As I write my first entry in this journal, which was given to me by one of the guerillas, who claims to be a poet, I don't know what I find harder to believe; that it's been seven days since I've arrived in Polesia, or that I've been counting the days myself. Either way, I'm still stuck in this dump, leaning on one translator for support. Still, he has his life to live, being grounded in that river village.
I keep asking myself; now what?
What is there really left?
Not one soul in this place holds the answers to my existential dread. A part of me is missing, and all I can do is write down my nonsensical frustrations on paper. Sure, I could chat up the commissar, but his mind seems elsewhere. He has a wife, a son, and a village to tend to.
Me? Why should he care about some washed up bum like me? Maybe he finds solace in looking after me like an older brother would to his younger sibling. Maybe within me, he sees his precious Micah. Him and I are practically the same age. No doubt the commissar would feel guilty in abandoning me so soon. I just need a pillar to lean on while I try to put the pieces together and figure out what the hell happened to me.
I could always stay as a guest in the village. I could run some errands for the commissar and learn a thing or two about the surrounding area and its fauna. I'm already well acquainted with its apex predator, the giant salamander.
Yes. I can make this village my home, a safe place for me to fall back to in the likely event I get overwhelmed by the odds out there. At the same time, I gain some respect from the villagers and a stockpile of loot that'll put a trader's inventory to shame. And then, when I'm ready, I'll leave the village and venture out on my own, tracking the bastard who wronged me.
My plan sounds so simple, and yet so cocky. I'm so sure of it, and that's what worries me. Will my own arrogance get me killed in the boonies? My ghost will find out for itself soon enough. Now, I'll put my wrist to rest and see how everyone's doing.
Grigori trips over a rock on the dirt trail but catches himself. Everyone else pays no attention, keeping their heads facing forward on the hill ahead. They climb it with sore legs and reach the top. Dead shrubbery lines the cliffedge they stand upon, overlooking a large prairie that stretches for miles along the gray Dnieper. It's overcast with a light drizzle.
The shivering guerillas wish they had their parkas, but deep down, they know that real Revolutionaries don't require such comfort to operate. It wasn't too long ago they were treated as animals, vermin in cages. A shed of acid rain and wind gusts blowing gamma particles to the east is nothing but a daily occurrence to them.
Can a man not dream for better? Grigori scribbles down his thoughts randomly. Can he not dream for a better tomorrow? No, he cannot. Man cannot bend the will of the universe, therefore, he cannot expect the universe to owe him anything. But if that's the case, then why do we instinctively hope for betterment in our lives?
Grigori narrows his strides and twiddles his fountain pen anxiously. Even he is stumped by his own questions.
"I didn't know you had a knack for journaling." Gennady mutters in German in order not to arouse the Reds.
"It's what keeps me grounded in this demented reality of ours."
"I see. Everybody finds a way to cope out here, whether it be drinking, smoking, or playing the violin."
"You seem fairly stable. What's your secret?"
Gennady cracks a slight grin. "I don't have one. In fact, I get so caught up in looking after my comrades that I sometimes forget about anything else. You could say my way of coping is protecting others in this harsh reality of ours. The village is everyone's rock to lay on, but mine especially, and without my authority, there is no village."
"Are you saying your people can't survive on their own?"
"Not necessarily. Almost everyone knows how to live off the land. The problem is, nobody knows how to govern a society properly. As an aspiring collectivist, I'll admit that it's difficult to organize a commune without order. Yes, we all share similar responsibilities like farming and fishing, but not everyone can fix a broken limb like Doctor Rostov, or fire a gun as straight as me.
"There are experts who can accomplish certain goals far better than others. It almost takes a lifetime to hone one skill to mastery. Now imagine studying to become a brain surgeon while constantly worrying about what you'll be eating tomorrow. Struggle impedes progress. Stick to what you know best.
"I was a political officer for thirty years, and I learned something very valuable that I took for granted at the time. Whipping a large, diverse group of recruits into a cohesive unit of motivated killers seemed like such a headache back then. It still was. What I initially failed to realize was the potential I had in me to repeat the same process, but on a much smaller scale. When the Great War started, my idea of starting up a commune came to fruition, so I talked to Pasha, Rostov, and Anton about the possibility of it happening, and they agreed. That's your history lesson for today. Did you write any of that down?"
Grigori nods respectfully while jotting a quick note about Gennady Petrov in his journal.
The commissar mentioned the village being a resting rock for everybody except bandits and troublemakers, so wouldn't that include me? After all we've been through, I don't see him not giving me a place to stay.
"Look what you've done to him, Comrade Bonsai!" argues Uncle Fyodor. "The mute is distracted by your journal, always looking down at it to write. He should be looking up at all times and paying attention to his surroundings. Those bandit bastards could be chasing us for all we know."
"Eh, he should be fine. There's seven of us. Fourteen eyes in total. We lose a pair occasionally to the mute journaling, but that still leaves us with six pairs of eyes. When you're glaring at the distracted mute, we lose your pair of glossy eyes too, so ease up on him, Uncle!"
"Why must you explain everything to me like I'm five?"
Bonsai glares at the half-empty potion in Fyodor's fleshy hand. "Need I say more?"
Fyodor grumbles and corks the fragrant glass bottle.
The group of naked men arrive back at the village in early dawn. None of the villagers are up and about yet, so they take the opportunity to slip in without anyone noticing them.
As Commissar Petrov approaches the main gate, he sees the criss-crossing chains and remembers the front entrance remains locked until a sentry comes and unlocks it at sunrise. He improvises. The obvious solution to him would be scaling the stone wall. He gathers everyone in a line and has someone be the designated step stool. Comrade Maxim is chosen since his build is tanky, standing at six foot four, weighing two-hundred fifty pounds.
Grigori watches the guerillas go first. They step on top of the dark-skinned giant, hurdling up and over the wall. One by one, he listens to them hit the dirt on the other side with meaty thuds. Now it's Grigori's turn. He gently presses his foot against Maxim's sturdy back, afraid of hurting him, and shoots both arms out to grab onto the ledge, hanging from the wall. Using his remaining strength, he struggles to pull himself up the wall, but manages to sit himself on top.
He swings his legs over and scoots his exposed undercarriage across until he starts free falling, landing on top of the guerillas. Petrov follows suit and squishes Grigori into Artyom. Both of them ignore the hot and chaotic mess they're lying in until Maxim declares he's coming over. Meanwhile, Commissar Rusakov is stuck at the bottom of the pile, struggling for some fresh air.
Maxim climbs the wall with ease and prepares for his descent. He tucks his knees in and rocks back and forth, unable to see the human pretzel squirming in the abyss. Everyone fights to get out of each other's hair. Maxim takes a leap of faith and begins to race like a cannonball towards them. Like radroaches, they scatter from the large shadow shrinking above. Petrov hooks onto Rusakov's outreaching hand to reel him out of harm's way. In timely fashion, Maxim flattens his buttocks with the ground, shaking houses and waking villagers.
"Not so fast," a familiar voice says in the shadows, followed by a rifle cocking. "Did you Nazis really believe you could fool me? Really? Well, reassess your confidence later. There's a wall behind you bastards I want painted red!"
"You dare call us Nazis?!" shouts Rusakov.
The man threatening them loses his composure, chuckling. "Oh, that's new. Nazis speaking Russian. Never thought I'd see this day come; Russians supporting an ideology, the same one that murdered millions of OUR ancestors in cold blood over one hundred years ago."
"PASHA!" interjects Commissar Petrov. "Maybe if you had read more history in university, you would've already known about Hiwis. They were, of course, auxiliary volunteers from Eastern Europe, mostly Russia, who joined the ranks of Nazis."
"Comrade Commissar? W-where have you been?"
"Find a fully-stocked wardrobe for me and our new friends. Then we'll talk."
Pasha crosses his arms. "Fine."
A large congregation gathers inside the common house. Villagers surround the commissar in rapture as he shares with them his stories from the bog. Intrigue fills the air. A lot of hungry villagers are requesting buckwheat porridge for breakfast, so Hiram takes his cue and heads outside to stir the cast-iron cauldron.
"The crazies kidnapped you?" asks a fellow villager, a scrawny old man.
"Yes," replies Petrov.
"And they took all your belongings?"
"All of it." Petrov swipes his arm. "The uniform I had worn in the line of duty for ages. The Nagant revolver that had saved me from bandits and mutants countless times. All of it lost to a crackhead chieftain and his sacrificial fire. Now I wonder." The commissar shifts his eyes towards the recovering revolutionaries. "Comrade Bonsai, how did you keep your journal? And Comrade Fyodor, how did you hold onto your potion bottle?"
"The bandits didn't want to confiscate those items from us," answers Bonsai.
"Why?"
"I don't know. Them being bandits, they probably assumed my dusty old book and his pipsqueak bottle were nothing but worthless pieces of junk."
"I mean," adds Uncle Fyodor, "they kind of are, to some extent. Our escape plan would've played out differently though had your journal been a coffin for a TT. Heh. Seen that trick before when an old instructor of mine pulled out his copy of the Communist Manifesto. He opened it up, expecting to read an excerpt from Comrade Marx. No. Instead, what he read was the serial number stamped on the slide of his Korovin. The crazy bastard always keeps TWO copies on hand. The hot one is hollow."
Pasha nudges the anxious commissar to get to the less palatable part of his address.
Petrov scratches his left sideburn, and a bit of gray hair sheds off. "All right. Just give me a second. I need to gather up my senses."
"We cannot stall much longer, Commissar Petrov."
"Fine. Fetch me a glass of water then."
Pasha rolls his eyes and stomps out of the house.
"Is everything all right, Gennady?" Grigori voices his concern. "You seem a bit . . . on edge."
"Pasha and I had a little chit-chat in my dacha while you and the Revolutionaries were recovering in the clinic. Let's just say he's not very happy about what happened in the bog. I'll fill you in as soon as I provide context for my comrades."
Grigori nods off. "I understand."
The commissar feels his heart beating in his throat. He clears it up with a short cough and swallows hard. The room is dead silent. Grigori can hear dozens of eyes blinking sporadically like cameras shuttering at a crime scene. The villagers wonder when the commissar will speak. They remain stiff in silence until Pasha opens the front door, chipping away some surface tension. He hands the commissar a shot glass of water to which he smiles back in gratitude.
Petrov slams it down and realizes it's diluted vodka. Pasha resists the urge to laugh, flashing faint smirks as a substitute.
That brute will never win a game of poker. The commissar smears the remaining vodka off his burning lips and takes a deep breath. "Now then," he says. "Let's get down to brass tacks, shall we?" He combs over the miniscule strands of hair he has left on his balding head. "Comrades, I apologize for behaving so strangely." He pauses, giving the villagers time to wonder what could possibly bother a man as stoic as the commissar.
"Comrades," reiterates Petrov, "you are all familiar with Grigori, the foreigner. He came to Polesia out of nowhere with a nasty scar on his head. Have sympathy for the man. He's lost in our cruel world. Static fills his head instead of thoughts. He is a victim of phantom violence, a taboo subject in this village. We've all heard stories of those going crazy in the marshes, how the pagan tribe was always suspect. That is why Grigori and I went into the bog in the first place, to uncover the truth."
"Tell us the truth, comrade commissar!" implores the crowd.
"We've come to the conclusion that there is no truth, only fact. There is no damning evidence of the tribals drugging Grigori and lobotomizing him." The villagers groan at the news. "Comrades, I'm never going to tell you what you want to hear. That is a matter of fact. Grigori's perpetrator is still at large. All we know of him or her is that he or she is a medically trained brain surgeon, a rare profession to come by in the Wasteland."
"Not another wild goose chase," moans a vocal critic.
"Your thoughts, Comrade Commissar?" Pasha tilts his head and raises his brows.
"Wild goose chase or not, there is malpractice at play. Grigori may be the first victim we know of so far, but he certainly won't be the last. The phantom attacker could be anywhere in Polesia or the Rodina for that matter, preying on his or her next victim. Furthermore, our reckless bog expedition and its consequences may impact the region negatively in the coming weeks."
"You should've known better than to kick the hornet's nest." Pasha leans in and points at the commissar. "What used to be a distant problem just became relative. As soon as the tribals and bandits run out of resources, they'll fight over our village and pick its carcass clean like the buzzards they are."
"Okay. Let's say, hypothetically, we never went to the bog. There still would be bandits squatting on tribal land. It's safe to say this conflict was inevitable. All it took to light the powder keg was our tiny incursion."
"Best case scenario: the conflict doesn't leave the bog and kills them off." Anton chimes in from a rocking chair, caressing a kopeck mine in his lap. "Worst case scenario: the conflict migrates here and kills us off."
"In any case, we must prepare to get our feet dragged into this mess."
"Our preparation solely depends on how many will attack with how much force," says Pasha.
"I don't care what they throw at us. We must be fully prepared for any scenario, whatever the cost may be."
The villagers applaud the commissar briefly.
"So, how exactly are we going to prepare, hmm? We only have three hunting rifles, two of which are rusty Mosins, a couple Tokarev pistols, a meat cleaver, a handful of medkits, and a conservative supply of ammo. No body armor by the way." Pasha winks.
"Simple. We trade with the outside world. Traders rotate every two weeks. If we can surpass a reasonable profit quota in fourteen days, we can sell our loot to traders in exchange for guns, bullets, and so forth. Buy up on boxes of surplus ammo first, then cheap weapons and medical supplies. Everything else comes last in whichever order."
"Who will get to be the lucky ones looting through dilapidated buildings, I wonder."
"I'll make some arrangements for the scavenge team tonight."
The front door swings open from a strong kick. Pasha pushes everyone to the side, ready to confront the intruder with his handcrafted rifle. He jabs the crude, steel barrel into Hiram's chest before recognizing it's him. His slanted eyes watch as the ceramic bowl of porridge falls onto the hardwood floor and shatters into pieces. Hiram looks up at Pasha angrily.
"Knock next time." Pasha pats Hiram's tense shoulder on the way out.
The commissar wraps up his address with a few closing remarks, then personally invites Grigori over to his dacha for a briefing. Grigori enters Petrov's study, a modest room full of strategy books from the V. I. Lenin State Library. Vom Krieg sticks out from one of the bookshelves and captures his morbid curiosity.
Petrov goes to turn on his green office lamp out of habit when he realizes the power grid has been down for four years. He opens up a nearby window and lets the sunset lighten up the mood for this evening's discussion, resting both hands on top of his desk.
"Here's the situation, Grigori," starts Petrov. "It is my prediction that the village is heading for unavoidable conflict with the tribals and bandits. We made quite a stir in the bog, no doubt tensions will rise going forward."
"Why would the tribals want to attack us? Didn't we just help them with their bandit problem? And those bandits weren't so much of a threat either. They barely fought back and fled like cowards."
"Grigori, you don't understand the nature of Polesia and how volatile it is. I can excuse your ignorance though. It is my fault for not mentioning the other factions inhabiting this region. History has shown how one skirmish can escalate into a grand-scale conflict and drag in bigger and stronger foes from abroad. That's how the Great War supposedly started anyway, and I'm not referring to the most recent one."
Grigori leans back in his chair and looks up at the stucco ceiling for a moment. "Well, you know more than I do, and if you believe the village is about to get involved in something drastic, then count me in. I may as well call this place my home."
The commissar smiles sincerely to the sound of that. "I thank you for your bravery, Grigori. Let me remind you that you're not in any way obligated to defend the village, but I understand your reasoning."
"Now," Petrov clasps his hands together, "we do have a bit of a supply shortage, mainly ammunition. The village can't possibly fend off an attack in its current state. That is why I'm assembling a three-man scavenger team to venture out into the Wasteland and gather up as much profitable loot as possible. The traders from Kiev will arrive in about two weeks. That should give us enough time to scavenge for loot."
"Who's going to be on the scavenger team?"
"Pasha, Hiram . . ." The commissar hesitates, leaving Grigori anxious. "Hm, now that I think about it, I haven't picked out a third person yet." He taps his fingers on top of a dusty training manual. "Who should I choose, Grigori?"
He's kidding, right? Grigori pretends to be in deep thought, looking at the anthologies of volumes lining the bookshelves. He reads the shiny roman numerals off the spines like ancient hieroglyphics, then points to himself. "Uh, me?"
"You sound insecure."
"Well, I wasn't sure if you were testing to see if I would volunteer to join the team or not. I'm just a novice, really."
"A novice can learn a lot on his first sortie."
Grigori nods in agreement. That is true. I do have to start somewhere and grow as a survivalist in this hellish landscape. The question is: am I ready for it? Can a newbie like me handle the pressure out there? Narrowly dodged a man-eating salamander. Check. Fought off hypothermia. Check. Escaped a band of loony tribals. Check. Yeah.
"All right," accepts Grigori. "Tell me about the job."
The commissar puts on his reading glasses and turns to a dog-eared page in his worn journal. "It starts tomorrow morning. Hiram spotted a pack of wild mongrels roaming around an open field not too far from here. He said he wants to hunt them down for their meat and hide."
"What kind of profit are we looking at?"
"Not much. A pound of dog meat is five cartridges, and a dog's pelt is fifteen. For our first day of scavenging though, that's not too bad. If the pack is large, we can make a decent amount."
Petrov slouches over, pulls his desk drawer open, and hands a pistol over to Grigori. "You'll need this. Once upon a time, it was a backup gun for my service revolver, and well, you know what happened to that one." He tosses a box of FMJ 7.62mm Tokarev cartridges to Grigori and catches it with his chest. "Don't lose it." The commissar advises sternly.
Grigori struggles to rack the slide back.
"Do you know how to shoot, kid?" asks Petrov.
A random memory pops back into Grigori's head. I got spurs that jingle, jangle, jingle. Grigori sits on a carpet floor, right in front of a vacuum tube television."Well, I used to watch Western films when I was younger and—"
"Save it. I'll teach you once we're done here. What's the closest you've ever been to a real firearm?"
"Uh, when your brute for a friend stuck his gun into my face. Besides that friendly encounter, I've never seen nor so much as held an actual gun before entering this nightmare. Wherever I came from, owning a firearm was prohibited. Strange how I remember such a small detail from my homeland. Maybe it's because the Bundestag made it unlawful right before . . . before the Great War."
So he is from the Republic of Germany. "Is that what made you flee your original home? A tyrannical government?" The commissar attempts to put the pieces together, slightly offending Grigori.
"What? No, not at all. I just so happen to be here by fate, really."
Petrov scoots his chair back to stand up and stretch. "Okay, Grigori. Follow me out back. There's a nice little spot behind my dacha for you to practice shooting."
They stand at a safe distance from a pond, its surface plagued with scum. Cattails camouflage a rotting "snipe" carcass. Ants use the elongated beak as a bridge to deliver food to the colony. It floats in the contaminated water undisturbed.
Pop! A pistol cartridge impacts the mass of buoyant ants and breaks them apart. Commissar Petrov lowers the smoking gun, then hands it over to Grigori. "You see those black spots infesting the pond? Try hitting them in the center."
Grigori inspects the pistol, twirling and twisting it around in his shaking hand. He flags Petrov a few times with it to which he quickly admonishes him like a cadet. "Watch where you're pointing that weapon, comrade! It's hot, so be more careful."
"Sorry." No need for Grigori to disengage the safety switch. He tries mimicking the commissar's "executioner"pose, fully extending his right arm out. His index finger eases on the stiff trigger. He pulls softly as the trigger slowly moves back to engage the firing pin. Like a pendulum, it swings down and hits the primer, igniting the powder inside and propelling the jacketed bullet.
Pop!
A fireball comes out the muzzle and the pistol recoils a few inches up. Grigori opens his eyes and sees the end result. The black spot remains intact, though there is a large ripple effect adjacent to it. A spent casing fails to eject from the chamber.
"Hold onto the grip tight with both hands. You'll have better control over your gun and less malfunctions. Also, don't anticipate your next shot because you'll naturally want to counter recoil by aiming down. Doing so preemptively will ruin your accuracy. Always align your iron sights to the target by using your peripherals. And most importantly, stay focused."
The commissar takes the jammed pistol from Grigori, sweeps his offhand above the slide to dislodge the casing, then taps the slide back into battery. "That's how you clear a 'stovepipe' malfunction by the way," he adds. "Happens a lot to beginners who have limp wrists or weak grips."
Grigori raises his dainty hands and looks at them after Gennady emasculates him. "Is my training over?"
"A survivalist never stops training or improving, but in a manner of speaking, yes. You can empty out the rest of the magazine to get more practice in if you want. Otherwise, you and I are going to pay Anton another visit. As much of a tragedy it was losing our old stuff in the bog, Anton should be able to replenish our losses. Don't expect specialty items like last time. We're getting the scraps."
They turn their backs to the toxic pond and head back to the village. Midway through their walk, Petrov remembers something, facepalms, and runs the opposite direction. Grigori follows after him and breaks into a sprint. He catches up to the feisty old man, putting his hands on his knees, and checks to see what's going on. He watches Petrov bend over and pick up hot steel casings off the ground, plopping them into a small bag like silver coins. His wallet jingles and jangles of self-made wealth all the way home.
