The doctor marches like a malfunctioning toy soldier towards the two story dacha where the commissar resides. The top half of the dacha is painted baby-blue, though the color is muted from all the atomic dust that settled over the village after the first shockwave came through. As for the bottom half, it maintains a more natural look, a deep walnut-brown, helps hide the blemishes more.
Funnily enough, the roof almost resembles that of the North American Gambrel, an architectural design commonly seen on barn houses in the former United States. Adorned on the forehead of the dacha is the Old World symbol of Communism, the hammer and sickle. The pair of steel tools represents the unification between industrial workers in the factories and peasants in the collective farms.
One can hardly call themselves a steel worker or grain harvester in these troubling times. The factories were hit the hardest by the bombs, reduced to brick mounds, thus burying the once productive assembly lines in the past to rot. The crops were no better off, either burnt to a crisp from the immense heat or heavily irradiated from the fallout. Nuclear Armageddon sought to erase the proletariats entirely from history and almost succeeded.
The remaining survivors of the Apocalypse reform into Wastelanders under the almighty Atom, adapting to their new lives in dysfunctional communities. They believe that ghoulification awaits them in the end as punishment for being imperfect in the eyes of Atom, but accepting their eternal fates as walking corpses is daunting.
Doctor Rostov reaches the front door breathing irregularly and begins to knock. "Commissar Petrov!" He raises his shrill voice, awakening a few villagers. "We have a situation on our hands!" His muffled plea for help manages to punch through the thick spruce door and taper off at the border of the kitchen.
The commissar just so happens to be preparing breakfast for him and his wife, completely devoid of the knocking and calling at his door. The sizzling pork is already loud enough in the one-man kitchen, and on top of that, Petrov is partially deaf. He was stationed in Kiev right as the leaders of the world decided to commit genocide on humanity and unfortunately had a front row seat to the slaughter. Petrov dodged the shockwave just in time to feel it blowing his hair around before nipping underground. His ears rang terribly for hours.
That's why Petrov has his wife listen for visitors. Her sensitive ears can hear a field mouse scurry across a steppe from miles away. "Honey, Doctor Rostov is at the door. He sounds distressed."
The commissar assumes the worst, and without hesitation, draws his Nagant revolver from its leather holster without arousing his wife. "I'm not hearing gunshots, but seek shelter anyway," he advises her. "Maybe he spotted some troublemakers off in the tree-line."
Petrov gives his wife a quick peck on the cheek, snatches his officer's cap hanging from a peg, and places it onto his balding head. He straightens the hat's large brim and opens the door to the doctor fidgeting with his hands. "What seems to be the problem, Comrade Doctor?" he asks while surveying the concrete walls of the village from his doorstep.
Doctor Rostov takes a long drag from his cigarette. "Pasha caught a damn Nazi! He's being held in the clinic right now."
The news catches Petrov off guard. He wonders if his buddy is turning senile from old age or acute radiation sickness. "My apologies, Comrade Doctor, but did I hear you correctly?" He rubs his left ear, then cups it. "Did you say, Nazi?"
The doctor nods strongly. "Yes, Comrade Commissar."
"Any threats in the vicinity I should know about?"
Rostov shrugs his shoulders. "Not that I know of."
Petrov sighs in disappointment. "All right, Comrade Doctor. First off, thank you for informing me. Second, have you taken your medicine this morning? And before you say it, no, your bottle of Stolichnaya does not count."
"Comrade Commissar, you know I'd never lie to you. I'm telling you the truth! There is a legitimate Nazi recuperating in my den, drinking up my precious tea!"
"Settle down, Comrade Rostov. Okay, the last time I heard, or read anything about Nazis for that matter, was back in primary school, reading through a history book thicker than T-34 armor. That was decades ago, and I have yet to see or hear of Nazis until now. Tell me, please tell me the odds of a brute like Pasha finding a real life Nazi out in the Wasteland without bringing his severed head back to the village as a trophy, eh?"
Doctor Rostov is at a loss for words, trying to think how he can convince the commissar that the threat is real and not something he should be taking lightly. "He was speaking German. Who else would speak in that barbaric language than a cold-blooded Nazi?"
The commissar plants his face into his hand. "Comrade Rostov, I really should teach you a thing or two about separating the individual from the collective. We may be aspiring collectivists, but that does not mean we throw logic and common sense out the window. Obviously, not all Germans are out for Jewish blood. You know there are Ashkenazi Jews that live in Germany and speak German, right? Generalizing is a dangerous thought process, Comrade Doctor. That kind of thinking is what drove actual Nazis to persecute the so-called Untermenschen. Honestly, how do you not know this stuff?"
"I'm a doctor, not an anthropologist." Rostov crosses his arms. "Besides, what's a German doing all the way out here in Polesia? He could be a Fourth Reich spy for all I care."
"Stop listening to those traders, Comrade Rostov. They are spreading nothing but rumors of a Fourth Reich resurrecting somewhere in the European Commonwealth. You and I should not cave into their fear-mongering until proof of the regime's existence comes forth." Petrov holsters his revolver once he deems it's safe.
"Fine. Do you wish to speak to our guest then, Comrade Commissar?"
"Of course! He's probably just a refugee scared shitless."
The doctor pushes up his spectacles and breathes in sharply. He goes for a second cigarette to calm his nerves. The clinic and Petrov's dacha are on opposite sides of the village, so the cigarette should last him the entire walk, then he can start on his third one. Good, unfiltered cigarettes are hard to come by in the Wasteland these days. Traders usually take two weeks to get to the village, and most of the time, they aren't even carrying the doctor's favorite brand, the one with a mustached man printed on the package. Petrov knows the doctor must be under a lot of stress for him to be chain-smoking like that.
Pasha continues giving the captain his death stare while sipping away at his black tea. The captain isn't taking too kindly to the brute watching him menacingly from afar. He tries to get up and serve himself a cup of tea. Pasha reaches for his rifle and aims it at the captain who immediately shoots his arms up in surrender. "You're not going anywhere, cyka."
The captain still doesn't understand a word he's saying, but he does understand the universal language of intimidation and what pointing a loaded gun at somebody translates to. "Please, don't shoot!" He begs in his mother tongue, only angering the brute some more.
"Speak Russian, mudak!" Pasha threatens to bash the captain's face in with the stock of his rifle, causing him to flinch and fall back onto the padded quilt. The captain cowers under the wool blankets in fear for his life, wondering when this madman is going to splatter his brains all over the place. He's still alive though, so he must be of some value to him.
The rifle still terrifies him, this being his first time staring down a weapon that can kill him in an instant. He hopes the man behind the gun has some restraint and a conscience left in him. It's too early for the captain to judge Pasha. The burly hunter saved him from that nasty salamander just recently, and yet he's treating him as a criminal. For now, the captain hides in his warm cocoon provided by his captors, waiting for the other fellow wearing glasses to return.
The sound of the clinic door opening fills the captain with relief. He turns around to face the doorway to the den and sees the doctor with an officer trailing behind him. Doctor Rostov magnetizes to the metal wall as Commissar Petrov stops a few paces before the captain. He gives him a puzzled look, takes off his hat, and meets him at eye level by crouching down. The captain grows a bit intimidated from his piercing eyes, looking away from his gaze.
What do these people want with me? Just a few moments ago, I was being treated with the utmost care which made me feel human once again as opposed to a savage. But now, I am not receiving that same hospitality from them, more like hostility. They're so indecisive. I wish they could make up their minds already.
"Why, he's practically a young man, Comrade Doctor!" exclaims the commissar. "He can't be much older than my Micah. Speaking of whom . . ." Petrov disengages from the captain to think of his only son. "Where is that boy?"
"That's what I want to know too!" Pasha nags from the other side of the den. "I should devour his and Hiram's servings of salamander when they get back from the woods." His stomach growls in agreement.
"You mean you left Micah and Hiram in the forest all by themselves?!"
"Sure I did. They can handle themselves in the wilderness."
"Pasha," says Petrov with controlled anger, "you're the leader of the pack. It is your duty to watch over your elements at all times, especially while on reconnaissance patrols outside the village."
"Yes, perhaps I got a bit too carried away out there, but do realize I had to rush this half-dead man, who is now a Nazi, back to the clinic and secure the salamander meat before scavengers arrived. Looking back at it now, I regret dragging this Nazi back to the village, our home, leaving Micah and Hiram behind to fend for themselves. I'm sorry for my reckless behavior, Commissar Petrov." Pasha bows his head in shame.
The commissar cracks a slight grin. "Well Pasha, I'm happy to inform you that he is no Nazi."
"How do you know that?"
"The man speaks to you in German, and your first assumption is he's a skinhead? Don't tell me Doctor Rostov implanted this nonsense into your head." The doctor shrugs his shoulders right after the commissar calls him out.
"Still, he strikes me as . . . strange. The scar on his head, for instance. Where do you suppose he got those stitches from?"
"Huh, now that you mention it." Curiosity blooms in Petrov's grayish-blue eyes. He leans in on the captain to examine his freshly stitched wound up close, resulting in the captain retreating into his cocoon. "I'm not going to hurt you, mein Freund." The commissar starts to speak in fluent German, surprising everyone in the room.
I can understand what he's saying, and I don't know why! Everyone else has been speaking gibberish but him. How come he can communicate with the other two perfectly fine except me? It's beginning to dawn on me that my cognition is possibly awry, yet I'm able to articulate my inner thoughts in spite of my head injury.
"You," the captain points his finger at the commissar, "I can understand you."
"Of course you can." Petrov reassures him by pronouncing his words phenomenally, his accent unwavering. "I'm speaking your language, aren't I?"
Petrov recalls having to learn German at the V. I. Lenin Military-Political Academy to advance his education as a commissar. During the Resource Wars, his superiors were paranoid that the Bundeswehr would repeat history and invade the Soviet Union to seize its remaining oil wells in the Caucasus. Fortunately for them, the Republic of Germany was too occupied with its surrounding neighbors, not to mention Balkanization unfolding within its borders.
The captain blinks back at him dumbfounded. "Yes, I suppose so. What language is this anyway?"
Commissar Petrov laughs nervously. "Deutsche." The captain nods awkwardly to that. "Erm, do you know where you're from by any chance?" The captain stares off into the distance, almost entering a dream-like state. Petrov snaps his finger repeatedly, bringing the captain back to reality. "Hey, don't let your mind wander off too far."
The captain shakes his head in disappointment. "I'm sorry. I don't really know where I came from. All I remember was waking up in a small boat, sailing down some river. I had this splitting headache, and it was really bothering me. That's when I discovered this mysterious scar on the side of my head." He massages it by impulse.
"Where did you get it from? Do you know?" Petrov doubts the man will provide a clear answer, but asking general questions to probe into his essence is better than none. The commissar waits patiently for the amnesiac to respond. Right as he's about to open his mouth, Micah and Hiram come barreling into the clinic swinging around gore bags.
"Papa!" Micah, smelling of dead salamander, runs towards Petrov and gives him a nice, warm hug. The commissar scrunches his face from the overbearing stench. "Mama told me you had to excuse yourself from breakfast to go help out Uncle Rostov. Is everything okay?" He notices the captain lying on the floor and decides to return all the attention he initially stole from him. "Papa! That's the man we rescued from the forest."
"Pfft, here you go again, Micah, painting our actions as heroic." Hiram rolls his Central Asian eyes. "Don't make us out to be the Knights of Nevsky. Anyway, I'm going to cook up some salamander stew for us. I bet twenty cartridges we're all hungry for some food."
Everyone groans in agreement, including their empty stomachs. Hiram excuses himself from the crowded den and heads outside to build a campfire. He carries a produce sack full of tainted crops over his shoulder: black mushrooms, gherkins, and potatoes farmed from the communal veggie gardens.
"Sorry for the interruption, Papa." Micah chuckles innocently, scratching his elbow.
"It's all right. I'm just glad to see you back at the village all in one piece. I'm conversing with the man right now, trying to learn more about him as a person. He hails from Germany. That's as much information as I can gather. It appears the man barely knows himself, making the interaction between us all the more challenging." Commissar Petrov sits there, ruminating in his sleepy head.
"Does he know his own name?"
"I'll give it a try." The commissar switches from his native tongue back to German in an instant. "Can you tell me your name, Freund?"
Static fills the captain's mind. "Nein, I don't remember."
"That's unfortunate. I wonder if that scar has anything to do with you having trouble recollecting your past life. You truly have woken up in a brand new world, and for that reason, you have my sympathy, stranger."
"Well, what should I go by?"
"You don't have a preference?" The captain shakes his head. "Well, how about Reinhard? I think the name suits you well enough."
Reinhard. Sounds mighty and close to home, wherever that is. "I like it!" He sounds off in excitement.
"I doubt you'll be needing a surname in these parts unless you plan on signing contracts with your blood or passing on your bloodline to a desirable woman in the near future. It's not like there's dozens of Reinhards around here for people to confuse you with."
"A full name would be nice. There aren't many things in this world I can call my own. I'm starting life anew."
"All right. How about . . ." The commissar thinks back to his last statement.
Pasha and the doctor were already associating him with the fictional Fourth Reich for speaking German alone. Slapping a stereotypical Germanic name to him won't give him more agency as a blonde, Aryan man in the Rodina Wasteland. Many of my comrades will brand him as a Nazi before entertaining the thought of mercy. That part of history seems so long ago, yet I'm reminded here and there that bad blood remains between us. Not even nuclear war can destroy generations of prejudice.
"On second thought," stammers Petrov, "how about I give you a more Slavic name, eh? Sadly, some of the locals don't take too kindly to Germans. I want to say they're only a minority and not the majority of the general population, but I'm afraid I lack the confidence. You can keep Reinhard as a secondary name, but bear in mind the consequences of revealing your true identity to the bigots who walk amongst us. They'll burn you at the stake for simply being German."
Reinhard swallows hard as if popping a quick potassium iodide tablet. "All right. What's my tertiary name going to be, then?"
"Grigori Dyatlov. Fits you perfectly."
A cowbell rattles suddenly from outside, triggering something within Pasha. He regresses into the mindset of a washed-up grunt at an army base, the smell of pride and fear in the autumn air. Pasha goes to equip his hunting rifle, jumps over Grigori like he's some hurdle to an obstacle course, and storms out of the clinic.
The doctor shudders from his defensive reaction. "Are we under attack?" He sniffles. "Hey! Maybe the Nazi knows something. Why don't you ask him about his friends? I doubt he's come here alone."
"Quiet, Comrade Rostov!" Petrov peers through the netted window and spots Pasha casually talking with Hiram by the campfire. "Wait a moment."
Pasha slowly walks back to the clinic with a frown on his face. "False alarm, comrades," he announces to those cooped up inside. "Hiram." He shakes his head in annoyance. "That prankster had the gall to ring the raid bell instead of . . . never mind. Food's ready, if you have an appetite for the bastard's cooking."
Everyone gathers around the smoldering campfire with bowls of stew in their hands, picking away at the slimy, gamey salamander meat. The irradiated vegetables barely make this dish palatable for the villagers, but they dare not complain when food is scarce. They know that in other parts of the Wasteland, some folks are even less fortunate. The lucky ones can hunt and gather their food without sacrificing morals. As for the unlucky ones, well, stealing from others is not the worst thing they've done in order to survive the brutality of the Rodina Wasteland.
"I hope I don't digest any bits of shrapnel," says Pasha as he scoops up a spoonful of stew.
"You'll know once you start hacking up blood in the middle of the night." Hiram starts laughing maniacally to which Pasha slogs him on the shoulder.
"Don't give me night terrors, you sadist! I worry enough about shedding layers of rotten skin in my sleep."
It's daylight now. The sky's still as cloudy as yesterday though. The villagers are out and about, watering their plants, feeding corn to their livestock, mending torn rags, and eating leftover stew from the big, cast iron pot. When they're not enraptured by the village idiot or busy with their duties, they cast quick glances over at the foreigner, Grigori. Some of them don't know what to make of him as of now, seeing as he speaks in a strange tongue. The paranoid ones lump him in with the tribals, calling him a sorcerer of dark magic, a worshiper in the occult, and other derogatory terms.
Commissar Petrov feels somewhat obligated to protect Grigori, for only he can understand the German and vouch for him, unlike the rest of his peers. Whenever Grigori's not hunched over his primitive food bowl, he studies the village's layout and people. Besides the two story dacha and clinic, there's just three more houses that comprise this mock commune. A pen full of fat pigs is situated between two flat houses, their oinking incessant. The last house is isolated from the rest and appears to be overrun by crops of all sorts, including corn, potatoes, carrots, and tobacco.
Grigori squints at the two other houses to get a better view of them. One is a shop dealing in general supplies such as tools, hardware, and even weaponry. The front lawn of the place serves as a display area showing off all the knick-knacks and widgets the shopkeeper has in stock like shovels, hatchets, and alkaline batteries. The guns and ammunition are presumably stowed away in a secure location like an armory. The brick house next to it doesn't elicit as much attention, however, Grigori notices villagers coming in and out of the place frequently, probably a dormitory. This is the closest Grigori has come to finding civilization, albeit a foreign one.
"And these are your people?" Grigori asks the commissar, breaking the silence. If he's staying here for a while, he might as well become acquainted with the place and its supposed mayor.
"Indeed," answers the commissar respectively. His comrades pay no attention to their conversation. "Before the war, this place was but a small, irrelevant village in the Byelorussian countryside that nobody heard of. It was set apart from the modern world and its myriad of problems — then the bombs dropped. That's when I abandoned my post in the city of Kiev and relocated to my dacha, my summer house, with my comrades in arms."
"So you were in the military?"
"Yes, as were my comrades. You've already met Doctor Rostov, Pasha, and Hiram back at the clinic."
"Who's the one built as a tank? No offense to your friend, but it felt like he was itching to rip me in half. I had initially thought of him as this softhearted lifesaver, but the more I spent time with him, the more I realized how sorely mistaken I was. He had me guessing his true nature for a good hour."
"Ah," Petrov smiles from Grigori's account of him, "that would be Pasha. Yes, he can instill quite the fear in any man, except for me. Half of the time, he's putting on a show of intimidation to control people he deems lesser than him. I guess when the doctor accused you of being a Nazi, that flipped a switch in Pasha and made him hostile towards you. Now that he's eaten, he should be less upset with you. You're not the problem, he is. Pasha specialized in heavy weapons in the army, in case you were wondering where he inherited his hot blood from."
"Yes, I can see why he chose that profession."
"Haha!" Petrov pats the German on the back. "I'm beginning to like you, Grigori. It's a shame you don't know Russian, else you'd be making new friends left and right. Well, welcome to the Rodina Wasteland, whether you actually chose to be here or not. There are many shit stains covering this world, Grigori, but none are as dark and clustered as the ones encompassing the Union."
Petrov slips out a full bottle of vodka from a burlap sack resting by his boots and hands it over to Grigori as a welcoming gift. "Here's to you, tovarisch, for surviving the greeter at the gates to the Rodina Wasteland, Polesia!"
"Oh!" Grigori fumbles with the unexpected prize of Stolichnaya, catching the bottle by its sweating neck. "Uh, danke schön, Kamerad."
"Bitte schön, mein Freund. Don't tell Doctor Rostov about it. He'll grow mighty jealous of you."
"Of course, of course." Grigori quietly pops open the bottle and pours a few shots into his empty bowl, swishes the drink around, then laps it up with his tongue. "Ah." He exhales invisible fire, his eyes watering. "What's your name?"
"Me?" The commissar points at himself. "I'm Gennady Petrov, ex political officer."
"Excellent! I'm hoping you can help me solve this mystery of mine."
"The scar?"
"Yes, I'm afraid something terrible has happened to me, and I want to get to the bottom of it, but I can't do that without tracking down the perpetrator. Are you willing to help me in that regard?"
"Hmm." Commissar Petrov thinks to himself. He ladles out a second serving of salamander stew from the warm pot, garnishing the dish with parsley this time. "It seems I'm your only hope, Grigori. Who else speaks fluent German in the Wasteland but native Germans and polyglots?! At the end of the day, I have a village to look after, and yes, even though we're collectivists and believe in equality instead of hierarchy, that doesn't change the fact that many villagers look up to me as a senior figure of authority. What will happen to them if I decide to leave? Sure, Pasha can take charge or even Doctor Rostov, but neither of them know how to keep a community from devolving into anarchy if their lives depended on it."
"So, what are you suggesting, then?" The image of the levitating sphere flashes subliminally in Grigori's mind. He combats it mentally before it's able to cultivate in his vulnerable psyche.
"I'm not abandoning you, but I have to be realistic. If we're planning on hunting down the bastard who wronged you, we need a lead first. Do you have one?"
"No, just this surreal nightmare I had a couple nights ago. A sphere that was made of metal — it was staring me down with its beady, yellow eye."
"Sounds vague. You must've been having sleep paralysis that night."
"Maybe."
Maybe? Am I schizophrenic? Am I underneath some form of psychosis? Maybe all of this isn't real after all. It's all a terrible nightmare, right? I'm going to wake up in the real world at any moment, in a comfy bed, to a hot breakfast, squinting because of the morning sun coming through my window, not some flash of an atomic blast. Why can't I wake back up? Am I already dead?
"Let's make up a lead," says Commissar Petrov, clasping his hands together.
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, when you don't have a solid lead to go off of, you seek out a possible lead."
"Okay." Grigori tilts his thumping head in confusion. Argh, it's the damn liquor! "Elaborate?"
"Of course. The tribals, you see. They've been causing a stir ever since they set up camp in the marshes. As far as I know, they have no allies, just themselves. I've been hearing reports from anonymous sources lately, saying that tribals are performing ritual sacrifices on non-believers in the bog. Take the reports whichever way you like, but I have a feeling your scar is related to it all in some way. Maybe they were going to sacrifice you to the botanical gods but failed."
"Hmm, that explains the scar. And you trust these anonymous sources?"
"Not normally, but on this rare occasion, I do. I can't come up with a better reason as to why you're in this odd predicament. If a good Samaritan was just patching you up from a fight you forgot about, that's fine, but why did he leave you floating down a river?"
Critical thinking amplifies the brewing migraine in his head. Trying to make sense of everything is starting to wear on his sanity, and substance abuse seems to be the only coping mechanism he has to drown out the madness. Grigori pours more shots into his drinking bowl, lapping up the vodka like an alley cat. The intensity of the migraine grows stronger.
"What is plan, huh? What is course of action?"
"The marshes are fairly close by for us to investigate tribal activities without straying too far from the village. In two days, we'll go deep into the marshes, locate the tribal camp, and speak to the chieftain about your scar. If he chooses to cooperate with us and gives us some good information, that's a new lead. If he holds back on us, well, I'm afraid you'll be on your own from there. I'm on a short leash, so I can only travel so far. If we do end up wandering off the beaten path and getting lost, that spells disaster for the village. No crazy expeditions for this retired commissar. Deal?"
The drunken Grigori gives a blank stare back at Petrov, then childishly gurgles bubbles from his drooling mouth. "Deal!"
"All right, Grigori!" Petrov shakes his clammy hand. "At the bare minimum, we'll need a two day grace period to sort out our gear for this mission. Any questions or concerns?"
Grigori stuffs his hands into his pockets, droning an archaic anthem. "Ummm, what's a Nazi?"
Oh dear. Commissar Petrov thinks to himself, the young question echoing in his head. "Let's save that conversation for another time, when we're trudging through the bog."
"Uh-huh." Grigori drools some more.