“You are one ugly motherfok. Come to me, get some!”
Lying on the ground and wheezing from pain, Tarasov watches the Stalker wrestling with the mutant. Zef’s face is distorted from pain and his brutal effort to match the monster’s power as they grapple face to face, the dreadful arms in the Stalker’s hold, a desperate human aided by an obsolete exoskeleton fighting something that was once human, but is now two hundred pounds of muscle obeying the sole instinct to kill.
Tarasov’s rifle has been kicked away, so he reaches for his Glock and switches to automatic mode, dragging himself closer until he is able to fire the full magazine of lethal Hydra-Shock bullets into the mutant’s skull.
Wounded, it gradually falls to its knees with Zef towering over it, still holding its arms, then the Stalker raises his foot and kicks the mutant in the head, breaking its neck.
“Fuck!” Tarasov grunts, panting heavily and spitting out sour saliva.
“That’s my thank-you for giving me back my baby, boss—”
Zef’s mouth gapes open but only a hoarse rattle leaves his lips as the tip of a knife appears in his mouth. He coughs, then blood starts streaming from his throat. Ilchenko’s grinning face emerges behind him.
“The Moor has done his duty… the Moor can go. It’s an urban legend that Shakespeare wrote, but now it’s a perfect time to quote it!”
In trepidation, Tarasov watches Ilchenko pulling his bayonet from the Stalker’s head. Ilchenko licks the blood from the blade.
“I hate racists. All the blood in the world tastes the same. Like… salty oil and metal.”
Tarasov is helpless with his handgun empty and Ilchenko now aiming his weapon at him. “What have you done?” the major moans.
“I have finished the mission. No more yes, sir to idiots like you. I am smarter than you, better educated than you, and aiming a fully loaded machine gun at you. I am free now. In other words, I am the king of this fucking universe!”
“You are pathetic.”
“If so, why are you the one on his knees? An officer, a fucking major, falls to a private!” Ilchenko leans so close that he can feel the spit the private ejects with every word he scowls. “This is the moment of truth, komandir.”
A shadow falls on Ilchenko from behind.
“Indeed it is, Private… could you take a step back?”
“Last wish granted,” Ilchenko laughs as he retreats, “and what’s in that for you?”
“Not much… only that I’ll have less of your educated brains on my face when Zlenko fires his shotgun.”
Surprise is the last expression on Ilchenko’s face before his head is blown to pieces and his massive body collapses. Smoke still trickles from the barrel of Zlenko’s Benelli as he quickly reloads it.
“I couldn’t make it earlier,” the sergeant says, pointing to his badly wounded face. “The punch was one thing… but that beast threw me against something sharp.”
“Thanks, Viktor… I won’t forget this.”
“I never liked him,” Zlenko replies with an indifferent shrug.
The light is stabbing into the major’s eyes as he stretches out on the metal floor. He carefully touches the wound on his chest. When he removes his hand from under the armor, it is covered with blood.
Which drop will be the last one?
The sergeant sits at his side, his eyes like two black holes. Slowly, Tarasov sits up.
“Now there’s only you and I left, son.”
Tarasov is glad that his visor hides his eyes from the sergeant. He realizes how fond he has become of him and now, in this moment, how he would gladly give his own life if that would help Zlenko survive. He takes some bandages and a medikit from his pack and tends to the sergeant’s wound.
“Do you think I’m a coward, Mikhailo?”
“On the contrary… I will turn every damned stone upside down to get you a promotion to lieutenant.”
“Being a lieutenant… that’s much better than being a sergeant, yes.”
Tarasov realizes how shallow his words sound. “You are right… I should have just said that no, I do not think you are a coward.”
“So you won’t take it for cowardice if I say: let’s turn back. I am actually begging you to turn back. It will only get worse if we cross this bridge!”
Tarasov seeks the words to explain all the pieces of the puzzle that just keep falling into place within his own perception, things he feels rather than knows.
“Have you seen Ilchenko’s madness?” He asks, having finished bandaging the sergeant’s wound. “How Skinner ran to help an already dead friend? How Zef’s wits fell apart?”
“I do.”
“Did you have a close look at the sand and rocks in this land, the ruins, the wrecks of tanks once driven by our father’s generation? Have you seen the killing machines that people turned into, people who once had more freedom and earned more money than we could ever dream about?”
“I did.”
“Then listen… all this shit comes from that damned thing.” Tarasov beats the floor with his fist. “Or so I read the clues… but it clearly radiates evil — look how it had turned us against each other. It creeps into our mind at our weakest point… We have to destroy it if we can. Kiev wanted to have it. Our enemies tried to snatch it from our scientists. Who knows what powers are still queuing up to take it? At least we should try to end this madness. This is our mission now, son!”
Tarasov is almost begging. Zlenko gives his hands a thousand-yard stare. He is opening and closing his fist, as if checking that his hands still obey his will.
“All the things we saw… it’s beyond human influence, Mikhailo. I don’t think we can change anything here, or anywhere in this screwed up world for that matter. Frankly, I think we should leave and let this cursed place keep its secrets.” He stretches his back, like a man preparing for heavy work. “But if you go, I’ll follow you.”
Tarasov removes his helmet and rubs his hand over his sweaty hair and grimy face. “Why?”
“Because I’m supposed to follow my orders.”
Tarasov had been hoping for a reply that would have proved to him that the almost fatherly feelings he developed for the young sergeant had not been in vain. He wipes the dust off of his helmet, then slowly puts it back on his head and fixes the neck strap under his chin.
“Well then… if you still follow your orders, take Ilchenko’s machine gun and ammunition.” He staggers to his feet and reloads his pistol. “Then, if you are ready… let’s go below.”
Zlenko stares at the darkness beyond the door. “I don’t like the look of this.”
“Neither do I,” Tarasov replies, entering the door.
Point of No Return
Holes in the wall mark the places where timbers once held a wooden staircase, now replaced by a steel ladder. His headlamp is too weak to illuminate the lower end. For a moment he considers tossing a grenade into the depths to clear the ground, should anyone or anything be laying in wait for them below. His cautiousness prevails.
The less noise we make, the better.
The ladder seems endless. Dust rises from the ground and gathers in the beam of his headlamp when, at last, his heavy boots touch the bottom of the pit with a muted thud. He steps ahead, so that Zlenko too can descend from the ladder.
Their weapons at the ready, the two soldiers proceed cautiously. The tunnel walls are made of crudely hewn rock, the small light circle of the headlamps casting dark shadows on the stones as they move. It is pitch black. The generators illuminating the laboratory either have no power to operate the emergency lights wired to the tunnel’s ceiling, or the wires had been sabotaged. After a few steps, huge shadows loom in the light of their headlamps. Two corridors sprout from the tunnel.