Get the crate off the car, Skinner mentally commands him. Dinner comes later.
“I will burn in hell for dealing with you and your haram creatures,” Saifullah murmurs as he watches the two mutants effortlessly lift the heavy crate.
Skinner shrugs. “Really? I thought your god will be pleased with you giving him victory. And the little fellow inside that crate is here to do just that.”
“What is it?” Saifullah asks. He looks at his fighters who move closer to him, keeping their index fingers on the trigger guards of their old Kalashnikovs.
A groan sounds inside the crate, as if a caged man would moan over his imprisonment in a humanoid, yet deeper and distorted voice.
“Saifullah, you and your men better step back a few meters,” Skinner says. The four Taliban comply more than happily.
Open the crate, brothers.
The smiters remove the steel mesh and open the crate. Feeling the stench it emanates, even Skinner has to cover his nose.
Something sniffs at the air. Then a stocky, almost dwarf-like mutant appears, clad in shreds of a shabby overall that resembles a tattered coat. It waggles out from the crate and sniffs at the air once more.
Freedom smells good, doesn’t it little brother?
Focusing on the stocky little mutant’s mind, Skinner senses relief, hunger and anxiousness.
Come, you are among friends here.
“By God! What’s this abomination?”
Hearing Saifullah’s startled words, the Burer hisses and thrusts his short arms toward him. The AK falls from the Talib’s hands, as if an invisible force had torn it from his grasp. One of Saifullah’s bodyguards fires—and shouts with dread seeing his bullets being repelled by an unseen shield. The air undulates and shimmers between the mutant’s outstretched arms, then forms a conical field that shoots out toward the Talib and hits him with full force. The telekinesis attack sends him helplessly to the ground.
“Don’t shoot, you idiots!”
Alarmed, Skinner jumps between Saifullah and the mutant.
He doesn’t know you yet, little brother. He is with us. See me? I am your brother. See them? They are your big brothers. Don’t worry about the humans. They will not hurt you.
Fear, is the reaction he senses. Hunger.
I will bring you to a nice dark place with plenty of food, Skinner replies.
Tired.
You don’t even have to walk, burer.
The mutant looks at him. The two little pig eyes in its face that resemble grotesquely disfigured human features tell of fear.
Don’t know this place. Alone. You protect me?
You will be safe with your brothers, Skinner nods and waves his hand. One of his smiters steps to the Burer and lifts it. The helpless little mutant moans but sounds more embarrassed than scared. In response, the huge humanoid emits a growl that might go for a laugh and tosses the Burer to the other smiter who skillfully catches and has a close look at it.
Stop that! He’s not a dwarf to be tossed around, Skinner mentally commands but he himself can barely suppress a smile when he senses the thoughts of the nearby smiters.
Smells good! Female! Will have fun!
His smile hardens into a cruel grin when he turns to Saifullah who stands there like petrified and mumbling a prayer. “The Tribe is annihilated, they just don’t know it yet.”
“Will that… demon kill them all?”
“No, dushman. We will. That is mostly me and my brothers, while you stay back and then boast over your victory in the name of your benevolent and merciful god. Just like it happened here.”
Saifullah is too daunted to realize the scorn in Skinner’s words. “How?”
“This little friend is a burer. Dwells underground and digs like a mole. He’ll find a way into the caves under the Tribe’s stronghold. All we have to do is to follow him. He’ll be our battering ram, so to say.”
“He?”
“Good question. Maybe a she? Be my guest if you wanna check it out.”
Saifullah wildly shakes his head.
“He’s hungry,” Skinner continues looking at the three bodies. “So are we. Care to join us for dinner?”
“God forbid,” the Talib says with a gasp.
“Then you better go, dushman. We’ll move out as soon as our belly is full. Wait for our signal.”
Apparently fighting a sudden sickness, Saifullah turns away from the mutants and hastily leaves.
Skinner waves to the two smiters and the Burer and jolts his head toward the bodies.
Dinner time, brothers!
To make sure that the dim-witted mutants can understand him, he adds: Eat! Nom-nom!
38
“It’s surprisingly comfy here.”
Finn Sawyer looks around in the small cave where they are hiding from the rainstorm raging outside. “Definitely looks well frequented.”
“It’s a hideout of the man we’re going to visit,” Tarasov says putting down his rucksack. He breathes into his palms to warm them up. “He uses it as a stopover during his trips to Agroprom and beyond.”
“Who is he?”
“Will tell you later. Finn, do you have firestarters left?”
“Course I do.”
“Pete, Top, get a few branches from those bushes at the cave entrance. Nooria, it’s time to take our medicine.”
She fumbles in her shoulder bag and gives Tarasov and Sawyer a pack of red and blue anti-radiation drugs.
“You must dry your clothes, Mikhailo. Getting a cold is not nice.”
“Thanks God for vodka.”
To wash away the sickening metal taste that lingers on his tongue since he was exposed to the exploding Whirligig, Tarasov rolls the spirit in his mouth before sending it down his throat. Then he takes the drugs and flushes the pill down with another gulp.
“Call me overcautious,” Tarasov tells Nooria who watches his alcohol intake with a frown. He offers the bottle to Sawyer. “Finn, you’re next.”
“’Mexaminum. Experimental radiation protection medicament’,” the Australian reads out the label. “’This drug induces contraction of peripheral blood vessels and oxygen deprivation, which serves to treat and prevent radiation exposure. The drug does not have severe side effects, although isolated cases of mild nausea, dizziness, cramps and stomach pain have been reported. Made in Germany.’ Frankly, mate, after reading the side effects—dunno what’s worse.”
“Just take it. Germans make good anti-radiation stuff ever since Chernobyl scared the shit out of them.”
“At least we have a good excuse to drink. This is to my rucksack! May it go to the Walhalla of heroic survival gear, if there’s any!”
“Cheers,” the Top says arriving back with a small pile of branches. “Leave something for me, will you?”
“Firestarters and the cooker were in me rucksack. One day I will have my revenge on you, Mister…”
“Mikhailo. And sorry again.”
“Mikhailo, then. So, one day you will be beggin’ me for a little wine powder. And I’ll say with incredible pleasure: nope, mate.” He reaches for a pocket on his trouser from where he fishes a small metal box. “Anyway, luckily for us, good ol’ Sawyer is prepared for everything. Like losing my rucksack, hangin’ on a rope that’s about to crack and needin’ to cut the straps or somethin’, though I’d never imagined to lose it like that. See, I have a redundant survival kit on me with Mayan sticks and water-proof matches, plus a mirror, a button compass…”