Fresh snowfall. The people of the mountain, regardless of the tribe or affiliation, all had a respect for the snow. It kept food fresh, it melted to precious water, it helped trackers find prey in the harsh winter.
It helped defend them from their enemies.
There was no worse time to be a government hound in the Urals when winter came. The wolves of the Eastern Liberation Front always made sure that the blood shed by the people of the mountain in the spring and summer were paid back tenfold in the winter. Two villages had been burned last season, purged because they were "contaminated"- and they were the most accepting of the government's return. If that was how they treated their collaborators… well most of the villages that the Ghost had visited welcomed him and his militia with open arms.
He adjusted his balaclava, pulling the white edges of its eye-holes out of his peripheral. The masks were a necessary annoyance, partially for the camoflauge, more for the anonymity- more than one FSB assassination attempt had been thwarted simply because he looked just like any other militiaman- a single sprout in a field full or weeds.
"Nikita, Luka, stop pacing so much. You are leaving tracks." The Ghost snapped at two boys who were nervously fidgeting back and forth on the trail. They looked wholly out of place next to the Ghost. Winter coats lined with fur instead of the white-painted poncho, warm hand-woven shirts and pants instead of the old surplus winter fatigues. The only thing the three shared in common were the AKM's slung from the shoulder.
A lone figure, clad in white jogged down the trail, not even bothering to hide his prints in the snow. An old, worn AK at his side reflected the man's age- the graying hair, the gnarled time-ravaged skin, the hidden scars from the Collapse- from before even the War.
"What do you have, Viklav?"
"Twelve strong, boss. They've got one of those new combat robots at the front." The old wolf reported as he stopped to pull a set of snowshoes out of his pack.
"Burn team?"
"Don't look like it. Hounds by the smell of them. Probing for a hole in the line."
The Ghost did not worry one bit at the news, but his newbloods Luka and Nikita exchanged worried glances. These village boys would have to learn sooner or later… and it was better to learn under the tutelage of a hunter than it was to go out into the woods with a Kalashnikov and expect to come back alive.
"The plan is the same- if anything it will be simpler." The Ghost looked over the ambush location thoughtfully, growing more and more sure of the plan as he began to nod to himself. The four hides that flanked the trail were disguised well enough, and once things kicked off, it wouldn't matter much. You grab them by the belt, throw them to the ground, and tear them apart- it matters not what kind of toys they bring.
"Once Vasili has them under fire, they will try to find cover on the flanks and push up the new toy to engage him. Detonate the IED on it." The Ghost shrugged, "The only thing that changes from the original plan is fewer IED casualties. We simply apply hand-grenades instead; the results will be the same."
Viklav shrugged, motioning for the two village boys to go and sit back down in their fox-holes. The Ghost's reputation preceded him, as both a blessing and a curse. Wherever he went in the Urals, he was welcomed as a venerated hero- one of the few fighting the good fight still. Men and boys flocked to him, eager to join his militia-
But almost all of them were greenhorns. Some were hunters, but not hunters of men. It was a grim lesson passed down to the Ghost by old men like Viklav, and it was a lesson that that he tried to preach throughout the Urals.
To take up arms was to take up damnation, to walk a path.
"Boss." Viklav tapped his wristwatch- a prize pried off a hound countless years ago.
They had roughly fifteen more minutes if the hounds were still following the game trail, and considering the city-dogs' lack of woodsmanship, this was going to be the case. They had at least learned that to wander off the trail was to risk getting mired in the snow drifts, and so far snow-shoes and skis were still not standard issue for the patrols that were sent out.
"You going to check?" Viklav tapped the Ghost's shoulder, hiking a thumb to where a bundle of unexploded mortar rounds lay just beneath a thin layer of frozen dirt and snow.
"It looks fine enough." He frowned. Viklav was an old-guard, one of the remnants of the White Wolf militia that had survived the western purges. The old man was not one of those that would second guess himself.
Viklav raised his eyebrows, motioning more with his head this time around- he was motioning towards the kids who stood awkwardly on the trail nearest their assigned hides. The Ghost sighed, wishing that Viklav had a better way with words- the old wolf was a veteran of a war and of the insurgency that followed. He had combat experience that dwarfed the Ghost's own, it was just that Viklav was not leadership material.
"I was going to give them words when it's closer to time."
"Bullshit." Viklav grinned. It was a cold expression, cynicism had frozen the old wolf's heart long ago.
"Fine… fine, I'll go talk to them."
Normally, the Ghost would use the excuse of 'maintaining professional distance' as an excuse to simply not talk to subordinates… but could scared kids be considered subordinates? Subordinates took orders, subordinates were trained…
The boys were meandering near the trail, exactly what he ordered them to stop doing. How he wished this were a wider operation with his real soldiers- but no, they were needed to hold the line.
"We'll be fine though, right?" Luka's wish for assurance pulled the Ghost from his own wishes.
'There's no such guarantees in combat.' were the first words that loaded into the Ghost's mouth, but he choked them back, jamming his thoughts.
"If everything goes to plan, yes." Stammered out when the chamber cleared in his head.
The boys visibly relaxed, clutching less to themselves, and more to their rifles.
"C-can you tell us the plan again, please?" Nikita managed to stammer out. To the boy's surprise, the Ghost did not bite his head off like he undoubtedly believe the militia leader to do. Instead, the Ghost sighed with the slight grinding of teeth.
"Viklav and myself will pitch hand grenades after the bomb goes off to flush them into the drifts. Remember; KABOOM, boom, boom. When you hear our AK's then you jump up and shoot, yeah?" His words were met with cautious nods from Luka and Nikita, who simply clung to their rifles more.
The Ghost's could only hope that his confidence in the plan was slowly growing infectious. Viklav and Vasili had served under him before, so they knew the score. The youngsters, however…
"Get to your hides." The Ghost motioned for the boys to hide first, so that he and Viklav could help them. They had dug into the snow drift deep enough that they could lay prone beneath a white-painted tarp, but that was it. They hadn't disguised their hides any better, so the two veterans went about throwing more snow upon their juniors' backs.
"Remember. Kaboom, boom, boom, then you attack." The Ghost crouched down, close to where the white tarupin met snow drift, noting vapors leaking out from the cracks. The boy was breathing too fast, the nerves were getting to him. "Suck on some snow to keep your breath from giving you away." The Ghost scooped a small handful of soft snow, playfully smattering it over the boy's tarp.
Viklav gave him a thumbs up from Nikita's mound before carefully waddling over to what he macabrely joked as his "frozen grave", dragging a branch of fir behind him. The Ghost followed suit, trying to smooth out the tracks from his snow shoes.
He clambered into his grave as well, a mix of frozen dirt and hard-packed snow. No… less a grave, and more an ice-box as he pulled the camouflage tarpaulin over himself. At least he could see out, unlike Nikita and Luka. Viklav had found some nice wiry branches and dead shrubbery, even took the time to carefully harvest the things with snow still clinging to their branches. From behind the shroud of branches, they could watch the trail- see where to throw the grenades.
And see when the hounds approached still clad in their foliage green-
Still in their surplus black boots, not a ski or snowshoe amongst them.
Still overconfident despite losing five patrols this month to traps and ambushes; still high off the last village they purged of "infection". Not a single damn lesson learned.
The crack of a Dragunov preceding the panic and the shouting. Vasili had missed his cold shot, but the effect was all the same. Return fire blindly spewed into the treeline as the android began to trundle forward. The soldiers had all begun to take cover behind trees or shallow drifts that lined the trail as a second and third round cracked and pinged off of the advancing metal man. The soldiers had scattered past the hides, focused very intently on the sniper's direction instead of what lay next to them.
The armored android raised its weapon, the first round out of it interrupted by a violent blast that made everyone throw themselves to the ground.
The Ghost snapped the pin from the old miniature pineapple, peeking ever so slightly from beneath his white tarp to find just where to pitch- but the patrol had already broken formation, spreading out far more than expected. There was no way to predict just how a human would react to a fear impulse, after all; but the Ghost had hoped that their panic would have been more in the ambush's favor.
Three had waded near to Viklav's hide- too close to pitch a grenade at, another team by Nikita's… at this point, it was less about casualties, and more about disruption.
An old Kalashnikov rattled from somewhere across the trail, and the military's rifles answered.
The Ghost had no choice but to just pitch, whipping the explosive out into the middle of the trail-
"Grenade!" One of the soldiers screamed, leaping from his cover and into the deceptively deep defilade that ran the length of the trail. The rest followed suit as the frag burst-
The second grenade had never gone off, but the Ghost emerged from his grave regardless. Two were near his hide, just off the trail and still trying to pull themselves up from the snow. The rifle rattled in his hands, slamming back into the haunch of his shoulder; the crimson stains staining the snow signalling him to shift focus.
A grenade exploded by Viklav's hide, the three soldiers that had surrounded it were shredded by the blast. Two more stood by Nikita's, firing into the drift where the boy would have been laying prone. Five more had scattered into the mire of white, trying to avoid both the sniper and grenade fragments.
There was no time to wonder, nor worry about crossfire as the Ghost's rifle chattered at anything that wore green. The cacophony of rifles, both new and old, drowned out the gasps and cries of the dying, until the woods fell silent once again.
The Ghost took stock: twelve green-clad men dead, six by bullets, four by grenades, two more tossed and broken alongside the shattered remains of their little toy robot. There was no worry about being jumped by survivors.
And then the bigger worry came next.
Viklav had emerged from his grave, a pained scowl stamped upon his face. The old man's white-tarp hide shredded and stained with red, but he was alive. The Ghost still did not let out a sigh of relief yet as he turned his attentions to the new bloods.
Telltale flecks of crimson and steam coming from Nikita's hide told him all he needed to know of the boy's fate. His friend Luka had clambered from his own snowy pit, looking upon himself with disbelief. The boy hadn't noticed yet.
"Grab what you can off of the bodies." The Ghost ordered, waving a hand signal down the trail- Vasili was to start covering their tracks.
"I thought I would have been shot for sure, eh Nikita?" Luka looked for his friend, not noticing the blood in the mound. "Nikita?" Luka called out.
Viklav locked eyes with the Ghost, shaking his head.
"The boy jumped from his hide early." Viklav mumbled as he picked through the corpses, explaining the early AK fire they had heard. Luka moved for where Nikata lay, but the Ghost intercepted him, shoving the boy back towards the trail.
"Do yourself the favor and don't." He growled. The boy continued to press against him, only to be shoved into the snow.
"You said everything would be fine!" The boy gritted his teeth, "You said we'd be safe."
"If everything went to plan." The Ghost motioned to where Nikita most likely was going rigid in his grave, "He didn't follow the plan, and the risk caught him."
"And what are you going to tell our father?" Luka hissed, hand drifting down to the rifle.
"The same thing I tell everyone who wants to bite at the hounds." The Ghost leant in slightly, his whole body coiled and tensed like a spring, "The same thing I told you two when you begged to join." He hissed, "You dig your own grave and you must be ready to lie in it."
The boy howled in anger, dragging his AK forward to try and erase the blood contract he had made with the Ghost... only to be viciously struck across the face, the rifle wrenched from his hands as he fell to the frozen dirt.
"He will learn." Viklav hovered over the boy who had tried to scramble away in terror from the two devils of the mountains. Viklav handed the boy's rifle over to the Ghost.
The militia commander expertly stripped the mag from the old family Kalashnikov and cleared the chamber before tossing it back at the boy's feet.
"There's no going back now, Luka." He spoke dispassionately, motioning at the dead that surrounded them, "The hounds have marked this territory- they will keep coming until we kill enough of them."
"Bury him, at least." Luka threw an ineffectual kick towards the two callous militiamen, flinging snow and packed ice in their direction, but neither man paid mind as they grabbed what weapons they could. "You can't just leave him for the wolves." The boy pleaded.
"We can." Viklav grunted, slinging the fifth captured rifle over his shoulder, "We have before, just as we expect you to do the same to us if we die."
But the boy's begging gave the Ghost pause- a moment's hesitation that he tried so hard to always ignore. Luka was no older than he was when he had killed his first man- was this the right path for such a boy? Hesitation was the seed for doubt to grow, and once doubt bloomed, then guilt would rear its damn smug face again.
He cracked.
He hated this distance- this cold heart that he knew was purely for self-preservation.
He hated being a ghost, and for once he wished to live again- even if only to feel the pain.
"Viklav, make the boy carry some of those and group back with Vasili."
"Right, but-"
"Just do it, Viklav!" The Ghost snapped, causing even a veteran such as Viklav to flinch, "And make sure he understands just what is at stake here."
He watched the two pick up a few more rifles before making haste down the trail. When he was sure that no-one was near, the Ghost dragged himself to where Nikita had fallen.
"I have been fighting for too long." The Ghost mumbled as he dropped himself into the drift where the smell of blood steamed up from the foxhole. He didn't need to look at the body- he didn't need another on his conscience. Instead, the Ghost picked up the boy's entrenching tool and threw snow over the evidence of his damnation.
Here in a shitty frozen pit in the ground a child had died for, arguably, no good reason. Why was he and his brother so eager to fight? They didn't need to pick up a Kalashnikov yet… was that why their father had let them go? To show that they had no reason to do this?
That the boys would get a taste of the violence and spit it out like any sane person would? To make the logical choice that the Ghost hadn't back when he had first picked up a rifle...
"Why did you want to fight, eh?" He shivered a moment, asking the corpse. Of course he would get no reply.
"We fight… to protect our people- our way of life." The Ghost spoke. Those words were determined, practiced, hollow.
"First the Bolsheviks and their the NKVD… then the huskers… the Westerners after that. Then the FSB and now the liars who claim us tainted; all so they can burn us and take our lands? What next? How long will we fight for our mountains, hmm? When will we be free to live?" The Ghost looked over the shallow grave of Nikita, once again asking the corpse and receiving no answer.
"There is no end, is there? Our world is violence, so we must be violent in return." He repeated, doubt creeping from the dark recesses of his mind. It was all he had ever known, after all.
"Boss are you-"
"Yeah, I'm coming." The Ghost shouted back to the impatient Viklav, taking a moment to hastily throw more snow over the blood-stained tarupin. Buried enough to keep the wolves away- at least until the spring thaw. They could find the boy and bury him proper after that.
It was that very moment that he had rejoined the living. He couldn't go back to being the Ghost of the Urals any longer. For all the Ghost knew, his actions could be damning the next generation of his people.
He wanted out, he wanted freedom once again.
But who could free a man who had only known death and violence?