who had alerted the other patrol units to help secure the perimeter. The victim’s body was being prepared for transport to the morgue for an autopsy. Kreves approached to take a look but was strangely denied access. He tried to sneak a glance but couldn’t see anything; the body was completely covered with a white sheet, making it impossible to spot any evidence. A few meters from the crime scene, behind the police line and escorted by officers, four detained individuals—three women and one man—stood. Kreves assumed they were the ones who had first discovered the body and witnessed the scene. Jonathan, the police chief, was trying to question them, but the witnesses couldn’t form coherent sentences. They trembled with fear, heads bowed, muttering in low tones. Their chattering teeth were audible, though not from the cold. Kreves was about to approach Jonathan when a hand on his back stopped him in his tracks. “Captain Brown is busy,” a voice said. Kreves turned to see the speaker: a stocky, dark-skinned, bald man of about 32 years, dressed in an old-fashioned black suit, standing in an intimidating manner. Upon hearing this, Kreves made a parting gesture and headed to his car to wait for the police chief to finish speaking with the witnesses. As Kreves made his way to his car, John Wright, his friend, surprised him. John was Kreves’s oldest friend. They had gone through the police academy together, though they had drifted apart recently. John was short and slightly thin, with honey-colored eyes and light brown hair. His nose was prominent, and his lips were very thin. John informed Kreves that they had been assigned the case and needed to report to the morgue where the body had been transported. Kreves wasn’t pleased, but orders were orders. He gestured for John to follow him to his car. John sat in the passenger seat. Unlike Kreves, John was quite talkative and tried to spark conversation, but Kreves showed little interest. The body had been transported to a morgue at United House and Commercial Way. The two detectives arrived at the building—imposing yet gloomy and noticeably deteriorated. Its gray walls and towering structure blocked out any light, stripping the place of whatever life it might have had. The main door was a metal gate, and a guard stationed nearby let them in after checking their credentials. A chill ran down their spines as they exited the car and entered the building. A young woman was waiting for them. She appeared to be about 20, with light brown hair, porcelain skin, and, to Kreves’s surprise, striking emerald-green eyes. Unfortunately, her eyes didn’t shine as much as he had hoped, likely due to her work environment. Without speaking, she escorted them through the building. They took an elevator to the second floor, where she pressed the button for floor S3. When the doors opened, a long corridor stretched before them. The woman asked them to wait and walked down the hall. “What do you think about the case, Kreves?” John asked. “I don’t have much to say. When I arrived, I was denied access.” “I managed to see it, just barely, though—there were too many people around the body.” “And? Usually, detectives and officers are allowed time to analyze the crime scene with the body present. We weren’t even allowed to interview the witnesses.” Before they could continue, a woman’s voice interrupted them. “Detectives Lockwood and Wright, please come in.” Without them noticing, the young woman had returned, holding two beige folders in her hand. “Gentlemen, I am Miss Marie Abbat. Here are the case files. Please follow me.” The detectives nodded and followed her. Kreves recognized the surname Abbat, though he couldn’t recall where he had heard it before. As they walked down the corridor, the distinctive odor of a morgue—rotting flesh mixed with formaldehyde and air freshener—grew stronger. Miss Abbat stopped in front of a metal swinging door, gestured for them to enter, and then left the way they had come. Inside the autopsy room was a central table with various instruments and drawers for bodies awaiting identification or newly arrived. Beside the table stood another woman—tall, likely close to 40, with striking features: red hair tied in a high ponytail, freckles, a defined nose, pink lips, and another pair of emerald-green eyes. The woman approached the body, still covered by the white sheet, indicating the autopsy had yet to begin. John spoke first. “Good afternoon. We’re Detectives Lockwood and Wright. We’re here to—” “Yes, I know why you’re here: the body found near Parliament,” the woman interrupted curtly, her tone haughty, which irritated Kreves. “I am Dr. Abbat, the forensic pathologist in charge of this facility.” “Doctor,” Kreves said, “if you don’t mind, why was the body removed so quickly?” “You’ll see for yourself, Detective. If you don’t mind, I’ll proceed. Time is of the essence.” Dr. Abbat instructed the detectives not to touch anything and to stand in front of her. She partially lifted the sheet covering the body. The sight was horrifying—the body was unrecognizable. The victim had no limbs, and their face, if it could even be called that, had patches of skin grafts. Their eyes had been removed, and their body was covered in sores. Facial identification was impossible. The chest bore deep cuts that exposed the ribs, yet there wasn’t a single drop of blood despite the severity of the injuries. “Gentlemen, we also found this on the victim’s face,” Dr. Abbat said, handing them a transparent plastic bag containing a green gas mask. The mask was significantly deteriorated, with rusted metal and numerous dents. The bag bore an orange label marking it as toxic waste. “It has that label because traces of uranium dioxide, boron carbide, europium oxide, erbium, zirconium, and graphite—all nuclear materials—were found on it. While the levels are low, precautions are necessary,” she explained before they could ask. “Any identification for the victim?” John asked, his voice trembling, his face pale. “Unfortunately not. The disfigurement prevents facial recognition, and with all the blood drained, attempts to extract DNA have so far been unsuccessful. Additionally, as you can see,” she gestured toward where the arms should have been, “we don’t have fingerprints to rely on. Detectives, I must ask you to remain calm for what comes next.” Dr. Abbat lifted the sheet entirely. The body had been sliced apart; the victim was nothing but a torso with a “face.” Kreves took a step back, struggling to comprehend how anyone could do something so gruesome. Now that he could see the torso, he understood the cuts—the nuclear symbol had been carved into the victim’s chest. “The cuts were so forceful that the victim’s lungs collapsed,” Dr. Abbat said, pausing as if overtaken by sadness before continuing. “The victim was alive when the killer did this.” “And… was this the cause of death?” Kreves asked urgently. “We can’t say for sure. I suspect these injuries killed them, but if not, draining their blood certainly would have. Unfortunately, I can’t determine the exact cause yet.” “Is there anything else that could help with the case, Doctor?” “No, I need to conduct more analysis, but if we find anything, we’ll notify you immediately. All findings and photos from the scene are in the case files.” Kreves and John thanked Dr. Abbat, left the morgue, and headed to the police station. With no leads, no victim identification, and no helpful witness statements, the case was at a standstill. Yet the police couldn’t simply close it. The brutal nature of the murder—the cuts, the symbol, the public display of the body, the mask—suggested the work of a serial killer just beginning. The biggest problem was that they had no idea of the killer’s preferred victims, no leads—nothing but a dead end.