Hello everyone, I have for you the next part of Saving Wilde, in which we continue with our friend Nick's little adventure in the nascent state of Ossetia.
Thank you to all those who reviewed and read the last chapter. Though for those reviewers who left comments as a guest: I can't reply to guests! So if you would like your questions answered you gotta sign in.
I don't own any Disney characters, and my own aren't worth stealing.
Enjoy!
The BMP-74 was cramped and noisy, cold too, the heater really only enough to keep the crew up front warm. But there was armor around him, even if was only enough for small arms and shrapnel, and that made him thankful. It would keep him safe from the sporadic shelling that wracked the city, unless of course they were unlucky enough to suffer a direct hit.
They had been in the BMP-74 for more than an hour, chauffeured around the city visiting various emplacements and fighting positions. Daniil had long since left them, only staying long enough to show them a camouflaged tank staging ground. Nick had been amazed the large bear had even been able to fit inside the tiny passenger compartment. Not easily, of course, but he managed. Marat had gone with him, winking at Nick as he left. His final, parting shot leaving Nick confused, and with a rapidly deepening pit in stomach.
The General had left them too soon after, during a stop when they had been given a short tour of his HQ, only 500m behind the front. Nick wondered about that, because while it was a great place for an HQ if the General's goal was to keep track of the fighting in the city, he wondered if Rokossovsky was allowing himself to become too focused on the fighting there, losing sight of the bigger picture. He didn't mention it of course, he was no military mammal. His time in Military Intelligence had been primarily related to Signals. He didn't know the business of a general, especially not one with such a distinguished career as Rokossovsky, and he wasn't about to tell the wolf his business.
Instead they had been assigned a member of the General's staff to finish off the tour. A goat this time, named Georgey. He was a pleasant fellow, very different from his decidedly dour commander, and he at least made the trip around Gromney bearable.
Truth be told, Nick really didn't give a shit about the fighting in Gromney. It was useful to him because it was useful to his superiors back in Zootopia, but he didn't actually care about their cause, or about their defenses and preparations. He dutifully recorded as much as he was able of course, he would not fail in his duty to keep Zootopia informed, but he was not about to become attached to the mammals in the dying city which surrounded him. So the tour wore on him, left him with the feeling that he was being sent around the city so that he could go back and send teary eyed reports to his superiors who would then offer more support.
The tour wasn't a total wash though, even if it was uncomfortable and tedious. Looking at military equipment was always fun, and it was something that Finnick particularly enjoyed. At every stop he pointed out all the equipment, taking particular pleasure at being allowed inside the T-82s. He was too small to operate them of course, but even Nick had to admit, being inside a tank really gave truth to their power. Every item inside rugged, massive, and built for killing.
Even the BMP-74 had its charm at first, though being inside had quickly worn that off. They had started in a convoy of them, three platoons in all, nine machines. But just as they lost their accompanying VIPs so too had the other platoons returned to whatever is was that they did. It was probably for the best really, such a juicy target would attract attention.
"Only two more stops," Georgey said over the din.
Apparently they were going to an artillery battery next, though the Ossetian batteries had been silent for quite some time, preferring to save their ammunition for when the Arcticians actually mounted serious assaults. It saved them from having to displace constantly too, as it didn't take the Arcticians long to zero in on their positions and begin counter battery fire.
"How long till we get there?" Nick shouted back.
Georgey forwarded the question to the commander via the internal intercom, and then shouted back, "Vasily says 15 minutes or so."
Nick nodded his thanks, and then turned to Finnick, "Georgey says 15 minutes."
"I heard him. Artillery this time right?"
"Yeah, I guess so."
Finnick grinned up at him. "I can't wait," he said, and then, after a pause, "Think they'll let me pull the lanyard?"
"I doubt it Finnick," he replied, chuckling, "I don't think there are any fire missions planned for today."
"Bah, just one round won't hurt anyone."
Nick shot Finnick a look. "Yeah, no one except whoever the shell lands on."
"Not my problem Nick. If they are under one random shell then they are just unlucky. Maybe it was their time to die, as decreed by Frith. I am just his messenger. You never blame the messenger, Nick."
"I had no idea you were a religious mammal Finnick."
"I'll be whatever I need to be to shoot one of those guns."
"It's a little troubling that your convictions are so mealable. What would you have done to shoot one of those tanks?"
"Sell your ginger ass to the Arcticians."
"Hahahah, I never really thought to put a price on my own life, and now I am disturbed to find that it is so cheap."
"You better believe it," Finnick replied, grinning from ear to ear.
"Who selling to Arcticians?" asked Georgey, looking concerned.
"No one Georgey, it was a joke. Finnick here wants to shoot one of the guns at our next stop."
"We can do that," replied Georgey, a smile crossing his lips.
Nick's eyes widened, totally surprised by Georgey's willingness. "Uh, y– yeah that would be great," he stuttered out. He realized then that Finnick was gripping his arm far tighter than he ever could have imagined possible, smiling brightly up at him, fire in his eyes.
Then without warning, the engine slowed and Nick was thrown against the back of his seat as the BMP-74 made a sharp turn before coming to a halt. Georgey opened the rear hatch with a clank of the latch and the bright afternoon light flooded the small, cramped passenger compartment. They exited the vehicle, Georgey stooping through the rather small hatch, and found themselves in a small park between some five storey apartment buildings.
It was a surreal scene. The articles of war interspersed between the staples of a peaceful civilian life. A large playground dominated the center of the space, its main feature a large, dirty, jungle gym, still painted with flowers and sunshine, and stylized scenes of happy children playing. There were other things too, a swing set, chess tables, some of which remained undamaged, even a basketball court at the far end – all evidence of a life that was no more, and perhaps would never be again.
Three guns stood in the hollow between the tall apartments – 122mm 2A23s, Finnick informed him – medium artillery, increasingly rare in the first rate militaries, but still common in stocks all across Arctica. Soldiers were scattered everywhere, sitting atop ammunition boxes or around small fires, cooking food, laughing, playing cards or reading. The scene brought back memories of the hours and hours of boredom Nick had experienced during his time in the service, and all the things he did to escape it.
It was a peculiar trait of all the soldiers he had met so far that day, that despite how dire their situation, they all seemed to smile. He had thought it first that it was a show, that with the Prime Minister and General in tow that they were all just putting on a good face, but it continued even after they were long gone. It reminded him, somewhat, of his basic training in the Army, where even when things were as bad as their sergeants could make them, there was still humor in everything, and they would laugh about it all. The life of a soldier wasn't that bad, really. Of course there was the constant threat of death and injury, even when not in a combat zone, but to be a soldier, in Nick's experience, was to often lead a life unencumbered by pain of indecision and responsibility. A soldier had a well defined and easily understandable job, that being to do what they were told when they were told so by those that outrank them. Of course, accomplishing that job wasn't always so simple.
It was a liberating existence in a way, to have everything laid out before him so clearly, but for Nick at least, after a time he had chafed at the regimentation and authority. But living life in the immediate present, only concerned with what was immediately in his front did have its allure for a while.
And so he had come to understand as the day wore on, that the good spirits were not a show put on by the Ossetians, but instead the normal reaction of mammals who were undergoing intense hardship, but believed that their suffering would ease the same for all those that were important to them.
A soldier, an Arctica Fox, wearing a civilian winter coat approached them, and spoke with Georgey, glancing at the two foxes in tow. Their arrival had not elicited much interest, but the discussion between the two mammals was monitored with keen interest by those nearby. When they finished, Georgey turned to the two Zootopians, "This Senior Lieutenant Yumatov, commander here, he welcomes you to his battery. He can't speak Zootopian, but I translate any questions."
Nick nodded, smiling at the Lieutenant. "It's good to see another fox out here, so far from home."
The Lieutenant laughed once the message was relayed. "If you look closely, my friend, you will see I am not the only one in this army." He gestured around the park, and Nick could see that, behind all the heavy winter clothing there were indeed many foxes. "They like to keep us together," the Lieutenant continued via Georgey. "I suppose they think we work better together. We know better though, don't we?"
Nick and Finnick both laughed, though Georgey didn't quite capture the tone in translation. It wasn't true though, the joke, they got on quite well with the young Lieutenant, and he showed them his position, well camouflaged and prepared. He was quite willing to answer their questions too, even divulging information that Nick might have thought he would keep to himself, like their ammunition stocks, and relaying the boredom of his men, who hadn't gotten to fire their guns since they arrived in the position two weeks ago. Georgey smiled at that and informed him that he was to be their savior – he had a fire mission for them.
The Lieutenant brightened up perceptibly at the news, and began shouting orders. The park was suddenly alive with activity as the firing positions were cleared, and the guns loaded and run up, the crews grinning all the while, glad at the chance to finally express their pent up frustrations in the only way they could.
It would be a short bombardment, only nine rounds, any more and the Arcticians would begin zeroing in on their position, but that didn't really matter. Nor did it matter that there would be no spotting rounds, they were given coordinates, and they would let loose their guns and if they hit the target then all the better. Simply firing them, even if they hit nothing, gave the crews of the battery a purpose, fleeting, but a purpose all the same.
Nick watched the scene with growing trepidation. This was a risk, one which he saw as totally unnecessary. Firing these guns, even if no counter battery was possible, drew attention to them, and it was the sort of attention that could get them killed. Finnick though clearly felt differently, and he was even allowed to assist in the loading procedure of the nearest gun, though his diminutive stature made sure he could do little more than go through the motions.
And then there was silence, all activity ceased, everything ready. Each gun captain watching the Lieutenant intently. He had stood next to Nick during the entire procedure, a small grin across his muzzle, admiring the hard work before him. Even Nick had to admit that he was impressed. The crews seemed to know their business, though perhaps Nick wasn't one to be the judge. The Lieutenant called out to the captain of the nearest gun and told him to give Finnick the lanyard, who took it with what could only be described as kit-like glee. He looked back at Nick, nodding his head slowly, struggling in vain to hold back a crazed smile.
Well, at least he's happy, Nick thought. And perhaps this was only fair. After all, Nick had practically dragged him to Gromney, even though he really didn't need to be there.
Then the Lieutenant raised his arm above his head, holding it there, letting the tension reach a crescendo, "Strel'ba!" he yelled, throwing down his arm, and Nick felt as though he was punched in the chest, the enormous sound rattling his heart and spine.
The iron monsters had gone off, belching great tongues of flame into the sky. Finnick's first, so excited was he to fire that he had yanked his lanyard before the order was even complete. But the other two pieces were not far behind, and they added their thunderous voices to the din. The sound trapped between the surrounding buildings, echoing back and forth. Nick had never heard anything like it. Guns, of all sorts, were loud, some more than others. The R-17 he had been issued in the service a good example, but this was like nothing he had ever experienced. He had shot guns in all sorts of places, and he had thought that nothing could be louder than shooting a rifle full auto, or setting off a grenade, inside a CQB course. But even with his paws clasped tightly over his ears, the guns still left them ringing. And it did not stop, each gun crew firing their next round as quickly as they could. It was lucky that the barrage was so short, for with each successive round Nick felt as though his chest was being beaten in, the concussion in the small space so great.
And then it was over, and silence reigned once more, though the echos of the guns still seemed to ring through his head. It had been exciting, and unpleasant, that short little barrage. The awesome power of artillery perfectly evident before him, the god of war spitting its fury. But he also realized that that power could just as easily be turned upon them, and he found himself anxious to move on to their next stop. He checked himself though, made an effort to regain his composure. He refused to show weakness around these soldiers, the idea of being seen as some sort of effete cityslicker, pampered, fragile, to be absolutely galling. And he put on a mask of good spirits, one he had worn so many times before.
"So, what did you think of that, Nick?!" shouted Finnick as he approached, though in the quiet aftermath, marred only by the good humor of the crews, no such shouting was necessary.
"Very impressive," he offered back, "Are you glad you came now?"
"Absolutely! And I didn't even have to sell your dumb ass, haha!"
"Thank goodness for small miracles," Nick chuckled back.
And with that, their visit concluded, the gun crews busied themselves with cleaning their weapons while Finnick and the Lieutenant exchanged a final few words via Georgey.
They rumbled off, Nick thankful to once again be inside the armored box. They just had one more stop, and then they could get out of the war zone, that living hell. "What's our last stop?" he shouted across the passenger compartment, struggling to be heard over the noise of the engine.
"One more," Georgey shouted back. "Uh, right on front!" he continued, smiling as he nodded his head excitedly. "Maybe you shoot machine gun next!"
Nick stifled a groan and forced out a smile. That was the last place he wanted to be.
It was safe, he was assured over and over. The sector they were approaching hadn't seen anything more than sniping in more than a week. All they had to do was keep their heads down, and all would be fine.
That was certainly one way to put it, sticking their necks out like this, far farther than they had just done at the battery. Even Finnick's high was interrupted when he realized where they were about to go. Nick didn't understand why Georgey was so insistent or bringing them to wherever it was they were going. Orders, he said apologetically, every time he was asked. If it had not been for the fact that the atmosphere in the BMP-74 hadn't changed at all, aside from his own nervousness, and of course that of Finnick's too, he would have demanded to be let out of the cramped APC immediately. Nevertheless, Finnick's words the night before rang in his head. Don't be afraid of them, be afraid of what they didn't consider. Well, from Nick's perspective it seemed as though they hadn't considered a lot.
But there was not much that could be done about those things, and Nick comforted himself with the thought that very soon they would be leaving, and on a train back to the safety of Muskova by the next morning.
There was movement at the corner of his eye, and when he looked over towards the source he saw that the commander was crouched down at the bottom of the turret basket motioning for Georgey to pick up the intercom. He looked back at Georgey, who was listening intently to the mike. Suddenly, the goat looked as though he had been slapped, mouth slightly ajar, eyes wide, he spoke angrily into the microphone, too quietly for Nick to hear above the sound of the engine, going back and forth with the crew up front. Nick caught his eye after some effort and yelled over the din, "Is there something wrong?"
"No, no, no problem, no problem," Georgey waved his hoof dismissively before returning to the mike.
Nick leaned in, annoyed at being kept in the dark, and tried to catch even a snippet of what was being said. "...yes that is… no, no… what? No! Then turn around! What do you mean you can't…"
Nick leaned back abruptly, alarmed at just what he was hearing. The possibilities exploded into his head, the sector was under attack and they were about to be in the middle of it, one of the vehicles had gotten stuck, or worse, taken out, and now they were trapped. Why else couldn't they turn around? Well, whatever was going on he wasn't going to stand by and watch the world turn around him, he was going to find out just what the hell was going on. "Georgey! Whats going on?"
"No problem!" Georgey said again, not even looking at him.
Enough was enough. He unlatched his waist belt, moved across the small compartment, and grabbed Georgey's collar. "That's bullshit Georgey, tell me what the fuck is going on!"
Georgey's surprise was evident, he seemed frozen, staring back at Nick, eyes wide, unfocused and unmoving. He blinked, once, twice, and said simply, "Lost."
"What? What do you mean?"
"They took wrong turn. Don't know where. We're lost."
Ok, ok, they were lost, that wasn't the end of the world. They weren't under attack, and they weren't broken down. The were just lost, and he could deal with that, it was a simple problem really. "Alright, I have a–"
A massive explosion behind them rocked the BMP-74 and sent shrapnel pinging off the steel armor. Then their autocannon opened up in rapid fire mode, the 30mm gun making the APC jump and jitter, and the traverse motor shrieked with each turret motion. There were loud metallic slaps all over the vehicle, seeming to come from all sides. They had an oddly musical quality. The pitch changing at each point of the hull. The engine roared, and Nick was thrown into the rear hatch as the BMP-74 lurched forward.
It took him a moment to bring everything back together. The world around him was nothing but smoke and noise. He could, somehow, hear the little ventilator in the turret going, struggling mightily to clear the compartment of the noxious fumes from the cannon firing. He saw as one of the periscopes that lined the roof of their compartment jerk as it was struck by something, and then tumble to the floor by his feet. He could see Finnick yelling at him, could even hear the words, but they made no sense, sounding to him as if Finnick had his mouth full of… something.
Then it was clear again, the world came back into focus, and Nick realized he was laying on the floor of the BMP-74 as everything went to hell around him. And he was angry. Angry that with every shot of the autocannon the acrid smoke seemed to fill the inside of the BMP-74, making it hard to breathe, and angry that these fuckhead Ossetians were about the get him killed. He wrenched himself back into his seat, screaming at Georgey to get them out of there. He knew that there was nothing that Georgey could do, things were far beyond his control, but someone had to be the target of his displeasure, and Georgey was a particularly prime target.
"Georgey what the fuck have you–"
They were struck by lightning.
Or so it seemed; the noise was so much louder than anything else Nick had heard that day, and he felt as if he was back with the artillery battery, except that they had just fired off one of their guns inside the BMP-74. The wind was knocked from him and the hatch above him blown open, the latch snapped in two, before falling closed again with a sound Nick never heard. And the smoke, so thick now that he had trouble seeing across the compartment. He could see though, that the commander had fallen from his seat and was looking around in a daze. Their gunner hadn't stopped, he was still pouring out fire, Nick could feel every round, and their driver still drove them tenaciously onwards. But something was different, the sound of the BMP-74 just a little bit off, wrong, but he couldn't place it.
He looked over at Finnick, and was shocked to see him slumped over in his chair, blood dripping from one of his ears. Nick checked his own, and breathed a sigh of relief when he felt that there was no blood there, his hearing had somehow been saved, once again. He shook Finnick, checked his pulse, still there, and strong, despite everything. He would have to make this up to him, somehow, in the future, though in that moment he couldn't even fathom how. He looked across at Georgey, who had curled himself into a ball, making himself as small as possible, and he smiled. The world was such a strange place.
The lightning hit them again.
It had much the same effect. The overpressure kicked him in the gut, blew the hatches above him open, and filled the compartment with smoke and dust. But this time, the BMP-74 veered abruptly to the left, and slammed into something, again throwing Nick about the compartment.
Time seemed to slow as he gazed about the interior from his place on the floor. Finnick was still out, his head lolling, only saved from a similar fate as Nick by virtue of his wearing a safety harness. Georgey was still attached to his bench too, though he was nursing a head wound, and seemed to be in much the same way as Nick. Disoriented, knocked about something cruel. There was movement above him and he looked up just in time to meet the eyes of the gunner, a grizzled wolf. He tried to think of his name, but it wouldn't come to him, and he wasn't even sure if he had ever known it. The gunner didn't linger though, he climbed over Nick, carrying a carbine, deftly moving through the passenger compartment, unhindered by the fact it was just barely more than a meter tall. He opened the rear hatch, the afternoon light flooding the small compartment, the sounds of the fighting outside invading the small space, and disappeared. The driver came next, grinning down at the prostrate fox as he passed. He said something that Nick didn't catch and then he too was gone. The slap, slap of bullets hitting the hull returned, but then died away, the fighting moving on.
Something wet and hot hit Nick's face, and he sat up to get from under the quickly building jet of hydraulic fluid pouring from the turret traverse lines. He thanked the gods that the the fluid hadn't ignited and immolated them all. He thanked them again that the ammunition that filled the center of their BMP-74 hadn't been hit and done the same. He checked himself for wounds and found none serious, though his head pounded, and thanked the gods again. He had always been lucky. A favorite of the gods an old friend of his had once said, and while he wasn't one to believe in that sort of thing, his life as of late had been working hard to make him so.
A thought filled his head then: Finnick. He had to save Finnick, nothing else mattered. He would never forgive himself if he let his little friend die, especially not after he was having such a great day. And it was because of him that he was here at all. He had protested, over and over, back in Muskova, nearly pleading not to go. There was no need for it, he had said, he was redundant, just an extra body to get in the way. And those things were true, all of them. But he was still needed. Ever since Koslov's bomb Nick had never felt safe going to places unknown by himself. He was wound up like a top, ready to shut everything down at the slightest hint of danger. He told himself that he was just being prudent, cautious, but deep down, a voice told him what the real problem was. He had lost his nerve.
Things were different though, with Finnick at his side. When he was there, had his back, Nick felt almost like he always had, confident, fearless, invincible. He didn't want to lose that any more than he wanted to lose his friend, and so he freed him from his harness and steeled himself for the perilous journey ahead.
A hoof rested upon his shoulder, shook him, and he turned to see Georgey, who kneeled by the half open hatch. "Commander dead," he said, pointing towards the front of the vehicle, not having to shout for seemingly the first time. Nick tried to remember if he had ever not shouted, but he followed Georgey's hoof and saw the commander crumpled upon the floor of the turret basket, face smashed to pieces. Nick felt nothing, had trouble even processing it, didn't understand why Georgey had even pointed it out.
He drifted, the shooting was getting louder, but he knew not from where, the sound seeming the come from all around him. Georgey was saying something, but the words made no sense. The world seemed to tilt for a moment, jumped back upright, and tilted again. It occurred to him that he was falling, but what he saw didn't seem to change, as if his eyes had taken a picture in their one last gasp before giving out. He heard it then, the voice, one he had heard before, so long ago, and longed for again. It was quiet at first, hardly discernable, calling his name. He knew who it was, could tell even before he could hear it properly, the tone so distinctive. Judy. The rabbit who had invaded his mind. She kept repeating his name, over and over, more desperate with each repetition. Nick, Nick, Nick… Nick! It was becoming clearer and clearer, but as it became so, it sounded less and less like her, and he found himself frantically trying to snatch her voice back. Nick, Nick, Nick, wake up!
"Nick, wake up, you fuckhead!" Finnick shouted at him.
Nick blinked up at him, the world seeming to finally make sense for the first time since the crash. "Ah, fuck," he groaned, rubbing his head. "Just five more minutes"
"Five more–? Nick, get the fuck up!" Finnick shouted, shooting a confused glance at Georgey, who simply shook his head. "C'mon Nick, we gotta get out of here."
His two companions pulled him upright, and again he checked himself for wounds. Headwound, badly bruised, probably concussed, but he would survive that one at least. Georgey grabbed their attention.
"Friends, we have to cross street. Not safe here."
"The hell do we have to cross for?" Finnick shot back.
"That way back to our lines. If quick, then safe." And with that, he crawled through the hatch, shielding himself behind it as he peaked down the road. "We go now!" he yelled as he bolted, sprinting as fast as he could. There was a snap, monstrously loud, and then another and another. Georgey seemed to sail through the air, legs kicked from under him, and he came down in a heap, tumbling. He let out a wail as he lay there facing them, agonized and terrified. Nick's mind froze as he watched the scene unfold, but the sound brought him back to his senses. "Don't move Georgey, we'll get you!" he yelled out to him.
"How the fuck we gonna do that?" Finnick asked, his tone, almost shrill, betraying the fear he did not show upon his face.
Nick had no idea, not the slightest inkling. But he didn't want to admit it, he didn't want to leave their escort there to die. "Don't move Georgey," he called again.
But Georgey did not listen, he shifted, trying to roll to his stomach, face screwed up in pain. A tracer passed, followed by the crack. Incredibly close, the green streak gone almost the moment it arrived. Nick wasn't even sure if it had hit Georgey, it had come and gone so quickly. There was no doubt about the next one though, or the others that followed.
"We have to get out of here Nick!" Finnick screamed.
Nick grabbed him and tore from the wrecked BMP-74, flying up the street like he had never done before, his only saving grace the cover provided by the wreck of their transport. He could feel it in his every heartbeat, the adrenalin, pumping through his every inch, propelling him onwards like he never thought possible. The passing ricochets, humming their deadly songs, only drove him further. There was a doorway to his left and he ducked into it, depositing Finnick next to him as he withdrew his pistol and busted the door open with his shoulder. It was an unnecessary action, the door hadn't been locked, and it swung inward with such rapidity that Nick nearly fell over himself as he crossed the threshold. He caught the handle though, steadied himself, and froze. For in the room beyond the door, a living room of some sort, were three soldiers, Arctician soldiers, all staring directly at him. No one moved, each mammal frozen in place, as if waiting for the other to make their move. Nick moved first.
He whipped up his pistol and aimed it the closest soldier, and shouted in Arctician, "Don't any of you fucking move!" None of them did, each had been caught in various states of unpreparedness, none with even a weapon easily at hand, the machine gun they apparently manned still pointed out the window only half loaded. "Ok," Nick said, "we are going leave now. Have a nice war!" He took a step back and one of the soldiers, a fox, darted for a rifle that lay only a few meters away.
It was a stupid move, the fox had a long way to go, and Nick was very close. He was never an incredible shot with a pistol, or any other gun for that matter, but in the tight spaces of the living room he couldn't miss. He took aim, regretting that he now had to personally kill someone, an act he had avoided for so long. But he had no choice, all three soldiers were about to try and kill him. He pulled the trigger.
Click
Time slowed, his every focus upon the gun in his outstretched paw. He pulled the trigger again.
Click
The sound was loud, seemed to echo around the room. It hadn't fired. His gun hadn't fired. His mind ground to a halt, everything forgotten except for the weapon in his paw. Why hadn't it fired? The question seemed to fill his head. He ran through the proper corrective actions for clearing the piece in his mind, knowing that he would be dead before he even began. But they seemed to be the only thing he could recall at that moment. Pull back upon th–
A shot rang out close by, Nick could feel the concussion of the slug as it passed by his waist, and he saw its effects. The fox going for the weapon had been hit in the side. As his legs gave out, he tumbled to the floor with a yelp, missing the rifle completely. There was another shot, and the soldier closest to Nick fell, hit in the neck, eyes wide in shock as he died. The last soldier threw up his paws and shouted his surrender, but he was treated no differently than the other two, and he crumpled to the ground in a heap without uttering another word.
"What the fuck was that Nick?" Finnick asked as he walked past Nick towards the still groaning fox.
Nick didn't reply. He remained staring at the malfunctioning pistol now aimed at an empty wall, and he thanked the gods that he had made Finnick come along. It had certainly been the right decision. He wracked the slide, and examined the chamber. But he knew what the problem was before he had even had the chance to look. No bullet had ejected from the pistol when he manipulated it. The gun was unloaded, he had never chambered a round.
He knees grew weak, his heart pounded. Again, he had been at the cusp of death, staring into its abyss, felt its cold fingers brush his fur. And why? Negligence. Negligence. Negligence! What was his problem? Was he trying to get himself killed? What was wrong with him?
He couldn't answer any of those questions. He had no desire for self sabotage, had every intention to lead a long and happy life. But if that were true, why was he paying so little attention to the world as it pass–
Another shot rang out, and Nick saw that Finnick was standing above the fox, pistol still smoking. Finnick looked back at him over his shoulder. "Are you done Nick? Can we go?"
Nick understood the question, he could smell the fear and anger radiating from his own body and knew Finnick would have detected it long ago. He sighed. "Yeah, I'm done. Let's go." They grabbed what supplies they could carry and left the house out the back, moving deeper into the Arctician side of Gromney.
"What the hell was that back there?" Finnick asked as they ducked into an alleyway.
"A misfire," Nick lied. "Scared the shit out of me. Thought I was going to die, haha!" He laughed, but it wasn't very convincing, and he certainly hadn't felt the humor.
"You gotta stop freaking out Nick, you're gonna make me lose my nerve."
"Yeah, I'm sorry, Finnick. I don't know what's come over me lately."
"If you don't calm down we aren't gonna get out of here. I'll fucking kill you if that happens. And how are we going to get out of here?" Finnick asked, changing the subject.
Nick had no idea, well, not really, but that didn't really matter to him. They had a number of options, most of them bad, but they were options, and they had freedom of movement. They weren't being railroaded into picking the most expedient course just because it was quick, consequences be damned.
They could try to get out of the city on the Arctican side, blend in with the remaining civilians, but that meant taking a big risk. While they were both adept at speaking the language, though perhaps less so in Finnick's case, they certainly didn't sound like they were from Ossetia, and especially not Gromney. Nick could fake an accent, but he wasn't familiar enough with the Ossetian example to do it proficiently. He sounded too much like a Muskovian not to raise suspicions. Finnick was even worse off. He sounded like a Zootopian who could speak Arctician. His cover would be blown long before even Nick's. It didn't help that neither of them were typical species for Ossetia, or even Arctica. Finnick was probably one of only perhaps a few hundred Fennecs in country, if there were even that many. And as a red fox, Nick tended to stand out like a sore thumb amongst all the whites, greys, and browns of the foxes native to this far northern country. In the metropolitan Muskova the red wasn't so rare, but there had been times in the past when he had dyed his fur to fit in, but he had always hated that, and it would take months to come out completely.
No, it seemed as though the better option, in his mind anyway, was to wait for nightfall and then sneak back across the lines. If they had been so porous as to let a lost platoon of BMP-74s wander through them, then they couldn't be that hard to get back over. He took out his phone and checked his GPS, which thankfully didn't require a cell signal. They were only a few hundred meters beyond the line that he understood to be the defacto no mammal's land that ran down one of the major streets in that area. It wouldn't be that hard to get back assuming they weren't shot in the process. A large risk perhaps, but what was life without risk?
Yes, that was what they would do, a moment of danger and then everything after that would be simple. It would be like pulling a bandaid. He realized then how much better he felt then, he had a problem to solve, right in front of him, and that made him feel much more like himself. "Alright, Finn, we wait."
"We wait? For what?"
"Darkness, of course!" Nick replied, the old familiar confidence suddenly returning. "I have a cunning plan!"
Finnick rolled his eyes at him but said nothing.
"Oh, by the way," Nick continued, "how's your ear?"
"You see anything out there yet, Artyom?" a voice called out from inside the building.
"Nyet!" came the reply.
"Well keep looking!" There was a chuckle, shared by the the other occupants of the room just beyond the window below which Nick sat, Finnick less than a meter away too, hugging the wall.
"You think he will figure it out?" asked another voice, though the sound barely carried beyond the window.
"Artyom?" came the sarcastic reply, "Oh, sure, sure. Though I think the war might be over by then!" There was raucous laughter, which only seemed to die reluctantly. "Blyad."
"Bah, you should be nicer to him. He is still young."
"And stupid, and he is only a year younger than me."
"Yes, well, looking at you, no one would know it!"
The laughter again, though perhaps with less feeling, less genuine mirth, the group of soldiers falling into silence soon afterwards. And it ticked on, interminable, pregnant, until one of the soldiers said, "Gotta take a piss." And approached the window beneath which Nick sat. Indeed had been sitting for some time. Ever since he had realized that the room beyond was in fact occupied by the soldiers of Arctica.
He had not expected them there, though it was, perhaps, not surprising. The front being so close. But he had spent so much time surveying the building, judging it to be an excellent position for just what he found, soldiers, and yet he had felt it to be empty. No sound nor light emanated from within, and not a single paw print could be seen outside in the snow covered streets. It, like so many other buildings they had passed on their journey away from the ambush site, had seemed dead and forgotten, and he had been confident that they would be able to cross at least one street closer without any interruption.
There was the sound of a zipper above him and then the stream came, splashing barely 30 centimeters ahead of him. He looked up, slowly, expectantly, terrified that he might find himself staring into the eyes of a very surprised soldier. But the window above him was blessedly empty, the occupant electing to stay just inside the frame, too far back to see past the edge down to where Nick huddled, doing his best not to cough or hack at the overwhelming stench of urine that seemed to fill his nostrils.
The stream slowed then, sputtered, and died, the last few drops of the retreating jet landed about him and on him, mingling with the hydraulic fluid that matted his fur. The talking began again as the soldier returned to his comrades and Nick judged it to be time to move again. He rose, slowly, his knees protesting painfully as they unbent, and he gestured for Finnick to follow. No such gesture was necessary of course, even the dumbest of the mammal kingdom would have smoked his intentions the moment he stirred, but he did it out of long habit anyway.
He took a step, testing the snow, more grey than white in this part of the city, the fires dusting nearly everything with ash. There came the inevitable crunch, and then another, and another. They seemed loud to him, situated as he was in the alley between two buildings, but he knew that it did not carry far, and soon he found himself at the opening into the next street. He took a left, Finnick following close behind, and moved down the street in a brisk hunching jog. He intended to cross it, but he had no desire to alert Artyom, who was doubtful blind on top of being a fool.
He crouched again, in the shadows beside a stoop, and repeated the process again. Wait, watch, wait some more. He peered into the darkness, searching desperately for any signs of life. Finnick was there too, searching, watching. They were in tune with one another, senses meshed together like the teeth of a pair of gears. They scanned, with their eyes, and with their ears, moving back and forth to cover every sector ahead. No sound passed between them, none was needed, he could smell the moment that Finnick thought he might have heard something with his one good ear, and could home in on the source with naught but a glance at his friend. And he reminded himself just how glad he was that Finnick was there.
They found nothing, though they moderated their assessment based upon the results of the last. There would always be that risk though, no point dwelling upon it if they were doing their diligence. Which they were, or so he felt. He glanced at Finnick, caught his eye, nodded, and then bolted across the street. Staying low, and he slid to a halt beside the building that stood directly across from where he had started. He watched Finnick do the same, annoyed that he hadn't crossed with him, and then they both hunkered down beside the building, and watched and listened and waited. Falling back into their routine as if they had never interrupted it.
There was no unusual sound, no stirring from anywhere. The far off booming of artillery muffled by the cold night air and snow the only think to marr the stillness of the night. Nick continued to sit, until the cold began to pierce his clothing in earnest, and then stirred, rising from his place and moving into a nearby alleyway, every step bringing him closer to the front.
He wasn't afraid, any fear he might have felt long reduced to a numb insensibility by the cold, but he didn't like the risk. Knew he had to take it, but found it unpleasant all the same. He had had time to think, while they had waited for darkness, replay the events of the day over and over in his head. It had probably been a mistake, dwelling on those things he thought he might have done differently, for all it did was further sour his mood. Marat loomed large in his mind. The looks, knowing, condescending, and the gestures too. Everything he did seemed to scream at Nick that he was dangerous, not to be trusted, that he knew something that Nick didn't, and that that thing was of vital importance to Nick's wellbeing. There was simply something off about the rabbit. A danger that Nick couldn't quite articulate. And he resented him for it. And so too because he felt that the rabbit thought he was better than Nick, and had the pedigree to prove it.
Nick slipped, as he was about halfway down the alley, caught himself on his paws and knees, and found himself staring into the snow covered back of a dead soldier. He sat up, back on his haunches, and whispered to Finnick, "You need anything? This one still has his equipment."
"Water would be good," Finnick whispered back, eyeing the path ahead.
Nick rolled over the body, stiff but not quite frozen, and went through the pockets and webbing. Bullets, a light, cigarettes and a lighter, he handed those to Finnick, a grenade, money, also pocketed, documents of various sorts inside the jacket though nothing of value, a small medical pack, even a pair of gloves far too large for him. All of these things he found, but no water, no canteen could be found anywhere. It was disappointing, though no crushing loss, they could eat the snow around them if they really must, though it was unpleasant and left Nick feeling only colder when he did.
They moved on, leaving the dead soldier where he lay. By Nick's reckoning they were a mere 100 meters from the front, and they watched and waited, waited and watched for any signs of life before them. He found what he was looking for quickly, the block ahead of them clearly garrisoned. A few mammals stood just inside of a door, smoking, the red embers lighting up their faces in the dark. Nick moved, slowly, perpendicularly to the front, saw another alleyway, grabbed Finnick, and flew across the street, coming to a halt in the blessed darkness. They were hidden, absolutely, except if some poor unfortunate soldier stumbled upon them, it would be his last act. A light flickered on, far down the street, effulgent against the dim background. It searched the street, hunting. If it had fallen upon them Nick knew they were too far away to truly be seen, but their eyes, the glowing gold orbs in a sea of blackness would give them away.
There was a shot, perhaps only a few hundred meters away, probably far less, the sharp crack piercing the night. And then there was more, wild and rapid, but then it ceased, and the night was still again. They kept moving, closer and closer, until Nick was sure they were in no mammal's land, the evidence of fighting everywhere he turned. But despite being so much closer to his goal, his anxiety only increased, sent his heart into his throat where it's beating threatened to drown out all conscious thought. He didn't trust the Ossetians, not as long as Marat had their Prime Minister's ear. Things just hadn't sat right with him, not since the ambush. He didn't understand how they could have simply driven through the lines in the way they had, right into the waiting paws of the Arcticians. And that was perhaps just it, he felt as though he had been set up, led to slaughter deliberately. The error was too unusual, so he felt, almost farfetched.
So now, as he carefully infiltrated the front line of this terrible war he felt as though he was simply hopping out of the frying pan and into the fire. He had originally planned to cross and then immediately link up with friendly Ossetians. But were they really friendly? Probably not, though it was rather because they probably had no idea who he was rather than them all being in on some malicious plot to do him in. No, he felt he could see exactly the way things might play out. They would be detained, if not shot out of paw, and then the questions would filter up the chain until it reached Marat and Daniil. Or perhaps it would stop at Marat, and that would be the end of all things. Nick found himself wishing he had stayed on the Arctician side of the lines. At least there was no uncertainty there. He knew them to be enemies, and he could act accordingly. Instead he was taking step after step into the great unknown.
So the plan had changed, they would pierce the Ossetian lines are far as they could, as best they could. And if things went well they would steal a car and leave the city. Perhaps even return to Sergey's. He suspected that he at least would be willing to take them back across the border, especially if he greased his wheels with more than a little money. Might even get that heater fixed.
There was another shot, off to his right, a sniper he suspected, firing at some poor soldier unlucky enough to catch the bullet. And again the furious return fire began and then died into an intermittent, halfhearted, reply. The sharp crackle of fire rising and falling in pitch and intensity. Nick bolted again, feeling the time was right, the attention of both sides focused elsewhere. They reached a bombed out building, could hear voices inside, a song, the ghostly tones drifting from a window. He paused, listening, moved by the sadness of the words.
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time passing,
Where have all the flowers gone?
Long time ago.
Where have all the young mammals gone?
They're all in uniform!
Oh, when will you ever learn? Oh, when will you ever learn?
Nick was overcome, though only for a moment, by the great and immense tragedy that surrounded him. The lives of hundreds of thousands changed forever, ruined forever. And there was nothing he could ever do to stop it, indeed was actively helping to make it worse. Was doing his very best to prolong the suffering for all.
There was a shuffle behind him, a paw on his arm, and a whisper in his ear. "Nick, we have to move."
He looked back at his partner, his friend, the one mammal on the planet who had stuck by him through thick and through thin. Could see then and there just how much he owed Finnick, how much he meant to him, and he nodded. Happy, more than, that he had convinced him to come along.
They moved again, slowly at first, the streets dragging by as they cautiously crossed each one. But they realized, after some time, that there had not been a sign of anyone for the last few blocks. The houses empty, the streets devoid of the markings of life. Nick checked his GPS again, shielding the glowing screen beneath the folds of his coat, and found that they were past the no-mammal's land. Long past, several hundred meters, and relief like he had not felt in some time washed over him.
But his night was not over, just as they had snuck through Arctician lines now they would have to do the same again. And so they watched, and waited, and waited and watched, all over again. Their senses perfectly aligned, Nick thanking the cosmos that he had brought along his partner, his friend.
Well, thats all for now, I hope you enjoyed it. Next time we will return to Judy and find out just a little bit more about how she is doing in the academy. Apparently she was there for 9 months in the movie? Is that true?
All comments and feedback are welcome. Please do not hesitate to ask questions either. I usually answer them within 24 hours or so.
Live well everyone!