Finally, Grigori gains consciousness, though he remains subdued by the tranquilizer and its debilitating effects. His vision is also impaired. When he adjusts his sluggish body, a vibrating sensation overwhelms his sensitive nerves. For now, he sits on the ground criss cross, wondering what to make of this nonsense.

The bog mosquitos are thirsty for blood tonight and start buzzing around Grigori, prodding him with their infected proboscises. He goes to scratch his itchy skin when he realizes that his hands are tied to a pole behind his back. The tranquilizer is beginning to wear off, making Grigori increasingly aware of his predicament.

Then, a bright light shines upon his heavy eyelids and through the dense fog in his head to rekindle the memory of a special guardian, Commissar Petrov. Grigori panics in silence as he assumes the worst, that he's alone in this wretched bog without a friend. The bonfire grows stronger as the tribals feed it more carrion. Its scorching flames lap closer to his sweating face. Grigori accepts his cruel fate and awaits for his captors to toss him into the blazing inferno.

As he wriggles his swollen hands to relieve pressure from his bondage, Grigori feels another pair of hands on the other side of the pole. The touch of someone else's captivity strangely brings him comfort, knowing that he's not alone. Out of curiosity, he turns his stiff head around to see who else has to suffer with him. It's none other than the commissar himself.

"Gennady!" Grigori rejoices weakly. "Thank goodness, you're alive!"

The commissar looks down at his lap and chuckles ironically. "Heh, barely."

"I didn't give you two permission to speak!" barks the chieftain. He smacks the back of their heads with a bundle of branches. The tribals cackle at the humiliation being put on display while the chieftain paces around Grigori and Petrov, occasionally muttering a gothic curse under his breath.

The rotten smoke rises up from the sacrificial fire and gives the dark blue sky a black finish. Darkness defines the borders of this small encampment, a glowing cell in isolation. Of course, the tribals have placed torches along many other pathways in the bog, some leading to more encampments full of straw hammocks and fishing lines. They all link up to each other in some way or another, either directly or off the beaten path, forming an intricate web.

"Why have you come here?" The serpent chieftain hisses his words out before hurling a couple pine cones at them. Again, the tribals lose control of themselves and laugh their pot bellies out. "Have you come to raze the last bastion of natural preservation to the ground to prop up a new settlement? The civilized world, if you can call it that, has already destroyed so much of Mother Nature."

"And you, chieftain, have corrupted the minds of innocent people. These comrades of yours," Petrov jerks his head at the idling tribals, "their poor souls were taken from them by you! Ever heard of a lobotomy before? Well, it's certainly not far from medieval torture on the insane. Just imagine a surgeon hammering an icepick into someone's brain. When such an idea was first conceived by a mad scientist overseas, this once great Union was the first to outright ban it. So here we are, more than a century later, and somehow a crackhead like you managed to bring the old procedure back, albeit in the crudest way imaginable. Well done."

"What a vivid imagination you have," replies the chieftain. "Did you happen upon some wild mushrooms beforehand? Otherwise, you spew nothing but sewage out of your gutter mouth."

"Take a look at my friend here." The commissar nudges Grigori. "He has a scar on his head, and he doesn't know where it came from."

"Fine." The chieftain grumbles. "I'll entertain your lunacy." He bends down and inspects Grigori closely, grabbing him by the chin. "That's the work of a surgeon, not a witch doctor. My people only wish they can earn such scars in combat. I will say, your friend bears quite an alluring mark on his head. I'd be careful traveling with him. Markings like that can attract a plethora of trouble."

"Thanks for the warning, I guess. Can you untie us now?"

A tribal wearing a camouflaged salamander skull on his head walks up to the chieftain and whispers something in his ear. The chieftain grimaces, then shoos the tribal away.

"That was one of my scouts. There's been an altercation between him and some bandits, but he's unscathed. They started showing up in the marshlands not too long after we arrived, but they've kept their distance from us until recently. Now my scouts are reporting an increase in bandit sightings near the bog, not to mention skirmishes yielding no casualties. The bandits are getting more aggressive with their actions, taking potshots at my men, stealing our medicinal herbs, and killing our salamanders. It's only a matter of time before either side loses a man, and when that happens, there will be bloodshed."

"What's he talking about?" Grigori asks Petrov quietly.

"Sounds like the tribals and bandits are about to fight one another." Petrov wriggles around in discomfort. "Hey chieftain, why are you telling us this?"

The chieftain snuffs his crack pipe in a puddle. "Because you two want out, yes? Freedom? Well, both of you are going to have to fight for it. What sort of fighting, you may ask? A gladiator match in a ring of fire? Hunting down a legendary salamander with spears and blowguns only? No, much simpler than those two alternatives. If the bandits want to keep pushing their luck with us, then I'll gladly have them push up mutant daisies instead. Right now, my people are preparing to attack the bandit hideout. You two are going to support them in whichever way you can, but until the threat has been dealt with, I cannot guarantee you both your freedom."

Petrov sighs miserably. "Our fate has been settled then."

Grigori huffs. "What?"

"The chieftain wants us to mount an assault on a nearby bandit outpost. If we succeed, he will free us."

"Do you believe he will?"

"It's our only hope."

As the chieftain cuts away at the thick rope bonding them together with a rusty bayonet, Grigori switches topics on the fly. "What about my scar? What did the chieftain have to say about it?"

The commissar rubs his kirza boots together, struggling to break the tough news to his companion. All their efforts have gone to waste. They came to the bog for absolutely nothing but a one-way express ticket to death. The least Petrov can do for Grigori is spare him the truth and lie. It is blissful ignorance that keeps men like the commissar and the foreigner from taking their own lives in the Wasteland. They cling onto a fantasy, hoping that their situations will improve in one night, that all their answers will come to them in one dream. The truth of the matter is, the world is unpredictable. There is no certainty of closure. That is why they wake up every morning and endure this hellish reality. Tomorrow is a chance to learn something new.

The commissar makes up a story on his toes. "It wasn't the chieftain who performed a lobotomy on you but a robot surgeon."

"What?"

"Surprised? Why else were you dreaming up a metal sphere stalking you, huh?"

"I-I don't know. I thought of it once as pure science fiction. Nothing more."

"All right, on your feet." The chieftain lightly taps on their shins with his crack pipe once he's done cutting the rope.

That doesn't mean they're allowed to roam as free men yet. He'll make sure to have them on studded collars and short leases. If they dare attempt to escape, his archers in the back won't hesitate to fire. Even if they somehow manage to outrun a barrage of arrows, there are predators more tenacious than hopped up tribals beyond the bog, in the fog.

"Strip naked." The chieftain gives out a command more outlandish than the last.

"For what?!" Petrov begs the question. "We're practically in the nude without our guns!"

"It's to set you apart from those thugs clad in leather jackets, bandoliers, and whatnot. The difference between friend or foe should be night and day. I don't want any confusion out there."

"Fine. Let me inform my friend, lest he mistaken my gesture as a sexual act." In German, he briefs Grigori on the situation and what he must do.

"Are you crazy?" Grigori hugs himself, worried that the commissar will tear his clothes off for him.

"We have to look like the rest." Petrov shrugs his shoulders and undoes the commissioner star buckle on his belt. His trousers drop to his ankles. "As long as the ladies are observing my artillery piece, then I don't mind." The commissar has a cheeky grin on his face. Grigori follows suit, starting with his ushanka.

"You disgust me, speaking in that Teutonic tongue." The chieftain scrunches his nose at him.

"Excuse me?"

"You heard me, Crusader. Move forward!" Petrov winces in pain as the chieftain whips his bareback with a bundle of branches.

The torch bearers are up in the front with the chieftain. As for Grigori and Petrov, they make up half of the rearguard as a pair of spearmen watch them from behind. To add insult to their enslavement, they are tasked with dragging a sack full of throwing stones. The chieftain forbade giving real weapons to them, deeming it too risky.

The camp is nothing more than a small open shelter made of sheet metal in an area bound to flood if bad weather allows it. Nonetheless, the bandits make do with the scrap they scrounged from a handful of hamlets. Their next target is a settlement a few miles west of here, but they've been laying low for a while. With their resources nearly depleted, and a tribe of crazies next door, they can't necessarily afford to blitz their way out of the marshlands. The terrain has them bogged down.

"All right, who's idea was it to go through a fucking swamp?" A masked bandit pesters his demoralized friend group around a dying campfire.

"You wanna bitch about it, Faceless?" One of his buddies lashes out in anger. "You map out our route next time."

"Those Reds sure had us on the run for good, ha!" comments another bandit. "At least we took some of their comrades as prisoners on the way out."

Hiss! Crackle. The bandits cough irritably from the cloud of smoke engulfing them. "Hey! Who killed the light? Pulling pranks now, are we? I'll throw your ass straight into a crocodile's mouth while you sleep!" The friend group bursts into laughter, climbing on top of each other to quell the growing aches on their sides.

A man towers over the mania, his shadow casting from the moonlight. He steps down from a hollowed-out log and throws a metal bucket away. "You should know better than to build a fire at night." His words cut through the cackling fools, and they immediately gulp down their last laugh.

"We are being hunted by two parties right now," he continues. "The Reds," his index finger goes up, "and the tribals," then his middle. "The former has been tracking us for days in reaction to our most recent raids. They've had enough of our antics. Nothing in the Wasteland will stop them from bringing us to justice, dead or alive. The latter has us surrounded. We're on their turf, so they have the advantage. All odds are against us, boys, but if we can avoid further confrontation with the locals, we can shake them off in the marshlands."

The man in charge takes a quick sip of cognac from his canteen. "Once we're rid of these two burdens, we can focus our attention on the hamlet just off the Dnieper. We'll be able to catch them off guard since the inhabitants won't be expecting us coming from the swamp. This will be the crown jewel of all raids," he bluffs successfully. "By capturing this seemingly insignificant spot on the map, we can control the flow of trade on the Dnieper. How many merchant boats do you think we can stop and seize? Twelve? Twenty? Think about all the precious bounty aboard each boat. You cannot fathom such wealth, boys."

His men show eyes of gold.

The tribals up front smother their torches as they near the bandit camp. They creep through the untamed jungle of grass, folding the tall blades down with their bare feet. The moon peeks through the clouds and emits blue light onto the sneaking tribals, their weapons drawn.

With his war staff, the chieftain departs the wall of grass in front of him and comes into an area chalk full of tiny islands surrounded by swamp water. In the middle of it all is a mound of toxic waste, a favorable vantage point for the chieftain. He hand signals Grigori and Petrov to hang back with the spearmen. The chieftain and his scout go up the anthill as the tribals call it. Petrov's counter may be absent, but he can imagine what sort of reading it would give him were he to go near such a hotspot.

The chieftain crouches behind a battered automobile and spies on the oblivious bandits below. They take inventory, counting the remaining bullets in their ammo pouches, the syringes left in their individual first aid kits, and so forth. The bandits are more on edge than ever. Spare parts and cleaning chemicals are almost gone. It's virtually impossible for them to keep their jerry-rigged guns free of muck in the marshlands.

"Can I at least light a smoke, boss?" asks Faceless.

"No. We stay invisible. The tribals are more perceptive than you think."

"Fine." Faceless nods carelessly, but he knows the boss means well. He sighs, picks up his revolving rifle, and goes back to his post. It's his turn to be on watch. The bandits play the waiting game, checking their broken wrist watches until the order is given for them to pack up and leave this cesspit.

"I count four bandit heads, chief," reports the scout.

The chieftain grunts back.

"What's the wisest course of action, chief?"

"We outnumber them 3:1, but they have guns. There's a great distance between us. Charging out in the open is a bold strategy. Yes, at full speed, we can reach the bandit camp in time and pummel them to death, but at the cost of half my people."

"A sacrifice you cannot afford, yes?"

The chieftain nods stiffly. "I lost two of my greatest hunters already. It would be foolish of me to send more of my people to the slaughter."

"I agree. Are you suggesting we draw the bandits into an ambush?"

"Hmm. I don't think any of them are planning on throwing their bodies at us. However, if something were to force them to flee into one . . ." A torch ignites in his hollow head. "Have my bowmen trade places with us at the top of this mound. Make sure they grease their arrow tips with pig fat. Everyone else, including you and me, will slowly advance towards the camp. Don't let anyone get too close. We cannot be detected, else we ruin the element of surprise."

"What about the captives?"

"Yes. They'll be joining us with slingshots. Stay close to me, and keep your eyes on them. I'll caw to the bowmen once we're in place." The scout salutes to the chieftain by placing a fist over his beating heart.

"How are the Reds holding up?" asks Jarhead out of boredom.

"I don't know." Faceless shrugs. "Why do you care anyway? They're just animals in cages waiting to be sold as labor to the highest bidder."

"Maybe they're plotting an escape. A lot of guerilla fighters are experts when it comes to lockpicking, or so I've heard. I bet they can all crack open a safe with their eyes closed."

"Am I supposed to be impressed by that?" Faceless stands up and faces away to relieve himself. "What else are you going to tell me? That they can steal from the blind and deaf?" He struggles to zip up his fly. "Ah! Can't see a damn thing out of these eye holes!"

Jarhead watches in amazement as a flying comet arcs across the night sky. "Look! A shooting star. Make a wish, Faceless."

"I wish you'd shut the fuck up!"

A stray, incendiary arrow sticks the landing on Jarhead and lights him on fire. He shrieks and tries patting the flames out, but it's no use. Faceless hears a large splash next to him and sees Jarhead flopping around in the water. He lends Jarhead a hand and pulls him to land as more flaming arrows rain from above. Faceless immediately goes for the guerillas, messing with the padlocks on their pens when the boss suddenly fires a warning shot into the air.

On the outskirts of the bandit camp, two sentries flinch at the crackling gunshot. Without exchanging any looks of concern or words of caution, they simply nod their heads, cock their guns, and head straight for it.

The boss lowers his smoking machine pistol. "Leave the Reds behind! Let the barbaric tribals handle them."

Faceless frowns at the wasted investment. There's no time for him to convince his boss to save them from their inevitable deaths. A downpour of hellfire is heading right for him. He takes a step back from the guerillas covered in filth, their beady eyes staring him down, and narrowly misses a couple arrows that were intended for him. They impact where he last stood.

"This way, everyone," says the chieftain quietly. He combs the tangly, waist-high grass for snakes with his staff. No hisses. Only crickets hopping from one blade of grass to the next. The chieftain slows to a crawl and perks his ears up once he hears a gang of boots running parallel to him.

Grigori and Petrov wade through the swamp water blindly, pulling the occasional blood-sucking leech off them. They come ashore, their bare feet sinking into the squishy marsh ground. Their group lags a bit behind from the vanguard, forming a small divide between forces. The hairy tribal in front of them begins to pick up the pace to catch up with the rest. Grigori and Petrov struggle to chase after him. It's as if he poured a bucket of pine tar upon his head, laid down, and rolled over a bear rug to cover himself in black fur.

The burning pain is eating up Jarhead's stamina. He cannot be on the run with the boys much longer. He leaves the pack and wanders off on his own without them knowing. Everything is murky and cold. Like a stray mutt, he limps around in circles on three paws. Somehow, he finds his way back to the bandit camp and rests awkwardly on a log. His body drapes like a wet towel. After hanging upside down for several minutes, his head starts spinning. He closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

Two sentires come upon the slumped Jarhead and try to wake him, poking at his dead body with their long guns, but it shows no life. They quickly move onto setting up a perimeter and figuring out what happened to the others. One keeps his eyes to the ground for bodies or footprints while the other vigilantly stands guard. To his surprise, the former discovers that the Red prisoners remain in their cages, alive.

Something is definitely up.

"They're fleeing like the cowards they are," whispers the chieftain to his scout.

"Shouldn't we kill them while their backs are still turned on us?"

"That won't be necessary. We scared them off. They won't be coming back."

"What now, chief?"

"I want everyone to return back to their tents for a goodnight's rest, except you and me. And the captives, of course. Now," the chieftain rubs his callous hands together, "let's see what loot those bandits left for us at their camp."

The scout gulps. "Yes, chief."

"What should we do with them?" asks one of the sentires to his buddy. He angles his gun at a guerilla and pretends to pull the trigger. The guerilla is not amused.

"I didn't come all this way to execute defenseless Reds in a goddamn swamp. They're coming with us. Might as well bring back something of value rather than nothing at all."

"That's assuming we make it out of here."

"Don't curse us, you Gypsy!" The sentry bends down and messes with the cheap lock, then he notices something strange. The guerilla starts to chuckle. "What's so funny, swine?"

He coughs up a bobby pin and puts on a crazed look.

The cage. It's already unlocked . . .

The guerilla kicks the door open with both legs, sending the sentry back a couple feet. His comrades break open their cages a second after. They lunge fiercely at the frozen bandits and scratch at their terrific faces.

The chieftain and his party arrive at the camp just in time to catch the captives pouncing on their captors. He orders his men to stay back and not interfere with such an emotional brawl. The guerillas scramble for some small rocks. They're a bit slimy from the moss, making them difficult to wield. Nonetheless, they raise the rocks over their heads and bash them into the cowering bandits. Teeth fly out. Tears flow. Potato brains are mashed into a starchy mush. The begging stops, then the screams. The Reds discard the bloody stones into the water and turn to face an audience watching them from afar.

The chieftain goes first and crosses the creek, using his staff as a long walking stick. He reaches the other side and greets the first guerilla that approaches him. "Heh, my tribesmen fight softer than you bunch."

"What?" says the Red in confusion.

Sometimes, the chieftain assumes everyone understands and speaks Old East Slavic in these parts. He changes back to New Russian on the dot. "My apologies. I was complimenting you and your men's fighting skills."

"The bastards had it coming." He spits in disgust. "Anyway, who are you?"

"I am the protector of Polesia and her luscious nature."

Just what the Wasteland needs. More fanatics. "Great. Look, um, me and my comrades were captured by those weasels over there." He points at their mutilated corpses. "They caught us with our pants down and dragged our asses here. Now we don't know where the fuck we are. What's the quickest way out of this jungle?"

"May I introduce you to these two?" The chieftain presents the pair of naked men, Grigori and Gennady, to him. "They come from civilization."

"You're freeing us?" says Gennady in disbelief.

"Your friend with the alluring mark has a personal vendetta to wage. He won't be able to do so under my rule, in my realm."

"So, we're free?"

"You can say so. I wasn't planning on keeping you foreigners for long. Farewell, and safe travels." The chieftain and his scout step into a wall of tall grass and disappear.

With the tribals gone, the Reds are more comfortable talking with Gennady and Grigori. "Both of you were prisoners as well?" questions the supposed leader of the guerillas with a raised brow. "Well, there's something we can all relate to. Isn't that so, comrades?" They moan in unison. He laughs to himself. "Yeah, we're not happy campers at the moment after what we've been through. The bandits kept saying they were going to sell us off to rich barons overseas and . . ."

"Comrade Rusakov," stresses a guerilla fighter, "can you trust these men?"

The leader holds up his hand. "I'm getting ahead of myself. You men are villagers, yes?"

"That's right," answers the commissar. His eyes shift back and forth at the mute Grigori anxiously. "Please excuse my friend's silence. He's . . . traumatized."

"Wait a minute. You sound awfully familiar, comrade. Are you Commissar Petrov?"

"Y-yes I am. Do I know you?"

"A few months back, you helped my men recover from their injuries in your town's clinic. Your doctor was a bit rude and impatient towards my men, but he still did his job. A very good one, in fact. It was well worth the cartridges we were originally saving up for better gear."

Petrov nods his head. "I remember now. Partisans?"

"We don't go by that label anymore. We found out what happens to partisans the hard way."

"I see. Well, as soon as we find some decent clothes, I'll be more than willing to escort you all to the village. It's a damn pity I lost my zampolit uniform. Can you tell me your names again?"

"I'm Comrade Rusakov. That's Comrade Bonsai." The leader continues down the short line of famished Revolutionaries. "Comrade Maxim. Uncle Fyodor. Oh, and the new comrade who just joined our ranks last week. Hailing from the Moscow Metro, Artyom."

The Stalker waves shyly.

A/N: I'll be taking a break from Atomkrieg for a while because I'm finishing up my second book. I'm not going to specify when I'll be coming back, but it'll be a while. Until then, stay cheeki breeki, Stalkers.