You Keep What You Capture
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$45 upfront payment equivalent to $15 per month. New customers on first three-month plan only. Taxes and fees extra. Speeds lower above 40 gigabytes. See details. Donovan hits the brakes hard, nearly sending Carter face-first into the dashboard. Fucking hell, dude! Carter exclaims. What the fuck?

"I missed the turn," Donovan says as he puts the car in reverse. Or tries to. He grinds the gear shift over and over, his foot pressing the clutch all the way to the floorboard to get it to engage. Finally, the transmission obeys, and the old 1996 Toyota Camry begins to slowly move backwards,

There's a high-pitched noise that originates from under the car, but sounds like it's lodged in both men's brains. You need to have that looked at! Carter cries out over the noise. Your transmission is going to fucking fall off one day! You gonna pay for it? Donovan snaps as he turns his entire body around so he can see out the rear window. Because I don't have new transmission money just lying around. We will after this, Carter says. Trust me.

"You keep saying that," Donovan says. "And I'll believe it when I have the cash in hand." "Mr. Montesqui was legit, man. Chill," Carter says. "I know guys who have made some serious cheddar off his weird...tastes. How many guys?" Donovan asks. "I don't know. A few," Carter says with a shrug. "Yeah, sure," Donovan says, then hits the brakes and looks out his window at the dirt road hidden in the thick woods that surround the entire area.

This is it.

Carter leans past him and takes a look, then shakes his head. "Maybe we should come back in the daylight," Carter suggests. "Are you joking?" Donovan asks. "It took us six days to get this guy to pick up his phone. He said tonight was the night we can make the buy. Not tomorrow after lunch. Tonight." "I know, I know," Carter replies. "It just looks a little Texas Chainsaw Massacre-y." "Yeah, well, this is the gig, so chainsaws or not, we're going in.

"Making the buy, then heading straight for Montesquieu's place for our payout," Donovan says as he cranks the wheel. "You got the money?" "In the backpack in the back seat," Carter says, obviously irritated by the question. "That's the eighth time you've asked since we left the city."

"It'll probably ask a ninth time," Donovan responds. "Don't say it," Carter says and holds up a finger as Donovan puts the gear shift in first and eases the car down the dark dirt road. "I wasn't going to say anything." "Yeah, you were. I know you. If I was going to say something, I would have said it." Carter shakes his head. "But if I was going to say anything," Donovan says, "I'd remind you how Mazatlan turned out when you said you had the money and guess what? You didn't."

"I knew it!" Carter exclaims. "Always with Mazatlan!" "It cracks me up how you get offended when I bring that up," Donovan says. "You weren't the one with the chain wrapped around his ankles and suspended over a pit of crocodiles, now were you? Yet, if I bring up Mazatlan, you act all butthurt over it like your life nearly ended. And I keep telling you that you were never really in any danger. And I keep telling you to choke on your own fucking tongue if you actually think that's true."

Those dudes were very much going to drop me into that pit if Jackie hadn't come through at the last minute. Carter shrugs and looks out of his window at the inky blackness of the woods that drift by. Hold on, Carter says and grabs Donovan's arm. Stop the car for a second. We're already late, Donovan replies. I'm not stopping. Definitely not stopping out here in the middle of nowhere. When I see house lights and evidence of civilization again, then I'll stop.

"No, seriously, I saw something back there," Carter says, craning his neck around so he can see back behind the car. "Stop, man!" "What did you see?" Donovan asks. "I don't know. Something moving in the trees." "You saw something moving in the trees?" "Yeah." "And you don't know what that something is?" "No. That's why I want you to stop. So fucking stop, man."

Let me see if I have this straight, okay? We are driving down a dirt road that is nearly impossible to see from the main road. Not that I'd call that shitty rural highway the main of anything considering it's made of mostly potholes. It's the middle of the night, no one except some eccentric rich dude knows where we are, and you want to stop this car, the only thing between us and whatever the fuck is out there, so you can figure out what you saw moving among the trees because you are fucking obsessed with weird shit at night.

Am I right? Does that sum it up? Pretty much, Carter says. But if you're too fucking scared to pull over... Nice try, dildo, Donovan says with a laugh. You aren't going to ego trip me into pulling this car over. We're late. It's dark as fuck. And whatever you saw could either not exist at all or, if it does exist, it has fucking fur and fangs and claws and shit.

You just described a bear, Carter says. I fucking know I did, because maybe that's what you saw, moron, Donovan exclaims, which makes stopping and checking it out a very fucking dumb idea. Whatever, Carter says and crosses his arms over his chest as he leans back into his seat.

I don't even know why you do this shit with me anymore. You always complain. You always act like I'm trying to get you killed. You're only happy when we get paid. It's like you don't find our line of work fun at all.

"Line of work? There is no line of work," Donovan snaps. "We take jobs picking up weird shit for weird motherfuckers where the pay is just okay. If they pay us at all. Now you want to bring up Shure?" Carter says and throws up his hands. "Why are you always like this? We have survived every job and gotten paid for every job except for one. And that's because Shure fucking died of a heart attack, man. Dead men can't pay."

"But live ones don't fucking care that dead ones don't pay!" Donovan shouts. He holds up his right hand and shoves it at Carter. "What the live men care about is what they get what they are owed, when they are owed it! Or they fucking cut off half a pinky finger and make you eat it!" Carter is silent for a second then nods. "Yeah, you got me there," Carter says. "Sorry about your pinky, man."

"Sorry doesn't pay the bills, see," Donovan says, and places his four and a half fingers, plus the rest of the hand, back on the steering wheel. "Sorry doesn't grow back fingers." "I know, I know, which is why Montesquieu paid us half up front," Carter says. "See, dude, I'm learning, I'm learning." Before Donovan can respond, there's a break in the trees and a dilapidated farmhouse comes into view. The paint may have been white once upon a time, but is now a dingy gray.

Most of the windows' shutters are hanging by a single nail or lying down on the ground below. The porch light is a weak beacon in the pitch black night and mainly serves to illuminate the broken railings and splintered boards that make up the decrepit structure. "I think Montesquieu is overpaying," Donovan says. "He could probably pay a quarter of the price and this guy would still be happy as a pig in shit."

"Why? Because he's country?" Carter asks. "Not all of us were born and raised city slickers, dude. I don't care if this guy is country or not." Donovan responds. "What I care about is that the Texas chainsaw vibe is getting stronger and stronger every time I look at this place. We could probably keep the cash and pay the guy in nails or hay or something. That's pretty closed-minded." Carter says as Donovan pulls up in front of the house.

"You ever think that maybe you aren't as cool and smart as you think you are?" "No," Donovan says flatly. "I never think that." The two men sit in the car for a full two minutes before Donovan finally turns off the ignition. The car gives a loud bang crack, then shutters and goes still. "This thing is going to start again, right?" Carter asks, his hand on the door handle.

I'd be a lot more certain if we'd gotten paid for the shore job, and I could have bought a new car, Donovan says and shoves his door open. But I guess we'll have to wait and find out. Great, Carter says and gets out of the car at the same time Donovan does. They each turn and stare up at the old farmhouse. Should I honk? Donovan asks. No, dude, we go up and knock. Carter snaps. What the fuck are you thinking? I don't know, Donovan says. I thought country folk honk.

"Why the fuck would you think that?" Carter asks. "Why would you honk instead of knock?" "Because you never know if maybe I'm out in the barn or in my workshop." A deep voice booms from the right side of the farmhouse. A huge man, easily six and a half feet tall and close to 300 muscled pounds, comes walking around the house, a shovel in one hand and a crowbar in the other.

Fucking shit. Donovan mutters under his breath after jumping at the shock of the sound and then the sight of the man. Piss yourself a little? The huge man asks before he stops in front of the porch steps. The backlight of the weak porch light makes it impossible to see his face. Sorry about that. I forget how dark it is out here and that most folks ain't used to it.

The huge man sets the two tools down, wipes his hands on his jeans, then steps forward and offers his right hand to Carter, who is the closest. "Holmes," the man says. "You must be Carter." "Yeah, that's me," Carter says and takes the hand offered. He winces as the man squeezes and gives his hand a hearty shake. "Good to meet you, Holmes, is it?" Carter responds.

"Just like the detective," Holmes says and lets Carter's hand go. Carter tries not to look relieved that his hand is free. He definitely tries to not rub the hand as circulation returns to his fingers. "And you are Donovan," Holmes says. He rounds the rear of the car and offers his hand to Donovan. Donovan looks at it, shrugs and shakes.

He doesn't bother hiding the wince. He definitely doesn't bother hiding the fact that he's rubbing feeling back into his fingers once Holmes lets go. With Holmes now facing the house, what little light the dim porch light puts out shines on Holmes' features. Donovan quickly forgets about his hand and struggles not to gasp. "Pretty, ain't I?" Holmes says with a chuckle as he points to his own face.

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Donovan doesn't respond and continues to stare.

"I'm just fucking with you," Holmes says. "I didn't stuff it and mount it. That wouldn't be possible considering." "Considering what?" Donovan manages to ask as he continues to stare at Holmes' face. Holmes only shrugs. "You survived a wolf attack?" Carter asks, trying to chill the vibe Donovan's staring is creating. "That's uh, that's awesome."

Wasn't so awesome at the time, Holmes says. Half my face was hanging down to my chest when I finally hiked out of there and found some help. Holmes laughs and a flock of birds erupts from out of the top of one of the trees surrounding the farmhouse. Donovan jumps and Holmes laughs even harder. Relax, Holmes says after his chuckles subside. Just crows. He moves past Donovan and heads to the porch. He picks up the shovel and crowbar, then climbs the steps.

When he reaches the front door, he turns and frowns down at Carter and Donovan. "You two coming inside or what?" he asks, then looks around. His eyes, two gleaming orbs and a mass of scar tissue. "Probably a good idea. Crows ain't the only things awake right now." "What the fuck does that mean?" Donovan whispers. "I'm sure he's talking about coyotes and bears and shit," Carter replies.

"Sure," Holmes says. "Coyotes and bears and shit, yeah, that's what I'm talking about." Holmes opens the front door and walks into the dark house, his bulk lost from sight the second he's off the porch. "Come on, I got things to do and you two are holding me up," Holmes shouts from inside the house.

Dude! Donovan hisses. I know, I know, this guy is creepier than our usual encounters. Carter says. You fucking think? Donovan snaps. A branch snaps somewhere out in the forest and the sound of leaves rustling echoes out into the driveway. Fuck this! Donovan says. We should go.

"Oh boo hoo," Carter says and walks to the porch. "City boy is scared of the local wildlife. Poor baby. Fuck you see," Donovan says as he hesitates, then follows Carter up onto the porch. The two men pause outside the open front door. "Come on in," Holmes shouts from somewhere inside. "Shit, the cash," Carter says and rushes back to the car, leaving Donovan alone outside the front door.

"Dude!" Donovan says. "You forgot too!" Carter calls from the backseat of the car. Then he emerges with the backpack and holds it up. "All good." "Nothing is all good about this shit." Donovan says when Carter returns to the porch. "Well, we just have to suck it up and make the deal. Then we can get the fuck out of here." Carter says.

"Y'all want tea or coffee or something?" Holmes asks, suddenly appearing right inside the front door. "Fuck!" Donovan shouts. Holmes smirks. "Camamail it is," Holmes says and walks off. "You two are jumpy as fuck and need to calm down." Carter takes a deep breath and steps over the threshold, the backpack clutched to his chest like a shield.

When nothing happens, Carter lets out the breath and continues walking down the hallway toward where the only light is coming from. "I make mine with honey and milk," Holmes yells to them. "That okay with you two?" "Sure. Honey and milk is just fine," Carter says. Donovan waits a second then follows.

"I am not drinking anything he gives us," Donovan says quietly when he catches up to Carter. "No shit," Carter says. "But it'd be rude to say no, and I don't wanna be rude to this guy, do you?" Donovan doesn't answer. He just shakes his head as his attention is drawn to the many photographs framed on the walls. Then he sees a very specific photograph of a lion leaping at a wildebeest. The two animals about to collide in a flurry of violence only moments away.

Yet, will never happen as the two beasts are forever suspended in time by the photo. "Hold the shit on," Donovan says and leans closer. Then he takes out his phone and turns on the flashlight to get a better look. "This won the National Geographic Award for Photography in 1993. I remember it because I had to do a report on the African savanna in like sixth grade."

"I won again in '98, then in '04," Holmes says, his massive body silhouetted in the kitchen doorway. "That was the peak of my career." "You're Jason Holmes," Donovan says, his voice betraying his disbelief. "What the fuck are you doing out here? And uh…" When Donovan doesn't finish his sentence, Holmes laughs.

The sound fills the house, and a scrabbling sound echoes from the second floor then goes silent. "What was that?" Carter asks. "You want to know why I'm making a deal with a man like Montesquieu instead of out taking more award-winning photographs, right?" Holmes asks, ignoring Carter's question and focusing on Donovan. "Have a seat, and we can discuss it over tea. Unless you two need to be somewhere right away."

"No, we can sit and have tea," Donovan says, his entire demeanor having changed. "Right, C? Is someone up there?" Carter asks, staring up at the ceiling. "Dude, this is Jason Holmes," Donovan says, and whacks Carter on the shoulder. "This is crazy cool, so stop being weird." "You didn't hear that?" Carter asks. "It's an old farmhouse," Donovan says. "I hear all kinds of shit. Tea's ready." Holmes calls from the kitchen.

"Let's go," Donovan says, and grabs Carter by the elbow, pulling him down the hallway and into the kitchen. "Have a seat," Holmes says, and gestures toward a small kitchen table with four chairs and two steaming mugs of tea. "I ran out of honey for mine, so let me go get some from the pantry down in the basement. You two enjoy your tea. Careful, it's hot."

Ben Holmes has gone through a door set next to a set of built-in shelves, leaving Donovan and Carter alone. "Dude, did you see his face?" Carter whispers. "It's like it's just folded up flesh that got glued back onto his skull." "Yeah, I know," Donovan says. "Remember when he said a wolf did that? He wasn't fucking lying. It was a wolf, alright. Just not from around here."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Carter asks. "I read all about it." Donovan whispers, motioning for Carter to keep his voice down. "The dude was shooting photos of the wildlife returning to Chernobyl. One of the Chernobyl wolves attacked him and he almost died. From what I heard, he hasn't shot a single picture since then." "Who fucking cares?" Carter replies. He pats the backpack. "Let's make the deal and go." Then Carter looks up at the kitchen ceiling. "I don't like that sound up there."

"It was just fucking rats, dude," Donovan says, then takes a seat in front of one of the mugs of tea. "Don't be a jerk. This guy has been through some shit. Sit your ass down." "What?" Carter says and focuses back on Donovan. "Who the fuck are you right now? Just a couple minutes ago you were fully not on board with this shit at all, and now you're fanboying over some photographer who lost his face to a wolf. Like I fucking said, see? It's Jason Holmes."

And like I fucking said, who fucking cares?" "How's the tea?" Holmes asks from the basement doorway. He holds up a jar of thick, amber liquid. "Need more honey?" "It's a little hot," Donovan says, and glares at Carter until the man finally sits down. Then he blows on his mug and smiles at Holmes despite it being a very intense sight.

"I'm sure it's great, but I don't want to scorch my tongue." "I hear that," Holmes says, and walks past the table to the kitchen counter where a mug is waiting. Holmes pours a healthy amount of honey into the mug, then adds water to it from a kettle resting on the stove. Steam billows up from the mug, and Holmes stirs, stirs, and stirs, before dropping a teabag in. He turns and grins at Donovan and Carter as he goes to the fridge to fetch milk.

Once his tea is prepared, he carries his steaming mug over to the table, where he sits down next to Donovan. "That's the cash, I assume," Holmes says, his eyes on the backpack as he blows on his mug. "Uh, yeah," Carter says, looking very uncomfortable. "All 80 grand." "Eighty? Montesquieu said it'd be an even hundred," Holmes says, his eyes going from the backpack to Carter's face. "You skimming."

"What?" Carter exclaims. "No! Montesquieu said it was 80! We haven't even opened this backpack!" Holmes narrows his eyes for a second, then he leans back in his chair and laughs. More sounds come from above. "I'm just fucking with you. Relax. Drink your tea." "Yeah, see? Relax and drink your tea," Donovan says. He picks up his mug, blows on it, then sips. "Oh wow. That's, um, actually really good."

I have hives out back for the honey, and I grow the chamomile myself, Holmes says. Then he leans forward and sets his mug down. But you two aren't here for my homesteading tips. You want the camera. The what? Donovan responds. The camera, Holmes says, and looks from Donovan to Carter and back. You don't know what you're picking up?

"We don't ask many questions," Donovan says. "Sometimes it's better not to know what we're paying for, right C?" Donovan gives Carter a look and the man slowly nods. Donovan frowns and returns his attention to Holmes. "Is it like one of the cameras you used to shoot some of your award winners?" Donovan asks. "Because I bet those are worth a lot, considering what you accomplished with them."

"You're not a photographer, are you?" Holmes asks. "No, I just know about your work and I-" Donovan starts to say, but stops when Holmes holds up a hand. "I haven't worked since this happened," Holmes says, pointing at his face. "Which was over a decade ago. I had to sell all my cameras over the years to make ends meet." "Oh," Donovan replies. "Sorry to hear that. Except for the camera you're selling to Mr. Montesquieu, right?" Carter asks.

"I'm sorry," Holmes says. "You sold all your cameras, except for the one you're selling to Mr. Montesquieu, right?" Carter repeats. "Uh, yeah, of course," Holmes says and wags a finger. "Drink your tea. Relax. I don't tell you all about it." "That's okay. We don't-" Carter says before Donovan interrupts him. "Great," Donovan says. "I'd love to hear the story." Carter glares at Donovan, then his eyes slowly drift up to the ceiling.

Holmes studies Carter for a minute, then smiles and turns to Donovan. "I used to only shoot still photos," Holmes says. "But then I was given an assignment I couldn't refuse. The bay was amazing. The location was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. But the only thing was, I had to use an old Arriflex 16mm film camera instead of my Hasselblad or my Canons.

"So we're here to pick up a movie camera?" Carter asks, without looking away from the ceiling. "Great. Can you go get that for us so we can hit the road? It's a long drive to the city." "Of course, of course," Holmes says. "But I need to tell you this story first. You should know what you'll be holding onto even if it is only for a few hours." "It's not for us," Carter says. "It's for Mr. Montesquieu."

Donovan asks and holds up a hand. A range of emotions, none of them positive, wash over Carter's face before his shoulders slump and he rests an elbow on the table. Carter says to Holmes then nods at Donovan.

"This guy doesn't give up, so I might as well listen to the story instead of listen to him bitching the whole ride home about how he didn't get to hear the story." "Way to make an old man feel wanted," Holmes says and laughs. Carter's eyes dart to the ceiling, but no new sounds come from above. "It was 2014," Holmes begins, "and digital photography was in full swing."

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It was desolate and run down which is what he expected. The young woman in tight jeans and an even tighter tank top was not what he expected. "Mr. Holmes?" the woman asked in almost flawless English. "I am Katerina Eliskaya and I'll be your guide." "Great," Holmes said and gave the woman a huge grin. He held out his hand and she took it. "It's good to meet you, Miss Eliskaya." "Please, call me Kat," Katerina said.

"Call me Jason," Holmes said. "We'll see." Katarina responded and let go of Holmes' hand. "If you will follow me, I will show you to the car." Holmes adjusted the backpack on his shoulder, then pointed at the metal building in front of them. "I don't need to go through customs?" Holmes asked. "I flew directly from Poland." "No need. It is all taken care of." Katarina said then gestured for him to follow her. "It is?" Holmes asked as he lowered his sunglasses.

"I'm not sure that's how passports work." "That is how they work here," Katerina said. "Welcome to Chernobyl, Ukraine, Jason. It will be an experience you never forget." "I'm sure it will be," Jason said, and followed Katerina around the metal building to a small parking lot out front. Most of the cars in the lot looked ancient and were models that Holmes didn't recognize.

but Katarina was leading them to a vehicle that Holmes knew well. "1996 Jeep Cherokee," Holmes said as he approached the classic SUV. "I used to have one just like it. How'd you get one over here?" "This is Ukraine, Jason," Katarina said as she unlocked the passenger door for him. "Not Siberia. Although, I am sure if someone in Siberia wants one, they can get one. The world isn't as closed off as you think."

"Except for here," Ohm said and tossed his backpack into the jeep. "The Chernobyl containment zone. That's about as closed off as places get." "And yet, you are lucky enough to be escorted inside the zone by me," Katerina replied. "Proving my point." "You got me on that one," Ohm said and hopped in. Katerina started up the jeep and the straight-six engine roared to life.

"I was told a camera would be waiting for me," Holmes said. "It is in the back," Katerina responded, and Holmes noticed the shift in tone in her voice. "Is something wrong?" Holmes asked as Katerina drove them out of the parking lot and away from the rundown airport. "Is there not enough film?" "Plenty of film," Katerina said, taking a left at the first intersection. "There is nothing wrong, as long as you follow some simple rules."

"Like?" Holmes asked, a grin on his face and a laugh in his voice. The ice-cold eyes Katerina turned on Holmes killed the laugh and wiped the grin off his face. "I am not joking," Katerina said, her eyes locking with Holmes's a second longer than he was comfortable with. Then she returned her gaze to the road and the very sparse traffic it held. "Rule number one is that you only film what you want to capture," Katerina said.

"Rule number two is-" "Whoa, whoa, whoa," Holmes interrupted. "Back up. What the fuck does that first rule even mean? Only film what you want to capture?" Katerina frowned, but did not look over at Holmes. "Were you not told about the camera?" she asked. "My employer has been cryptic when it comes to details, but I did my homework on the camera so I'd be prepared," Holmes said.

"An Arriflex 416 16mm film camera. It can shoot from 1 to 75 frames per second. It is surprisingly good in dark environments when using the Kodak." "You will not be using commercial film stock," Katerina said. "It does not survive the camera." "Survive the camera?" Holmes laughed and didn't care when Katerina side-eyed him. "This gets better and better. Okay, how about you finish the rules, then I'll ask questions."

"That was the plan," Katerina said. She cleared her throat as she turned right onto a dirt road. "Rule number two is, you wear your protective gear at all times, and you never open the camera without gloves." "Sounds like two rules in one there," Holmes said, and held up his hands. "Sorry, sorry. Continue."

"Rule number three is you do not develop the film during the night," she said. "You must develop the film during the day so you have a chance to destroy it if needed."

Holmes opened his mouth, then shut it quickly. Rule number four is that you never ever watch the developed film alone or at night. Katerina continued. Rule number five is if you disregard any of these rules, do not come looking for help. You will not find it. You will be on your own and once on your own, there is only one way to survive. Holmes dutifully waited for Katerina to continue. After she took two more turns onto two other dirt roads, Holmes spoke up.

"That's a lot to take in," Ohm said. "Can I ask questions now?" "You may, yes," Katerina said. "But I do not agree to answer any of them. And if I do answer them, it will be in my way, and you will have to settle for that." "Sure," Ohm said and narrowed his eyes. "Let's start with practical. Why doesn't commercial film stock survive the camera?" "It is hot," Katerina answered.

The camera was found just outside the Chernobyl reactor three weeks after the accident. "That was a decade ago," Ohm said. "And the camera is still radioactive?" "That is how radioactivity works, yes," Katerina responded. "There is special film that does work inside it. But that film is hot as well, and there is only so much left. I do not know who your employer is, but they are very well connected if they are able to secure the use of this camera."

"Okay, okay," Holmes said. "Now I understand most of the rules. They're related to the radioactive contamination on the camera and film." Katerina did not respond. "Right? That does not matter," Katerina said with a shrug. "What matters is you followed the rules. Can you do that? Are you providing the gloves and hazmat suit?" Holmes asked.

They are in the back. The camera and film are in their own crate," Katerina replied. Then she slowed the jeep and pulled off the road. "We are here." "Already?" Holmes asked. "Are we close to the containment zone?" "We are inside the containment zone," Katerina said. "Are you fucking kidding me?" Holmes said with panic in his voice. "I'm not wearing a fucking suit. How much radiation am I being exposed to? Am I basically getting cancer right this fucking second?

"Relax," Katerina said. "This far out, the radiation risk is negligible. You will be fine." Holmes stared at her for a few seconds until Katerina sighed and got out of the jeep. "Come along, Jason," Katerina said. "You are burning daylight." Holmes reluctantly got out of the jeep and walked around to the back where Katerina was opening the hatch then opening a large metal case.

Inside was an Airyflex 416 film camera and six magazines of film. Then she grabbed a duffel bag next to the crate and tossed it on the ground. "Asmat suit, put it on," she ordered. "Over my clothes?" Holmes asked. "Over your underwear, unless you want to bake to death inside the suit."

Katerina said. "Do not be modest. I do not care about what boxer shorts you wear." "I'm more of a briefs guy," Holmes said and laughed. "Sorry. Yeah, I know the drill. I've done several volcano shoots before, so it's similar." Katerina smiled politely and walked back to the front of the jeep and leaned against the driver's side door. Holmes took that as his cue to strip down and suit up. In minutes, he was encased in thick plastic.

Once suited up, Holmes picked up the camera and looked it over. It was about the size of a large toaster with a lens sticking out from one end. He put the viewfinder up to the clear plastic on the front of the suit's hood. He had to press hard to get the viewfinder to line up with his vision and be close enough for him to see anything. After fiddling with the knobs and dials, Holmes felt like he was ready to get to work. He loaded up the extra film into the pouches on his suit, then walked awkwardly over to Katerina.

"Where's your suit?" he asked. "I do not have one," she replied. "I am not going with you." "Wait, what?" Holmes asked. "You're my guide!" "And I guided you this far," Katerina said. "Personally, if not for being paid, I would have nothing to do with this job or that camera. You act like it's cursed or something," Holmes said. Katerina shrugged. "They used to say that cameras steal your soul." "Yeah, I've heard that," Holmes said.

"You don't believe this camera can do that, do you? I sure hope you don't. You don't seem like you're crazy." Katerina shrugged again, then got into the jeep. "I'll be waiting here. But if the sun goes down before you return, and you are on your own…" "You'll leave me here at night alone?" Holmes asked. "You are never alone in the containment zone," she said, and gave him a sad smile. "Good luck." "Uh, which way?" Holmes asked. Katerina pointed into the woods.

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When she didn't, he nodded then walked off, loaded down by the camera and film. After a few yards of walking, he turned and saw Katerina watching him carefully. "Hey!" he shouted. "I didn't ask about that first rule. What does it mean?" "It means that what the camera captures, it keeps!" Katerina called back. "What the fuck does that even mean?" Holmes mumbled to himself, then turned and started walking again.

It was nearly impossible to stay quiet in the suit, so after about a kilometer into the woods, Holmes decided to look for a place to stop so his walking in the hazmat suit didn't scare off the wildlife. After a few more meters, he came to a fallen tree that looked like a good place to set up. "I'll just hang here and let the mutant woodland creatures find me," Holmes muttered as he got the camera set up on the fallen tree and loaded it with a magazine of film.

He checked the settings, double-checked that the magazine was loaded properly, then eased his hazmat-suited body down and waited. An hour passed and not even a bird chirped from above. Two hours passed and Holmes thought he had heard squirrels up in the trees, but every time he looked up, he only saw bare branches. By the time Holmes was ready to give up, it had been six hours and the sun was lowering in the sky.

He calculated that if he broke down now and hiked back, he'd make it to the Jeep well before the sunset. So he stood and was about to grab up the gear when he saw it: a massive wolf about 20 meters north just standing there, staring directly at Holmes. Holmes slowly moved his glove to the camera and pointed it without even checking the viewfinder.

He had been alone with the camera for six hours, so he knew every single angle the lens would capture, and the wolf seemed to be standing dead center, ready for his close-up. The wolf did not move a muscle. For the entire length of the film inside the magazine, the wolf stood there, staring directly at Holmes. Then, when Holmes heard the clicking of the end of the film inside the magazine, he looked down at the camera and shut it off. When he looked back up, the wolf was gone.

Holmes didn't know if he was incredibly lucky or incredibly unlucky. Yes, he captured an insanely rare sighting of a Chernobyl wolf, but at the same time, the wolf only stood there, which did not exactly make for compelling filmmaking. But it was the shot he got, and he was grateful he got anything, considering that the day was quickly ending. Yet, the disappointment over the lack of action stuck with him the entire hike back to the jeep.

It consumed him as Katerina drove them back to the rundown hotel that sat next to the rundown airport. Katerina had left him to his thoughts on the drive, but when they parked in front of the hotel, she turned and smiled at him. "You survived the day, Jason," she said. "We should celebrate. They have a bar inside. Would you like to get a drink with me?" His mind still on the wolf footage, Holmes frowned and shook his head.

"It's been a long couple of days of travel, then driving right into work," Holmes said. "Maybe a rain check on the drink?" "You are serious?" Katerina asked. "Yeah, sorry, I'm wiped," Holmes said, then got out of the jeep. He grabbed his backpack and nodded toward the jeep's back hatch. "Is it unlocked?" "Why?" Katerina asked. "Because I'm bringing the gear in with me," Holmes said. "No way I let that camera or the film out of my sight.

"I'll bring it back to you in the morning," Katharina said, all hospitality gone from her face and her voice. "I'd rather it stay with me," Holmes said. Katharina looked like she wanted to argue, but she didn't. She got out, unlocked the back hatch, and stepped aside as Holmes grabbed the case out and lugged it to the hotel entrance. "See you at what time?" he asked over his shoulder, and was answered by squealing tires as Katharina sped away.

"Oh, okay," he muttered, then lugged the crate into the hotel lobby. Check-in was easy, and Holmes was up in his room in minutes. He stripped down, showered, put on fresh clothes, then sat in the one chair in the room and stared at the crate. An hour went by before he called down to the front desk. "I need protective gloves. Do you have any?" he asked. "Of course," the front desk clerk answered. "I will send them up." Holmes laughed to himself at how easy that was.

But then again, they were near the worst nuclear power plant accident in human history. So it stood to reason that they would have protective gear around. As soon as the gloves were delivered, Holmes put them on and opened the case. He lifted the tray with the camera and magazines on it, one of which he'd personally labeled as "Wolf." Setting the tray aside on the rug, Holmes smiled at what was underneath. "Bingo," he said as he pulled out the developing equipment and chemicals.

He'd known an old documentary filmmaker years ago who always did his developing in the field as soon as he was done shooting. So Holmes wasn't surprised that the gear was in the crate. "Once you have suffered the heartbreak of losing your footage before it can be developed, you never want to suffer like that again," the old filmmaker had said to Holmes. Holmes took it to heart and did the same with his still photography. He'd never developed film stock before, but he knew the basics.

It took him an hour to get the bathroom set up as a darkroom. Then he took the Wolf magazine into the bathroom, along with the equipment and chemicals, closed the door, turned out the light, and got to work. Holmes was used to working by feel in total darkness, and he got the film reel into the developing canister without a problem. When his timer went off, he drained the developer liquid, then added the fixer.

After the next timer, Holmes rinsed the negatives thoroughly with tap water. Then he flicked on the overhead light and worked out how to dry the film. There was a lot of cursing and failed attempts, but Holmes was able to get the film strung from the shower rod to the medicine cabinet, over the back of the door, then back to the sink.

He had to squeeze his bulk under and around the film to get out of the bathroom, and when he was finally finished, he was exhausted so he stripped to his briefs and crawled into bed. Except, sleep didn't come. Holmes tossed and turned, and every time he thought he might drift off, the image of the wolf standing there and staring at him filled his exhausted mind.

After what felt like an eternity, Holmes switched on the light, got up, and walked over to the strung out negative. He squeezed back through it and into the bathroom so he could see the beginning of the strip. Picking up the end, Holmes held the negative up to the bathroom light. Of course, being a negative, the image was reversed. The huge silver and gray wolf was just a black shadow in the film, but it was still a marvel to see.

Holmes carefully followed the negative and studied the wolf frame after frame after. Then he pulled up and frowned. The wolf was gone from the next frame. "What the fuck?" Holmes mumbled as he quickly scanned the rest of the negative. No wolf. It just wasn't there. Holmes went back to the beginning and cried out when he saw the first frames he'd looked at were empty of the wolf too. "No!" he said. "No, no, no, no!"

Back and forth he went, checking every single individual frame. But the wolf was gone from the film. With his back to the bedroom and his head in his hands, Holmes knelt down and tried not to cry. Then he heard a snuffling behind him, and he stood up so fast that he tangled himself in the still hanging negative. A low growl filled his ears when he was free of the film and could turn around.

There, standing in dark contrast to everything in the room, was the wolf. Full-sized, growling, and in negative, just like the wolf in the film. "What?" Holmes whispered. Then the wolf leaped at Holmes so fast he didn't even have time to scream. When Holmes is finished telling his story, Donovan and Carter share a look between themselves. "Your tea is cold," Holmes says, and points at Donovan's mug. "Want me to warm it up for you?"

"I, uh, no. I'm good," Donovan says. "That's... a story," Carter says. "A wolf in a film comes to life and attacks you in your hotel room. Pretty crazy." "It was, it was," Holmes says. "I spent years having surgeries to get my face to look even this good." Holmes laughs. Donovan and Carter do not.

"But I thought, and I'm only saying this because I read it somewhere," Donovan says even though Carter is staring daggers at him to stay quiet, "that you were attacked in the woods near Chernobyl. You know, like a normal wolf attack." "A normal wolf attack?" Holmes says and laughs harder. "No, no. That's just the story put out there by the Ukrainian authorities. It was the wolf from the Negative that nearly killed me. I know that for sure."

"Okay," Donovan says and stands up. "That's pretty wild." "Yeah," Carter says and stands up also. He shakes the backpack. "We heard your story. Can we do the deal now? I'd like to get home before dawn." "Of course," Holmes says and stands as well. "Just give me a minute." As soon as Holmes leaves, Carter and Donovan turn to each other, their eyes wide. "What the actual fuck, dude?" Carter snaps. "I know," Donovan responds.

"Sorry I didn't listen earlier. We need to get the fuck out." "Here you go," Holmes says as he carries a crate into the kitchen and sets it on the table, nearly knocking the tea mugs off. One camera and one magazine of film, plus equipment in the bottom for developing. He leans over the crate and stares hard at Donovan and Carter. "But I wouldn't do any developing if I were you," he says, then waits a second and breaks out laughing.

"Oh, you guys are the best. You should see the looks on your faces." Carter doesn't say a word and holds out the backpack. Holmes takes it with a grateful nod. "How did you end up with this stuff?" Donovan asks. "Dude, let's just go, okay?" Carter says. "He's probably..." "When I finally got out of the hospital, the crate was waiting for me in my apartment," Holmes says.

I don't know how or why, but there it was. "With only one magazine of film left to use?" Donovan asks. "No, the rest were there," Holmes says. "I've used a couple over the years once I moved out here. It gets lonely in the country."

Footfalls echo down from the second floor, and both Carter and Donovan look up. "Cool, cool," Donovan says, then hurries around the kitchen table to Carter. "Well, it was great meeting you." "You too, boys," Ohm says. "I'll walk you out." "No, no, we're good," Donovan says, and he and Carter hurry out of the kitchen with the crate.

They are down the hall and at the front door when a stair squeaking gets their attention. They both turn, and at the very top of the stair stands a person in negative. The person lifts a hand and waves.

Donovan and Carter stare for a second, then both scream and run from the house with the crate. They scramble down the porch steps and hurry to the Camry's trunk. "Come on, come on!" Carter snaps as Donovan struggles to unlock the trunk. Once he has it, they lift the cart inside, slam the trunk, and both jump into the car. Donovan has the engine turned over and is racing away from the house before Carter even has his seatbelt buckled.

"Jesus Christ!" Carter yells, and shoves away from the passenger window when they are halfway down the dirt road. "What?" Donovan exclaims, swerving the car from the sudden shock of Carter's yelling. "I think I saw a wolf!" Carter says. Donovan doesn't reply. The two men remain silent the entire drive back, as both try desperately not to think about what they saw or what Holmes told them. They especially try not to think about what's in the trunk.