The mother draws quiet as I enter the room. I can't let her know, but her eyes seem to look at me as if she already did.
Peter lays motionless, wrapped in those damned green blankets held in his mothers arms.
He's dead.
His mother makes a snide remark to Boris, who is finishing cleaning my Makarov, "Вы, двое педиков, должны постараться держать это отвратительное дерьмо подальше от моего ребенка. Я не хочу, чтобы ты развратил его, чтобы он стал таким, как вы двое."
Boris looks down and blushes in a mix of shame and embarrassment, "Извините, мэм. Мы сведем это к минимуму."
I decide against making the mother angry, and instead walk over to my bag. The water bottles inside are done purifying.
Twisting open the lid on one, I take a sip.
The water has a slight astringent taste to it, partially from the tablet, partially from whatever source they got it from. Who knows what these poor souls have been drinking this entire time. At least it's safe to drink now.
I finish the rest of the bottle in a few swigs, pausing only for my dry throat to readjust from its atrophied state. Until now, I've been ignoring the scratching and cracking of my throat. That run yesterday must have dehydrated me more than I expected.
I eye the second bottle, weighing the temptation to take it all for my water-yearning throat.
Glancing at Boris, who's already staring at me, I wave him over.
He walks over, Makarov in hand, and thirstily swoops up the bottle I'm handing him.
Before unscrewing the lid, he hands me back my Makarov and quickly looks around to make sure that we're in the clear before giving my hands a quick affectionate squeeze and a smile.
I turn my face back to my bag as I blush lightly.
The pistol lay in my hands exactly as we'd both agreed back in the trenches on how to hand firearms to each other, with the slide back and magazine fully loaded out of the gun.
Maybe he isn't gone. The Boris I knew is still in there, slipping through the cracks day by day. Every second that he spends here in this rendition of a nightmare, the dam holding him back gets closer to bursting open.
I load the magazine into the Makarov and rack the slide, chambering a round. Flicking the safety on, I stuff it into my pocket and ruffle the creases to hide the small imprint it leaves on my pants.
Anastasia is gathering the others into a circle. Presumably to discuss the plan for where we're going and how we get there.
With a sigh and a heavy exhale, I stand up and join them.
YOU ARE READING
Battle of Monetsk (RU dialogue)
Action(ENGLISH TRANSLATED VERSION COMING WHEN IT'S DONE FOR NOW JUST USE GOOGLE TRANSLATE) The blockade was put up only three days ago. Now people are being executed by the hundreds every minute. Almost everyone has tried to leave and disappear before the...
