Pete chuckles. “Jesus, you’re beyond rad and all but why not use a normal gas lighter?”
“Because it would burn your thumb till you set wet wood alight, and there’s a good chance that wood you find in the wilderness will be wet. These sticks are 80% pine raisin and burn hot as hell. Here you go. I don’t make it big, otherwise we’ll all die in this hole from smoke inhalation.”
In a minute a small fire is burning, casting its flickering light on the items someone had moved here: a shabby bedroll in the corner, a footless chair and a car tire. A shovel and a bucket stand in a corner, apparently used for digging out the cave.
A thunder sounds outside. Tarasov looks at his watch.
“Half past one. Let’s hope the storm will be over quickly. We only have about five hours of daylight left and don’t want to spend the night without shelter, believe me.”
“Where exactly are we going?” Nooria asks. “To a friend of yours?”
“Strelok’s, actually. I’ve seen him only once, shortly after… anyway, I was there with him and Alex Degtyarev. Hope I still remember the way.”
“I have to say your leadership was quite all right so far.”
“There’s no such thing in the Zone, Top. Only luck and the Zone’s mercy.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t start sermonizing again,” Pete says mimicking a yawn.
“I know you hate hearing this, but — one day you’ll understand.”
“I do hate hearing it.”
“Better get used to it, son. Compared to your father, Misha Tarasov is a nanny with a heart of gold.”
“And what does this make you, Sergeant Major? A grandma?”
“Call me a grandma once more and I break your goddamn neck,” Hartman grumbles,
“Misha does have a heart of gold,” Nooria quickly cuts in with a smile. “And you too, Top.”
“Don’t ruin his image of a tough guy he’s been working on all the time, big sister.”
“Pete, shut up. And thanks Nooria, it’s appreciated. Let’s have some havchik… eh, I mean food.”
They sit quietly, listening to the storm outside and sitting as close to the small fire as they can. Nooria distributes some of the rations from the Tribe’s base. It is not for the first time Tarasov realizes that American gear may be more sophisticated but not necessarily better than what’s common in the Ukrainian or any other ex-Soviet army. At least the chili-and-macaroni as main dish, peanut butter and the Top’s object of pet hate, the HOOAH! Bar doesn’t fill his belly much better than the Ukrainian rations having canned meat, concentrated broth, sardines and porridge for backbone.
“In case of war, your food wouldn’t make us run over to you,” he shares his thoughts loudly. “This flameless ration heater is a good idea, though.”
“Does that mean I can have your Tabasco sauce? Thanks.”
“You can have my peanut butter too. Gospodi, Hartman, how can you eat this stuff with bread? It’s like… molten sugar.”
“That’s mine, if you don’t want it,” Pete says and eagerly takes the small pouch. “Don’t say anything bad about the national pride of America, please.”
The Top gives a snorting laugh.
“That’s damn right, son.”
“Don’t try to peanut-butter me up, Sergeant Major. I’m not gonna share it with you.”
“What has happened to camaraderie in this world?” the Top says with a disappointed sigh.
The fire is soon spent. Going to collect more wood, Tarasov peeks out from the cave’s entrance. The rain falls unabatedly and the thunder makes the ruined bridge cast bizarre shadows on the river. The turned-over railway carriages next to the cave entrance block his view to the northern horizon where the wind is driving the dark and mighty clouds. It doesn’t appear as if the storm will cease anytime soon.
Doesn’t make a difference in this weather if it’s night or day, he thinks.
“Let’s move on,” he tells the others when returning to the cave. “Makes no sense to wait for the storm to recede.”
“My rifle bags were also in my rucksack,” Sawyer reproachfully says. “At least carry the rifles with barrels down.”
“No,” Tarasov says putting on his rucksack. “Better carry them ready to shoot.”
“I won’t shoot at humans,” Finn Sawyer says getting up. ”Just for the record, mates.”
“And if they shoot at you first?” Hartman asks.
“Never happened but maybe I’d reconsider… when all of you gung-ho guys are dead already.”
Tarasov takes point as they leave the safety of the cave and begin to trek eastwards between the railway embankment and a long stretch of barbed wire. After a hundred meters or so he stops, waits for the Top at the end of their small column to catch up and turns to the south, towards the thick reed.
Damn. The reed hides mutants, but at least makes them easy to detect by the noise they make. But not in this storm.
“Stay close!”
Tarasov must shout to make himself be heard in the rumbling thunderstorm.
“Keep your eyes open,” he yells. “If the reed moves — shoot!”
“What?”
“Prepare for your boars, Finn!” Tarasov shouts back and waves his hand to the others. “Move!”
He feels a surge of self-confidence as his steps lead him unerringly to the spot where the barbed wire is missing for a few meters, though the triangular sign warning of radioactivity is still visible in the reed that has overgrown the fence separating the Zone proper from its outskirts.
“Why didn’t anyone just cut through the fence elsewhere?” the Top asks.
“At least this passage through the reeds is safe, but who knows what lies a few meters away from here!”
Not seeing further than two or three meters in the splashing rain, Tarasov hopes that the headlamps will not fail. They would betray their presence to any hostiles lurking behind the reeds but at least he as leader can see if everyone’s still following him.
Sawyer, having switched from his hat to the hood of his Gore-Tex jacket, looks around wearily.
Nooria, right in the middle with two armed men walking ahead and behind her, carefully watching her steps, jumps gracefully over a piece of corroded metal standing out from the mud.
Pete, cursing as he almost stumbles over the same object but having the common sense of swiftly turning his rifle sideways, lest it might accidentally go off and hit those walking before him.
Above all other lights but still barely over the high reeds, Hartman’s headlamp shines. Tarasov can’t see his face, even though the distance between them is not more than a few steps. Yet the presence of the hardened old Marine is reassuring. Whatever should come at them from behind, it will find itself taking on the hardened warrior and his immense strength.
All of a sudden, Tarasov begins to laugh.
“What’s so bloody funny?” Finn Sawyer asks behind him.
“A rogue leading a ranger, a fighter, a cleric and a thief!”
“Is that so, you rogue?” Sawyer gives him an allowing smile. ”You just made me wish for a cozy inn where I can have a pint of ale…”
A smile appears on Tarasov’s rain-soaked face as he pushes the reed aside to find another piece of wooden plank, leading from one piece of solid earth to another over a stretch of water. It comes to his mind that ever since they left the Tribe’s stronghold, he hasn’t seen Hartman in battle. But his guts tell him that he’ll have that opportunity soon enough.
I hope it’s not the Military. I’d hate to shoot at my former comrades.
Lightning flashes in the black sky.
At least we don’t need to use night vision. These damned flashes would render them useless.