The Sergeant bent over across the seat and opened the door on the right.
“Sluggish!” he called quietly.
Sluggish climbed into the car calmly, as if he was stealing it from his father’s garage, and not…
“Don’t slam the doors,” he said to the others, when Vitka, Ginger and Samara climbed into the back.
“Fuck it, we’ve got to turn around,” Sluggish said. “Can you?”
“Is Ridge there?” the Sergeant asked instead of replying.
“Yes,” Sluggish sighed, turning around.
“Let’s go,” the Sergeant said, turned the key, and switched on the headlights.
In the blinding beams of the headlights, thirty meters away, a bearded man was standing, swaying, with an automatic weapon over his shoulder, and urinating on the wall of the building. It seemed as if the light had caused him to sway. He turned his head, not at all surprised.
For a fraction of a second everyone looked at him from the car. The Sergeant was already starting the engine.
“Hey, who turned on the light? Are you nuts?” someone shouted inside the building, in a nasty voice, with an accent, but in Russian.
The engine started on the second try.
“For the Homeland,” the Sergeant said, and moved into first gear. “For Stalin.”
In second gear, he stepped on the gas and the man with the weapon went flying on to the bonnet of the car, before he had time to realize what was going on.
The Sergeant immediately put the car in reverse, knocking the limp body off the bonnet, and drove out onto the square in front of the cattle barn. Furiously turning the steering wheel, he turned around and drove off, not seeing the road to start with — jolting, risking stalling every second — and then suddenly, by intuition, he drove on to it.
Fourth gear… They flew along, yelling and weeping.
Something flared in the car, and instantly rose and blazed in the rear-vision mirror.
“Great, Ridge!” the Sergeant yelled, guessing that Ridge had fired the grenade launcher. “Waste them, Ridge!”
Sluggish, turning around and pushing his legs into the seat, shot from the automatic weapon, putting it out the window and not taking his hand off the trigger.
“Sluggish, asshole!” the Sergeant howled. “Call our guys!”
“Base! Base!” Sluggish yelled, turning around and grabbing the radio. “Base, it’s us! It’s the Sergeant!”
They sped on and didn’t hear shots behind them.
“Base, for God’s sake!” Sluggish yelled.
“Receiving?” came a distant, questioning voice.
“It’s us! In the jeep! Don’t shoot! You understand? Base, for heaven’s sake! Don’t shoot!”
“Over,” came the distrusting reply.
They sped up to the building and all fell out together, in a single moment.
The Sergeant painfully tore his hands away from the steering wheeclass="underline" it cost him incredible effort.
The heavy door was opened for them: the Sergeant saw in the glare of the headlights that heavy bags were being moved inside the building, freeing up the entrance.
Ginger ran in first, then Samara, then Vitka.
Ridge moved his body inside.
Sluggish changed clips and shot into the darkness from his belt.
“Come on, Sluggish, let’s go home!” the Sergeant said to him.
Scowling, he jumped into the darkness of the building, and the Sergeant took a step after him.
He was thrown back heavily and slowly, exploding somewhere in the air. But then he unexpectedly stood lightly on his feet and made a few very gentle, almost weightless steps, coming out of the line of fire. Somewhere here, his own men should be waiting for him, but for some reason the Sergeant did not see any of them, but for all that he did feel with all his being the good, almost sweet semi-darkness.
Damn, how am I… how did this happen to me? the Sergeant said, surprised at his luck, and turned around.
The black, evil smoke dispersed, moved away and disappeared, and he saw a person with his arms and legs splayed clumsily, and his head thrown back: one eye was black, and the other was shut.
Copyright
SIN By Zakhar Prilepin
First published in Russian as “Гpex”
Translated by Simon Patterson with Nina Chordas
Edited by Nina Chordas
© Zakhar Prilepin 2008 Represented by www.nibbe-wiedling.com
© 2012, Glagoslav Publications, United Kingdom Glagoslav Publications Ltd 88-90 Hatton Garden EC1N 8PN London United Kingdom
ISBN 9789491425370
This book is in copyright. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.