What the hell was that . . . thing?
The captain lies on his back, the duffel bag propping his head up. Adrenaline keeps his senses elevated within the pitch-black shack. He hears the faintest of things coming from outside. Whether these sounds are real or in his delusional head, the captain wishes to remain vigilant throughout the night, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise.
His eyes adjust to the blinding darkness of the void as they scour the rest of the shack out of boredom. He stares at the vague shadows surrounding his useless self.
They are not threats. He has to convince himself that repeatedly. They're just common day items that used to belong to someone. The captain becomes the new, temporary keeper to this hideout on the Pripyat, unless some other unfortunate soul like him decides to move in.
And what about the original keepers of this place? I've met plenty of fishermen before, and I know that they're not particular about time. They frequent their favorite fishing spots whenever, no matter what. Creepy marshlands at midnight in the post-apocalypse won't disway fanatics like them from their daily ritual.
The captain is tempted to restart the flame in his lantern, but generating light will attract pesky moths and maybe bandits. He doesn't enjoy staying awake in the dark for too long because of his active mind that likes to wander as much as his boots. Seeing the external world for what it is keeps him grounded, even though the one he inhabits now is full of deformities and chaos.
The ability to harness fire was a blessing and a curse for man. It's what kept him warm and well-fed with cooked food throughout history. It's what also incinerated him into ashes. The gas lantern is the bearer of civilization, the benevolent light that scares away savages and creatures of the night, protecting civilized men and women with its glowing warmth.
A piece of the Old World enters his soul whenever he pours in kerosene, strikes a match, and watches a puff of flame trap him in a bubble of light. By bringing the lantern back to life every time, the captain unknowingly comes closer to remembering his ancestral roots, where he migrated from.
The perpetual darkness is making him forget there is an entire irradiated world that exists beyond the confines of the shack. Sometimes, he thinks this is everything the nuclear holocaust spared, a polluted river, some marshlands, a shelter that may as well be his coffin, and himself, excluding the mutants.
Then, his ears twitch to the sound of grass rustling gently. It's probably just the wind, or a thirsty animal going to the river for a late night drink, but that's all just wishful thinking to the captain. He lifts his back off the floor and gets onto his knees. There's no holes in the walls for him to peep through, so he'll have to pay close attention to sound.
His ear presses up against the splintery wood, listening attentively to the approaching footsteps. They're getting closer. The captain controls his heart rate by taking in some deep breaths quietly. He picks up on another set of footsteps.
What am I dealing with here? A four-legged animal, or two human beings? If it's a bear, I'm as good as dead. People? They're not so dangerous unarmed. I can outrun them (assuming I have enough stamina) and lose them in the nearby forest.
It's fight or flight at this point. My fighting capabilities are subpar as well as my negotiating skills. I can't predict the mental state these locals are in, half of them being tribals. I'll get lost in the woods, without a doubt, but my primal instincts say I'm better off moving about than sticking to one place.
God, I hope my guts are right.
The captain heads for the door and takes a quick peek outside. It's a full moon tonight, and the skies are clear of muck, moderate visibility conditions for anyone that has a working pair of eyes, ignoring the fact that some predators already have a natural advantage, night vision.
He crouches next to the doorway, teetering back and forth on his heels and toes, and pushes the door open slowly. Its hinges squeak, making him cringe. He stops it midway and checks his flanks for trouble. To his right is the Pripyat, and to his left, a path made of wooden slats that runs deeper into the marshes.
Ah-hah! The dinghy, my third option of escape. How could I have forgotten about it?
The captain climbs back into his boat and paddles away from the dock, breaking the moon's reflection in the water. Stroke after stroke, he mutters in frustration under his breath. He dreads having to be back on the river once again, exerting the rest of his energy into rowing. Nonetheless, he sucks in his quivering lips and subjugates himself to more of this undeserving punishment.
The nature of Polesia is indiscriminate when it comes to tormenting its victims, even the tribes that spiritually connect to its soil. The botanical gods are being merciful to the captain so far, giving him a slap on the wrist. They're capable and more than willing to hand out death sentences to everybody, but on rare occasions, some level of restraint is shown to special guests.
Despite suffering mild sleep deprivation, the captain goes through the motions and paddles at a snail's pace. His muscles are shaking like a wet dog, and his posture is that of an old man with osteoporosis. He feels no end to the Pripyat whatsoever, minutes passing by as hours. The captain debates about sleeping in his dinghy on the water while the weak current takes him to a promising destination overnight.
Yes, he can see it now, waking up first thing in the morning to a crowd of tribals jabbing their pointy spears into him. He erases the disturbing image from his imagination.
Up ahead, a vibrating cloud of specks looms several inches above the river. It camouflages well against the backdrop of nightfall, practically invisible to the naked eye. The unsuspecting captain closes the distance between him and the cloud. He hears buzzing out of nowhere in his ears as the noise grows louder. The captain doesn't have tinnitus as far as he's concerned. Luckily for him, he hasn't exposed himself to live gunfire or explosions yet. Still, it begs the question.
Where's that noise coming from?
The buzzing transforms into an orchestra of fluttering wings. The captain stalls the dinghy's momentum, lays the soaking paddle over his lap, and waits. He bends forward to grab the lantern off the top of the boat's nose and raises the globe by pushing his thumb down on the lever. The striker ignites the match.
Fwoop.
Light fills up the lantern and spills out into the cold river, revealing a swarm of bloated flies. They disperse, firing bits of larvae out of their stingers at the captain. He picks up the paddle and swings it erratically at the strangely aggressive horse flies, smacking a few.
The blunt attacks render their wings useless as they plop into the river, each fly letting out a hurtful chirp. The captain wonders how these insects have pain receptors, but now is not the time for him to be an entomologist. He continues swinging the paddle around as it has proven to be a viable weapon for him. His breaths are shaky. Their numbers seem to be multiplying.
The flies tend to strafe left and right a lot at the expense of their aim. Most of their shots are missing him. Accuracy doesn't matter to these nuisances though when they have enough stingers to paralyze a bear. Some of the spiked projectiles manage to latch onto the captain, injecting neurotoxins into his bloodstream.
His arms become primary targets for the flies as they line his limbs of larvae. They grow numb, forcing the captain to lower his weapon to the insects. He's not surrendering himself to a bunch of merciless bugs. All that's left for the captain to do is bury himself in the dinghy until the flies lose interest, or wait for something bigger than him, an amphibian to eat them.
Out of the water, a salamander emerges with an eager appetite. It leaps up into the air and swallows the swarm of flies whole, diving back into the Pripyat. The splash flips the dinghy over and capsizes it. The captain whips his head out of the freezing water, gasping for air. He finds himself underneath the overturned boat that's sinking to the bottom of the river.
His hand feels for the belly of the boat which isn't too far from touching his head. He goes underwater in a desperate attempt to escape and nearly loses his breath on the way down, but he fights to hold it in. Swimming with his eyes closed, the captain relies on his hands to make out where the sides of the dinghy are.
He has a clue on where to swim out, diving a bit deeper to avoid the descending boat. He rises up to the surface and bellows. This part of the river is not as wide, so the captain can swim ashore in less than five minutes. He rests his ass on the ground, processing everything that has happened in the last fifteen minutes or so.
His clothes are drenched, and the winds are gaining speed. He shivers miserably. A burning sensation overcomes the captain as if someone just poured gasoline all over him, then proceeded to light him on fire. He starts stripping down to his underwear without any second thought.
Fire, fire. I'd do anything for a nice, warm campfire.
The captain jogs in place and makes a daring run into the wetlands. His bare feet slop through the mud and marshy grass. No matter how rough the terrain may be, he wades through shin-high water and pushes through dense thickets. Stray twigs scratch and tally up his fair, tender skin. Leaves plaster themselves all over his half-naked body to the point where he appears to be wearing a crude ghillie suit.
His adrenaline wears off. He slows down and checks out his new surroundings after running aimlessly in the wilderness for who knows how long. The captain stares up at the tall pine trees towering over him. Half of them are burnt to a crisp. The others remain untouched, looking as they were in the Pre-War days.
Sightseeing is over for the captain. He wishes to be on the move so that his body can create more heat and dry faster, though his hypothermia is not improving much. Both his breathing and pacing are slowing down. He's practically sleepwalking through the forest.
Mmm. Rest. It's time for me to go to bed. Maybe I'll feel better when I wake up tomorrow. He yawns terribly, misstepping more times than a drunken sailor in a stupor.
The captain feels he can lay flat on any side of his body, anywhere really, and fall asleep instantly, no problem. Never mind that, he's already snarling up a storm, and he hasn't even laid down yet. This is exactly what the captain was itching for back at the fisherman shack, a good night's rest. No more worries, just sweet dreams. Tomorrow, he can come back to his five senses as a new, refreshed man . . .
Or, I don't come back to the land of the living at all. I can't afford to rest now. The cold will kill me if I go to sleep.
He flexes every muscle fiber in his body in an attempt to fill his brain of blood to counter drowsiness, but his veins are constricted. It's quite obvious to the captain that he's losing the battle to survive, and he's the last person in the world to fight a losing battle. Maybe there's still some hope left in his dying heart.
He decides to lie his bare back against a dead tree, imagining a posy of two-horned devils hunting him down for sport. If he goes, that's one less survivor of the human race. There's five hoods with scythes coming after him, and he only has one silver bullet.
Line them up, and knock them down. The captain takes in one last pathetic breath of ionized air. One shot, five kills. He curls his frosty hands into fists.
A wild beast charges towards him, its lengthy tongue hanging out. The swarm of bloated flies was only an appetizer for the salamander. What it really craves is something with flesh and bones, juicy blood, and a trim of fat. Unfortunately for the salamander, dinner will be served colder than a nuclear winter in Siberia.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Rifle shots echo throughout the forest, though the captain is not sure from where. He thought angels were coming from the heavens to give him a quick death, sparing him from a grizzly one. The first shot crippled the front right leg to curb its charge, the second went for the adjacent leg to ground it, and the third blew its head into meaty chunks.
"Woo-hoo!" cheers a man. "Pasha, did you see me land that finishing blow all the way from here?!"
"Yes, I did," says Pasha in disappointment. "You also butchered the absolute crap out of our trophy head!"
"Well, at least it's dead. Look on the bright side, that should be enough food to feed the village for a few days."
"Heh, only if we hide it from you!" jokes the other friend. Pasha shares a belly laugh with him.
They converge onto the slaughtered salamander when they stumble upon a pale figure slumped against a nearby tree. Pasha cycles the stiff bolt on his rifle and aims at the lethargic captain.
"Wait, wait!" The plump friend jumps in front of him, stretching his protective arms out. "Don't shoot him."
"Why, Micha?" Pasha lowers his loaded rifle. "Can't you see he's turning into one of those freaks?"
"Which ones?" asks the third friend sarcastically. "The humanimals or the tribals?"
"All right. Enough with your jokes, Hiram."
"C'mon, Pasha. You and I have seen humanimals plenty of times to know he's not one of them. As for being a tribal, while he may look rugged, he still has on some underwear. Tribals wear animal hides, not cotton."
"He still looks like a corpse to me. Let me take a closer look at him and see if he has the symptoms." Pasha swats Micha's arm down and kneels next to the captain, lifting his head up by the chin.
"Don't hurt him!" pleads Micah.
"Stay calm." He examines the interesting scar on the captain and stands back up with a smirk on his face.
Anyone who has stitches in this part of the world is regarded as a force to be reckoned with. Walking away from a fight alive is an achievement of itself, the scar is just physical proof, and medical procedures are expensive and rare to come by. Post-surgery clients are more than likely to have connections and loads of money to their name.
"Hmm," Pasha speculates about the origin of this man. "He's been through the wringer once, that's for sure. Yes, a tough guy like him could be of use to the village."
Micha confronts Pasha with his arms crossed. "I believe you owe me."
"For what?"
"Had I not talked you out of executing him, the village would've lost a potential guardian, a noble one, mind you."
Pasha slings his bolt-action rifle over his right shoulder. "And what if he was feral, Micah? Had I shot him dead, it would've been one less problem for the village to deal with and a mercy kill." He rolls the captain's body onto his burly back, a technique he had learned from the military. "I'm taking him to the clinic. You two," he points with both his middle fingers, "collect as much salamander meat as you can before some opportunists steal our bounty."
Micah and Hiram pull out their hacksaws and sickles to butcher the amphibian, storing its gory remains into burlap sacks. Pasha ditches his younger subordinate friends and heads back to the village where a modest community of collectivists labor in a mock commune.
Doctor Rostov tends to more paperwork at his desk, finishing up last week's backlog of patient check-ups at the clinic. Since everyone in the village is obligated to fulfill their role without expecting material payment for their services, the villagers often visit Doctor Rostov twice a day for their medical concerns, the severity of them ranging from critical to trivial.
Just yesterday, a woman who happened to be a hypochondriac came barging into his office, demanding the doctor perform an examination on her foot. The reason? She stubbed her big toe against the corner of her bed frame, claiming the pain was so unbearable that she swore she fractured a bone or strained a tendon.
When Doctor Rostov saw her big toe, there were no signs of visible trauma, no bruising under the toenail, and no swelling. He gave the woman the benefit of the doubt and took an X-ray of her foot. Nothing substantial came up. Her story only became less coherent, leaving the doctor with more questions than answers. As soon as she said her big toe had cancer, that it was spreading up to her leg, he spared himself the trouble by prescribing analgesics to her.
Is this what the Revolution has come to? Doctor Rostov asks himself as he writes in sloppy cursive. If one more proletariat wastes my productivity with their insanity in the next hour, I'm breaking this pen in half!
A heavy knock thunders at his tin door which startles him, bringing his already simmering blood to a boil. He ransacks his liquor cabinet and takes a swig of Stolichnaya. The visitor at his door knocks again, but louder this time for him to hear since it's barely the crack of dawn. Little does the villager know that the doctor has been up all night, toiling away at his work desk.
"Who is it?" Doctor Rostov calls out from his secluded office. "I'm quite busy at the moment, and the clinic's not open until sunrise. Are you bleeding profusely from every orifice? Missing all four limbs? Projectile vomiting? Explosive diarrhea? All of the above?"
"It's Pasha, egghead!"
Oh, it's the brute. The doctor rolls his eyes.
"I have a patient for you to see. He needs medical attention."
"Pasha, how many times do I have to remind you? I'm not experimenting on any more bandits you capture from the Wasteland. Quit dragging them to my doorstep! My clinic isn't a playground for your sadistic thoughts."
Pasha dials down his gruff attitude. "This is serious, Doctor Rostov."
The doctor is taken aback by Pasha addressing him in such a formal manner. Either the brute is buttering him up for a favor, or he's being sincere with his delicate words.
Who exactly could this patient be? Doctor Rostov heads for the front door to unlock it, fumbling with the key ring in his gloved hands. Perhaps one of his comrades sustained an injury while out on patrol.
"Come in."Pasha enters, carrying an unconscious blonde man on his hunched back. "Where's Micah and Hiram?" He sets the captain down on a chewed up sofa missing almost all of its yellow stained cushion.
"They're in the forest, gathering up salamander meat."
"And?" The doctor inquires with a cocked eyebrow. "Who is this man, and why did you bring him into our village? Does Petrov know about him?"
"Not yet. Look, me and the guys were patrolling the area last night for more of those freaks, the humanimals, I mean. We went by the fishing dock to check up on it and found the storage shed broken into."
"Mm-hmm." Meanwhile, Doctor Rostov tidies up his cluttered workspace by putting patient files back in order, breaking down stacks of paperwork, and archiving outdated documents. "I assume he's the culprit then." The doctor's wire-framed spectacles stare at the captain who's sprawled across the baggy sofa.
"I don't think so. We found him a mile away from the shed, and he had no belongings on him other than his boxer shorts."
"Was anything of value stolen from the shed?"
Pasha shakes his head. "Not really, just a can of fish bait. Doctor Rostov, we can discuss more about this petty thievery with Petrov later. Right now, I want you to help this man out. I brought him to you for a reason."
The doctor laughs hysterically, taking off his glasses to dab his teary eyes with a handkerchief. "Oh, Pasha. Why are you so empathetic all of a sudden? Did an Orthodox priest donate his heart to you?"
Pasha pounds his fist of iron on the doctor's desktop. "I need you to swivel that egghead of yours back on, you alcoholic hack, and thaw out that block of ice occupying your babushka's furniture!"He places his hand on the doctor's shoulder and steers him towards the captain who's starting to regain consciousness from their heated argument.
"Perform your miracle work on him at once, Doctor Rostov. He bears the mark of a fighter, can't you see it?"
"Control yourself, Pasha!" The doctor brushes the brute's hands off his tense shoulders. "Proletariats don't believe in miracles, remember?"
"Ah, of course not, my mistake." Pasha corrects his dissident mindset in front of the Party intellect. "They believe in the facts instead, and the sciences, and the atoms . . ." His fluctuating voice trails off into silence.
Doctor Rostov gives his wood stove some mossy logs, lumps of charcoal, two shots of vodka, and a lit match, bringing it to life. The crackling fire plays music to his ears. Afterwards, he fetches a bundled up quilt from his dresser and rolls it out in front of the hot stove.
"Pasha, help me lift him up." The doctor goes for the captain's legs. "Let's move him closer to the fire, on top of that quilt."
"All right." Pasha grabs onto his arms.
They raise him off the sofa, skirt around the desk, and squeeze through a narrow doorway that leads into a small living space where the doctor likes to unwind after long, stressful days of work.
The effort I've put into separating my little pocket of relaxation from my profession has gone to waste. Rostov grits his teeth as he sets the captain down onto the quilt feet first. Pasha follows suit, lowering the upper half of the captain to the insulated floor.
It was last month I had to convert my bedroom into an infirmary for a handful of wounded partisans, and they weren't the best of the bunch, but I'd rather them harass me than bandits. Now I have to make more room in the den for another inebriate. I'm growing weary of the amount of personal space I'm losing due to the influx of outsiders, and I say that as someone who doesn't believe in ownership of property. The upkeep of the clinic is declining so suddenly, I'm afraid it'll turn into an overpopulated asylum within three days.
Pasha awkwardly dresses the captain in a full set of winter clothing. "There you go, comrade." He then drapes two wool blankets over him. "That should keep you warm."
The captain doesn't understand what exactly Pasha is saying, but he gathers that the voice has some sympathy for him.
Doctor Rostov tucks a straw pillow underneath the captain's head as an afterthought."I'm going to brew up some tea for him." The doctor walks out in a hurry, leaving Pasha alone with the captain.
Pasha listens to the doctor rummage in his cupboard for a kettle in the background while he watches the captain breathe steadily, his chest coming up and down in rhythm. His lips are rather blue which concerns Pasha a bit, but he calms himself shortly, knowing that his extremities aren't frostbitten. Pasha's casual examination on the captain is soon disrupted by more pots and pans banging against each other in the kitchen area.
For a doctor, he sure is clumsy. Sometimes I wonder why we put our lives in his hands. Pasha inspects his makeshift bolt-action rifle out of boredom. Most of its parts are recycled from a variety of Pre-War military surplus weapons, Mosins and Pechenegs.
Eventually, the doctor returns with a brass kettle full of groundwater in one hand, and tea bags in the other. "How's your friend?"
"Still recovering."
The half-awake captain tunes into a conversation between two muffled voices. He can't make sense of their words and accents for some reason. Perhaps Satan and God are arguing over which otherworld my soul shall be sent to. I can already feel the fires of Hell at my feet.
The wood stove burps a flurry of cinders out of its charred mouth. Doctor Rostov uses a cast iron poker to adjust the popping logs inside, then closes the hatch shut. He leans the tool against the wall once he's done tending the fire.
"So let me get this straight, Pasha." The doctor paces around the room. "You brought this random man into our village all because he has a funny scar on his head?"
"When I first saw him in the forest, my initial thought was to kill him."
That's the brute I know! Rostov nods. "Okay, so what made you change your mind?"
"That boy," Pasha glances up, "Micha."
"Pfft, how did he convince you?"
Pasha looks out the square window and sees that dawn is creeping up. They should be back with that meat by now. I'm hungry as a wolf. "He didn't talk me out of it. His stalling technique just gave me enough time to reconsider my hasty decision. I'm glad I didn't pull the trigger on him. Saved one bullet and one tough son of a bitch too."
"What makes you think he's so tough?" The doctor crosses his arms, jerking his head at the captain. "His scar? You're overestimating a man who can't hold himself together out in the cold weather, and it's not even below zero."
"You know how desperate we are for new guardians, Doctor Rostov. We're short on manpower as it is."
"That doesn't mean we should lower our standards. We need soldiers who are trained in combat protecting our village, Pasha, not cannon fodder, unless you're implying they're the same."
"Ha!" Pasha slaps his rusty knee. "The Great War wiped out half of the military, but good luck with that endeavor. You might be able to snatch up a squad of reservists from the Wasteland if they're friendly and rational human beings."
"And what about the other half? I'm certain the Kremlin planned ahead for the inevitable and built networks of underground tunnels to accommodate hundreds, thousands of citizens. Think, Pasha! A million of our comrades, including reserves, scattered about in the Moscow Metro and its stations."
The tea kettle whistles ready on the stovetop and startles the captain. He thrusts his back off the quilt, breathing rapidly. His eyes run along the drab walls of the room and the long faces of his caretakers. The captain catches his breath and absorbs the oddly hospitable atmosphere of the clinic. He chooses to stay underneath the russet blankets for warmth and comfort, knowing that these men don't intend to harm him.
The blue carpet, the floral wallpaper, and the smell of burning oak fosters a sense of nostalgia within the captain, but the brain fog is so thick, it hinders him from connecting those sentimental pieces to a particular moment. The more he overthinks, the more his memory fades into oblivion.
Pasha and Doctor Rostov stand side by side with their eyes wide open, waiting for him to say something.
"Wo bin ich?" questions the captain.
Pasha swallows in surprise. "He's German."
The doctor slaps both his hands onto Pasha's chest. "You brought in a Nazi?!" Pulling that string of words out of his mouth sobers him up quickly.
"How was I supposed to know?" He gently pushes the doctor away from him.
"What should we do with him, Pasha?" The doctor prepares a shot of vodka in his shaking hands, spilling a few drops on his carpet.
"He's unarmed, so there's not much he can do as far as turning the village into a mass grave. If he's a Nazi, then he must have vital information on the Fourth Reich. I know neither of us are fluent in German, so we'll have to get the commissar involved. He'll probably want to be in charge of this impromptu interrogation anyway."
"I'll go get him." Doctor Rostov takes one more shot of vodka and fishes for a pack of unfiltered cigarettes in his coat pocket, forgetting to close the door on the way out.
Pasha removes the steaming kettle from the stovetop and pours himself a cup of black tea. He dilutes the strong drink with cold water and sips on it liberally all while maintaining eye contact with the captain. "No tea for you, cyka."
Why does it look like he wants to rip my head off? Was it something I said?