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“But why?” Suchek sulked. “I thought you said there was a path.”

Yuri grit his teeth. “It’s a swamp is why, and swamps are wet. We’ll use the path but I’m not going to stop because one of you delicate flowers gets soggy. Now put them on and be sure to lace up tight after. Got me?”

More grumping but the scientists did as they were told.

“You’re welcome,” Yuri said when they were done. “I gave you another five minutes to rest. Now we’re going to cross the Wet Valley. I’ll take the lead but you will keep your mouths shut, stay on my ass, and keep moving.” He pulled Sasha, his AK-74, around and racked the charging handle, chambering a round for emphasis. “Got me?”

Artur’s hand drifted to the pistol at this thigh. “What’s down there? Is it dangerous?”

“What did I just say about shutting up?” Yuri asked.

“I just want to know in case—“

“In case what? You get spooked?”

Artur’s shuffled his feet but his hand still rested on the pistol butt.

Yuri sniffed, his voice deadly quiet. “You will not pull that shooter out of its holster unless I say. Got me, druzhishe? I will handle any special case.”

Artur nodded. The others as well.

Yuri smiled as if they were about to walk through a park on a sunny day. “Good. Now follow me and we’ll go find your bunker.”

2. like the devil is after your soul

It was worse than he feared, the Wet Valley.

Clouds of bugs, calf-deep mud, and the rotten, low tide stink… Gah! It was so rank it burned the hairs in his nose. Yuri pulled his scarf up so as to not puke breakfast. Visibility was crap in the tall grass and the hiss of wind in the rushes sounded like a hundred ghosts whispering his name. He moved as fast as he dared, holding Sasha’s stock and fore grip so tight his hands ached.

The only redeeming feature about Vanya’s trail was that was where it was supposed to be: a string of hard dirt humps, wooden boards, and old truck tires that zigzagged across the slop and twisted though the maze of reeds. Yuri hated how narrow it was, one man at a time. He kept checking every few meters to make sure the URAN scientists were still behind him.

The scarecrow Iosif stuck with him, skinny and quick as an alley cat, a determined scowl on his gaunt face. Artur followed closely after, his hand still clutching his pistol holster. Suchek was last, waddling and mincy as a nervous sow. If Yuri concentrated, he could hear the slap, slap, slap of the fat man’s boots in the muck.

St. Strelok, please don’t let anything else hear him.

Yuri would pause whenever the path widened enough for them bunch up for a moment. They would stumble to a halt, gulp down a few breaths and he would look into each of their faces in the desperate hope he could put a little steel in their guts by wishful thinking.

“Not much farther,” he’d say each time. “One more good push.” It was the same line his old Praporshchik Dygalo used to use on the squad back in Syria. Especially when the shit was worse than he wanted them to know.

“How much farther? Are we there yet? We must nearly be across,” Artur asked.

Yuri gave him a firm smile. “Keep going. I’ll tell you when, don’t worry.”

Suchek looked like a frightened donkey, dripping sweat, wide eyed with flared nostrils. Man might have a stroke right then and there. Yuri made a show of patting him on the shoulder.

“Easy. Easy there. You’re doing good.”

“What — what about — the danger?” Suchek panted. “You said — there was — something down here.”

Yuri feigned indignation. “What? You’ve upset Sasha.” He stroked the side of his AK–74. Moy kroshka here can handle anything we find. No one wants to argue with her, eh?”

Suchek nodded. Artur giggled nervously. Even Iosif cracked a smile.

Artur pulled his Makarov from its holster. “Olga is ready too.”

Yuri choked back a laugh. Iosif arched an eyebrow. “Olga?”

Artur blushed. “Well he named his gun.”

“It’s fine. Fine,” Yuri nodded seriously. “You just keep her holstered until I say so. Too many girls at once gets messy, eh?” he winked.

Artur reluctantly tucked the little pistol away.

St. Strelok, may that seize up and jam. Please, Yuri prayed. Dying was a possibility he shouldered every trip to the Zone; getting killed by one of Vanya’s rusty Cold War relics was not acceptable. Not at all.

“Ready?” Yuri asked. “We’re almost there, See?” The jagged tops of Chernya’s trees swayed just above the brown and green stand of rushes and thick grass in front of them. His charges nodded.

“Forward for science, then,” Yuri said, and plunged ahead.

They stopped ten minutes later on a sand bar with a tumbledown trapper’s shack. Marked with a star on the map, it was a narrow spit of land a hundred meters from the far edge of the swamp.

“Nearly there,” Yuri told the scientists. “One more good push.”

The three of them were bent over catching their breath and they all looked up at him in disbelief.

“You’ve been — saying that — the whole way — across,” Suchek whined.

Yuri shrugged. “I know. But this time I mean it.”

All at once light began to fail and the wind kicked up, bringing the unmistakable flat iron scent. Yuri had heard nothing of a storm front but wadded clouds were scudding in from the north, dark and angry fists clutching a downpour.

Great, Yuri sighed. Now I’m going to get soaked to the bone. I should have demanded more money.

He shelved that thought — for now anyway — and grinned at the scientists. Better to lead than shove. “Last leg of the trail, my friends. A quick sprint and we can rest under the trees, ok?”

The scientists grumbled a little but lined up in their usual order. Yuri nodded, made approving noises. As he went to the front of the line, he spied something out of the corner of his eye: an odd swish in the grass. So sly, he almost missed it, this stirring against the wind. A chill went down his arms.

Oblivious, the scientists watched him expectantly but Yuri was already bringing Sasha up, stepping forward. His mind was blank but body suspected.

More peculiar rustling, this time on his left. Yuri squinted. The air behind the old shack was hazy, dancing like a heat sprite over tar road in August. He planted his feet and flicked Sasha’s safety to full-auto.

“What the fu—?”

A wet slap on his left, loud and close. Yuri jerked his head, swung Sasha around.

At the same time came a gust behind him, the dull thud like sacks dropping and a yelp of pain. A heartbeat later something heavy crashed into the grass behind him.

Yuri spun around: Iosif and Artur were looking puzzled, surprised. Behind them was a wall of reeds, a floor of oily brown water and the neat square of a red handkerchief spread on the sand like it was teatime.

No Suchek.

Suddenly from the swamp came a long wet growl and a terrified scream like a horse being slaughtered. Suchek. He sounded close enough to touch but Yuri couldn’t see shit.

Yuri’s mind finally caught up. Upyr! It shouted.

He’d heard the rumors, stories of monsters with chameleon skin that sucked your blood and ate your eyes like grapes. The old-timers in the bars spoke of these Bloodsuckers in hushed tones, only late at night after the bottles were empty.

Shitshitshit, Yuri’s brain reminded him. They hunt in packs.

Ice splashed in his gut. Yuri squeezed Sasha’s trigger and swept her back and forth, spraying 5.45mm hate and panic into the swamp, cutting down swathes of reeds, rounds zipping through the thick grass. Three loud seconds later, the bolt slammed open, the magazine spent. He heard the gargling roar again. Yuri turned to the scientists.