The thought that his reply might save his life if it was to the Colonel’s liking paralyzes Tarasov’s mind; he can not decide which path to take — telling the big man something that he would find flattering, or the truth.
“You don’t have to worry about how to reply,” the Colonel replies upon observing his hesitation. “You will die anyway, and if I had not wanted a chance to talk, you would be dead already. Repay me the extra time you’ve been given with your honesty, Major. It is, after all, my trust in your honesty that has kept you alive so that I could ask you this question.”
Tarasov clears his throat.
“I don’t know if you, Colonel, defeated this land or this land defeated you.”
The big man smiles, but it is a somber smile. “Only the end of war will tell who is defeated. And who has seen the end of the war?”
Tarasov knows this quote. “Only the dead have.”
The Colonel nods. “Tomorrow, you will see it too. And to reward honesty with honesty: I envy you for that. Now go and see the last sunset of your life. You will see the death of this day and the next day will see yours. Corpse by corpse, we carved out a piece of the world that belongs only to us now, where we can preserve our honor. This is our Promised Land, and this Stronghold our Alamo. You are nothing but a trespasser here. That’s why you have to die.”
Tarasov stands motionless, waiting for a sign that will allow him to ask all the questions still flooding into his mind. The Colonel closes his eyes.
“You are dismissed.”
Tarasov pulls himself together and speaks out. “My fate is what it is. But give my guide a proper burial… please. His dignity deserves that much.”
“My First Lieutenant has already done that,” the Colonel softly replies without opening his eyes. “May that scavenger find in death the peace he was looking for in his restless life.”
At a slight motion of the Colonel’s hand, a Lieutenant appears from the shadows and leads Tarasov out of the room.
The two prison guards are waiting outside.
“Take him up,” the Lieutenant commands.
The guards stand to attention and salute, then lead Tarasov to a narrow staircase.
“Good news, Russkie. No more climbing stairs for you.”
“From here, your only way is down.”
“Just a few more steps up.”
After a minute, they reach the roof of the tower. The guard with the beard signals Tarasov to step forward. “This is our valley. You are to enjoy the view before you die,” he says.
“Not bad for a last sight,” the blue-eyed guard adds. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
Seen from their high vantage point atop the tower, the Tribe’s hidden valley stretches out in the canyon below. The sunset makes the jagged hills appear as if they are glowing with even deeper shades of pink and red than at the break of dawn, while the green fields in the canyon are already darkened by the shadow of twilight. Now, with lights appearing in the windows and campfires being lit, the maze of narrow alleys reminds Tarasov even more profoundly of a medieval town come to life. He also realizes that the town built into the hillside is but a small part of the Tribe’s stronghold: more fortifications loom above, the stalwart, concrete-enforced bastions giving way to smaller pillboxes as the hill steepens. Partly covered by the highest rampart running along the top of the hill, the tips of antennae and satellite dishes are visible. Beyond this forest of steel, in the deep blue sky a full moon rises, glowing with orange. Compared to this stronghold, the Stalkers’ base at Bagram appears like a decrepit gipsy camp.
“It is beautiful,” Tarasov agrees.
“Say your prayers if you want,” the blue-eyed guard says. “We don’t speak your language, so feel free to curse us and ask your god to destroy us in the cruelest way possible.”
“Yeah, Brother Polak. That’s what prisoners usually pray for.”
“And their god usually doesn’t listen to them. Or did he ever listen, Brother Hillbilly?”
“Nope. And even if he does, he better not do it during our watch.”
Tarasov has given himself up to enjoy the scenery and have a last peaceful moment under the open sky, but the two guards begin to casually chatter amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious of his presence.
“I love this part of the job, Brother Hillbilly. Makes me feel being on top of the command chain.”
“It literally does, Brother Polak. Talking about chain of command — how is your woman doing?”
“Pretty well, well and pretty. She’s learning English really fast but still has an issue with articles. Last night, I tell her ’could you please, please say the bed? ’ and she puts her sweet little tongue to her upper lip and says, ’dzeh bed ’. So, I just tell her, ’never mind, never mind…’”
“Yeah. I heard that they all have a problem with that. ”
“I don’t mind, Brother Hillbilly. I love everything about her except her name — Forozenda. Geez, it’s so long and complicated.”
“Why don’t you just call her by another name? Being her man has its prerogatives, you know?”
“My thought exactly. I’ll call her Lechsinska. Easier for me to pronounce.”
“I call mine Peggy. Yeah, women are one’s only comfort.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic today, Brother Hillbilly.”
“Yeah. Day after tomorrow I’m scheduled for a patrol with Driscoll. Oorah.”
“I feel for you. He’s a badass, even for a First Lieutenant.”
“Not as much a badass as the Top, though.”
“Hell, yes! The Top rocks!” The guards high-five each other. “Where’s the patrol area, anyway?”
“To the south. Rag-heads keep creeping up the passes.”
“Like moths to a flame.”
“I guess we’re marked on their map as Martyrdom Central.”
“I wonder why. Anyway, did you hear that one of the newcomers was cast out last week? He said the d-word in the presence of a Lieutenant.”
“You mean, democrat?”
“No, drink.”
“Guess he couldn’t wait until his first covert recon to Bagram.”
“Yes, that’s the only way to get a — you know what, Brother Hillbilly. I won’t say it twice.”
“Too bad for the Lieutenants. No way for them to disguise themselves as scavengers.”
“Being suspiciously oversized comes at a price.”
“By the way, have you tried one of the new M27-s, Brother Polak? Lieutenant Ramirez says that beast can take a bear down with only one STANAG clip.”
“Come on, that’s overkill. What do we have the Benelli for?”
“Good point. But Ramirez likes hurting mutants. He hates them.”
“Lieutenants like to hurt everything, especially if it bleeds… which everything that can be hurt does. But who loves mutants, anyway?”
“The witch maybe. She only uses her blade to kill them. Or so I heard.”
“Come, on, Brother Hillbilly. I don’t buy that.”
“I swear I heard it myself from a guy in Lieutenant Bauer’s platoon, who saw it for himself! A few weeks ago, they escorted the healer on one of her forays to the west, looking for swags and whatever. They enter a cave, and what’s in there? A snake? Negative, sir! Two snakes.”
“No kidding?”
“The fighters stand there shitting bricks, but what does she do? Zap — she draws her blade, jumps to one of them monsters, and whoosh — off goes the snake’s head. Then she turns around, jumps, whizz — and that’s that! After that, Bauer’s platoon was living off snake steak for a week.”
“I could imagine Bauer and his men eating nothing but snake meat even for a month, but not that Lara Croft bullshit. Sorry!”