Chetverta-6: Lucifer's Ladder
[ MATURE ]
”What will become of us if there's no one to watch over us, if we should face the certainty of our destruction?” — Ronan Harris
There was nothing to fear at Chetverta-6 – or, at least, that was what Central Authority had briefed the Kyrusian scientists, engineers, and the military personnel escorting them. “Nothing to fear; it's a dead cell.” Even so, only the naïve would believe that such an operation – even as routine as the Chetverta-6 scouting and cleansing operation was meant to be – would run smoothly, even given the best of circumstances. In Kyrusia, however, the circumstances were never the best. They were never optimal; the weather was never perfect. Their was never “little or no resistance,” there were always a few “nejmrutav” - those poor, bastardized souls of once-humans, afflicted by the holocaust of the Reckoning, and mutated beyond recognition to become little more than mindless, ravenous beasts, sniffing-out flesh and hide for their cull, dining with deviant and perverse pleasure on the taunt skin of their former brethren.
A dead cell.
A dead cell didn't have two radiological anomalies within five clicks of it. A dead cell wasn't a former, military communications-relay base that was within ten kilometers of a direct nuclear impact. A dead cell wasn't prioritized above normal scouting missions; nor was a dead cell to be cleansed by not simply Home Guard soldiers, but the brutally efficient and heartless operatives of the Civil Contamination Prevention Bureau. A dead cell wasn't of any importance to the State. Dead cells littered the landscape: former military bases, damaged by the falling stars of its enemies, ruined beyond recourse; abandoned towns, their citizens left to rot in the fallout or freeze in the nuclear winter that came after; even entire cities, decaying, crumbling where they stand, crawling with the afflicted and the deviant rogues who sought to inhabit them, luring the foolish deep into the catacombs of fallen roofs and bent rebar.
“A dead cell,” they said. Then why were Deusan operatives joining-in on the “fun”? What was so important...? Why did Chetverta-6 have to be cleansed then? Testing equipment? Negative. Training? Hardly. Something else, some other game was afoot. Something devious; something malign. Something that, if the greater mass of Kyrusians knew, they would find it something less than appealing. Something meant to be done in secret; something meant to prepare for something far worse.
Then again, it's just a dead cell...
The Rolling Stones blared from the small, portable radio that sat between Sergeant Davij Trotosk and his corporal, Friejinc, or, as he was commonly known, “Friday.” It was chanting something about a red door, but most of the soldiers of Trotosk's squad weren't paying attention to it. They'd exited normally sanctioned flight-paths nearly fifteen minutes ago, and one of the privates couldn't have helped himself and had opened the side-doors to the Kyh-28, allowing the rookies a chance to look down at the fabled ginger-brown forests that blanketed the precinct of Skhidinjtsi.
Eastern Kyrusia had been hit hard by the Reckoning, but not hard enough it seemed. Much of the landscape was rather intact, spare the occasional crater of blackened, blasted earth where, no doubt, a tactical nuclear munition had struck. What was of note, however, was the way the land had adapted to the pestilent clouds of noxious, radioactive particulate that filled every available space. The trees, soaked by the fallout, had eagerly siphoned the contaminated ground-water, turning shades of ginger-brown, black, and the deepest red that could possibly occur naturally. Animal life had almost been entirely eradicated, spare the heartiest of wolves, stray dogs, and the sporadic bear. The few that had survived, however, had taken-on almost surreal aspects, becoming little more than shambling behemoths, thirsting for meat and the off-chance to swipe at a potential meal.
Sad thing was, that was the norm – at least for the veterans of the scouting missions East. The rookies, however, were greenhorns, never having even conducted a reconnaissance mission outside of the State-controlled, military-operated simulation ranges. They were in for a surprise, at least that's the way Trotosk saw it. Corporal “Friday” wasn't worrying as much; but, then again, he wasn't called “Friday” without cause. A veteran of over nine hundred hours of scouting, surveillance, sampling, and cleansing, Sergeant Trotosk was one of the better-equipped – at least psychologically – soldiers of the Home Guard attached to the operation. “Friday,” of course, his best friend since “silly wallows” (or “boot-camp,” as some knew it), was right behind him.
“I just don't see why y'r so fuckin' worried, boss,” corporal Friday chortled, assuring his respirator was firmly attached to his rounded helmet. They'd been equipped with only basic radiation protection for Chetverta-6; after all, it was only meant to be a ten day operation.
“Jus' got a feelin', is all,” Trotosk responded, turning back from peering out of the tilt-rotor's right-hand door, seemingly drawn from his own internal monologue. “And don't call me 'boss,' Friday, for fuck's sake; you've done just as much as I've done. I just happened to be better liked than you are.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Friday was smiling, but Trotosk wouldn't have known, his face obscured by the clunky face-mask and respirator. Even so, he knew he was; even Trotosk was grinning.
Even with the good humor felt amongst friends, Trotosk couldn't shake that feeling... That feeling that something was amiss. Sure, the Kyrusian re-emergence brought with it certain necessities in regard to international cooperation, but this was different. Officially, the Deusan Empire and the Fortified State didn't even have open diplomatic relations; which begged the question, why cooperate with them? Much less invite them onto Kyrusian soil for some cooperative operation; that, above all, was what was troubling the Sergeant. It was as if something behind the scenes was nudging the State in a different direction. Of course, Kyrusia hadn't been unknown for its plots. Elba, for example, served as a stark reminder.
Then again, perhaps it was nothing; but if it was nothing, then why were five “liquidators”, as they were commonly called, of the Civil Contamination Prevention Bureau tagging along? Hell, not even tagging along; they were running the show – another facet of the operation that perturbed Sergeant Trotosk's “well shit, something's wrong” RADAR. Sure, cooperation with the Bureau was a day-to-day thing near the cities – barricaded or otherwise – but never out this far, much less for a so-called “dead cell” as the briefing had indicated.
'Bullshit,' Davij mused silently. 'Otherwise we wouldn't be out 'ere. Hell, this wouldn't even be a “cleansing” mission if it's a “dead cell.”' Yet, six-half dozen, it didn't really matter. As a member of the Home Guard, Trotosk followed orders; he went where he was told, and did what he had to do. He had a three-month old at home and a young, nymph-of-a-wife to care for. He wasn't about to question the source of his bread – especially in this case, regardless of what had to be done.
The tilt-rotor began to bank in a dull manner to the South, indicating they were within thirty minutes of where they were to set-up base camp. To the front of the hold, the “liquidators” seemed to be surveying briefing reports and various documents, no doubt detailing the certain aspects of the operation that couldn't be trusted to the normal soldier. They were dressed in their common attire, but with dark red and brown camouflage strapped to their bodies beneath their thick, great coats; of course, they were always equipped with the latest technology in regards to radiation protection, indicated by their inclusive respirators and gas-masks. Already, even now, tensions had begun to build between them and the Home Guard infantrymen; it was a common thing, really – animosity between the Bureau and whatever organization they happened to be working with was a given. After all, they were commanded by that cunt of a State-Commissar who thought she could do anything she damn-well pleased; of course, most understood that she, in fact, could. That still didn't stop the men from despising her for it...
A large man dressed entirely in attire common for the Bureau stood toward the front of the hold before making his way toward the rear, where the gear was stashed and the Home Guardsmen were cramped into small, fold-down chairs bolted to the side of the Kyh-28. After firmly gripping an over-head railing, it became evident that a true field briefing was coming, and though their faces were hidden beneath their respirators, it was evident the Guardsmen weren't happy to be sitting there, listening to some Bureau-dog give them orders.
“I'm Captain Pytor Khiron,” the “liquidator” announced, steadying himself with a firm grip to a rail. In the rear of the tilt-rotor, a couple of the rookies gave sarcastic remarks in response to his attire, even though they themselves would have preferred to be so well-equipped. “I'm going to be your C.O. for this mission,” he continued, “and I expect you to listen and do what I damn-well say, y' dogs.”
Friday interjected for a moment, slapping the top of his helmet for emphasis, “Ja, mein kommandant!” The German accent was spot-on, eliciting little more than a sideways glance from Captain Khiron.
“We're en route to Chetverta-6,” the Captain began, “It's a former comm-que-tel – communications, query, and intelligence, for you rookie fuckers – relay station in the eastern half of Skhidinjtsi. That means two things: radiological anomalies and it's goin' to be fucking cold. You've all been equipped with the appropriate equipment, and I expect you to wear it unless you're fuckin' sleeping or wackin'-off; and even then if you're outside of a containment tent.”
“That's goin' to be damn difficult through the suit, Captain!” corporal Friday remarked, grabbing his crotch and squeezing, causing the thin cloth fabric to ruffle across the Charon radio-resistant layers.
“You'll get fuckin' use to it!” the Captain jerked, slamming his foot against the floor to silence any further comments. “Now fuckin' listen unless you want t' have your arms ripped clean-off by some fuckin' stray nejmrutav, or have your eyes evaporate staring straight into a fuckin' anomaly. I don't get fuckin' paid enough to escort you pathetic excuses for soldiers; and yes, I can tell you're not too damn pleased with me havin' to do it. Well, fuck-sticks, I'm not too damn pleased to be doin' it. I'd much rather be plowin' the ass of a fine-thing in Odecca than carting your sorry asses around...
“But, I digress... We're en route to Chetverta-6, and we've got only two things we're to be doin': cleansing and scouting. Reports tell us there may be a few stray, afflicted dogs in the area, perhaps a few nejmrutav taking roost in the Administration Building, but nothing we can't handle. Secondly, the white-coats up there,” he indicated over his left shoulders, his thumb pointing to a cadre of ten individuals, none obviously prepared for field operations, spare the three engineers who seemed to be securing their respirators like they were professionals. “They're here to take samples and assess the state of Chetverta-6. You don't fuckin' talk to 'em unless they're 'bout to be gutted, y' hear? They're none of your fuckin' concern unless you're guarding them, and that'll mostly be our responsibility.
“Now, we'll be landing in around,” he quickly flipped over his right arm, tugging back the sleeve of his gray-drag great coat, revealing some metal apparatus, rectangular in shape, strapped to his forearm,”Twenty-five minutes. After we land, you're to set-up base camp and assist our associates...” The Captain paused for a moment, reaching-up to seemingly fiddle with a strap to his mask, but to Trotosk, it looked more like he was trying to rub his temple. “Appears the Central Authority has seen fit to let some Deausan soldiers come along for the ride. They're en route, and will probably arrive soon after we do. Same goes for them: don't talk unless spoken to; only worry about their soldiers, since that's all you'll be workin' with for the next ten days. ...Now keep y'r mouths shut and get ready to land...”
The Captain turned, stepping heavily back to where he was seated, haphazardly slamming down into his own, wall-mounted seat, pressing his gloved hand against the eye-sockets of his gas mask in a stressed and exasperated fashion.
Trotosk turned, giving Friday a questioning look – one that was returned in kind – before gripping his assault rifle, slamming back the slide, then sitting it between his legs, his eyes turning to peer out onto the great waste that was below...
An endless wasteland, that's what eastern Kyrusia had been reduced to. Sure, the temperate forests were mostly intact, though the plant-life was blighted and the animals less than friendly, but mostly intact. What Trotosk wasn't looking forward to, however, as they began to enter a circling pattern just outside of the heavily-forested boundaries of Chetverta-6, was the cold.
Since the Reckoning, due in part to the high-mountains to the North, the Fortified State had suffered a near-persistent form of nuclear winter. A quick glance at his watch indicated that, at altitude, temperatures were at 6.6°C (44°F), not boding well for what it was like actually inside the station. This, however, took a back-seat in Trotosk's mind once Chetverta-6 came into view...
Immediately, the Sergeant saw the massive walls of relays that towered above the majority of the base. Two, in total, with each being at least 137 meters (450 feet) in height; massive, cyclopean monstrosities of steel and iron, each forming some mockery of a telecommunications array that, as the tilt-rotor drew closer, decelerating and beginning to circle, looked more and more like the skeletons of some great beast that had fallen astray and collapsed, dying and subsequently rotting where it last stood.
Overall, the facility was relatively small – merely five buildings in total, most reaching a height of three to four stories. Each building appeared merely as minute notes in comparison to the all-encompassing relays that towered high above them; each building, seemed to line one side of the relays, ending with a large, six-story complex that seemed familiar to many: it was shaped to that of a right angle, a cracked concrete square conforming between the two, perpendicular arms of the construct.
For several minutes, the Kyh-28 circled, rookie and veteran alike staring through open door or thick, glass windows down upon their new, temporary home for the next ten days. The compound was littered with strewn glass, shattered concrete barricades, and overturned vehicles, but was otherwise intact. None of the buildings had suffered major structural damage, spare the Administration Building (the largest, right-angled structure), which appeared to be missing a relatively large section of wall, encompassing two stories and at least four meters in diameter. Most of the windows were missing across the facility, exposing little more than dark, abysmal portals into a no doubt dank and putrid interior, corridors and hallways of plaster and drywall serving little more than safe-havens for maggots and nejmrutav as they rotted away.
As the tilt-rotor began to descend, the familiar jerk and “whurr” of the lowering landing gear, the scent of the place became apparent, even penetrating the respirators the Home Guardsmen wore. The scent was of decay and, strangely, moisture; it was as if, even in the near-freezing weather, the forest had contained a pocket of humidity. Then again, such a perfume could be caused by nothing more than years of rainfall and a liberal soaking of furniture, walls, and canvas, giving way to the rising moisture and particulate.
Suddenly, a great cacophony filled the air, serving to shudder even the massive transport craft as it began to descend; an explosion of some sort, or so it seemed, expanding from the East of the compound, filling the air with its concussive force and a sound that resembled a ruptured air compression tank one hundred-fold.
“Remain calm!” Captain Khiron shouted, “It's from one of the anomalies! Happens every so often! Nothing to worry about! Dead cell!” He was shouting over the roar of the engines and the turbulent noise that accompanied landing, even still, the hint of trepidation in his voice did not go unnoticed by the Sergeant.
Upon landing, the Home Guardsmen exited first, followed by the various scientists and engineers, leaving the “liquidators” to confer in privacy as the “grunts” began to unload their gear. Along for the ride, they'd toted two, side-by-side all-terrain vehicles, machines composed of little more than a chassis, large wheels, and a roll cage, but served as better (and more efficient) transportation in the rural regions than armored personnel carriers or infantry fighting vehicles; several cases of scientific equipment also accompanied them, the large, black and silver cases having to be coated on rolling carts due to their weight; enough supplies for fourteen days of food, work, and maintenance; as well as the necessary base camp structures (including two containment tents, complete with air-seals and decontamination corridors). In the end, it was a relatively light load; then again, it was a dead cell.
Almost immediately upon disembarking the craft, the scientists began their business, measuring and sampling the immediate area for radiological hazard, chemical spills, and possible sightings of nejmrutav. A scientist by the name of Mhikail Frujanopov, a nuclear physicist, remarked on how radiation levels were relatively low – a mere 1.3 to 1.7 sieverts – but would have been deadly under periods of extended exposure without adequate protection.
“I hope the Deusans have come prepared,” Sergeant Trotosk remarked to Friday as they began unloading one of the large tents, rolling the rectangular container on its rear wheels onto the nearby, concrete square.
“You know how foreigners are, boss,” Friday smirked beneath his mask, hulking the bottom-end of the tent container over a small chunk of broken cement, “They don't understand how it is 'ere. They'll probably come with a few 'pirators, sure, but nothin' in the way of body protection – much less a containment tent. That's why w' brought two!”
“Oh, wonderful,” the Sergeant shook his head, dropping his end of the rectangular capsule onto the square, kicking open a small clamp, immediately causing the module to shatter open and begin the auto-erection of the tent, large, metal poles telescoping out of the heart of the capsule. “That just means we're going to be cramped into one of these fuckers.”
“You kno' they're suppose to be rated for fifty men,” the corporal chuckled, stepping back just as the exterior poles began to ascend and the bases began to unfurl, forming a thick base of Charon fabric between the irradiated concrete and the air inside.
“Bullshit,” Trotosk shoved Friday in the way only soldiers can, “Get back t' unloading, otherwise 'boss man' is going to be pissed.” He grunted in a mockery of Captain Khiron, stepping off the square just as the central pyre of the containment tent began to ascend and lock into place, forming a rectangular, sealed and quarantined living quarters for the soldiers and scientists, approximately twelve meters by six meters in size.
“O'course! O'course!” Friday shouted, giving a faux-salute to his superior officer – an act of friendship that, for the time, was permitted - before returning to the rear cargo-access of the tilt-rotor.
Even so, Trotosk remained for a moment, standing in the shadow of the containment tent. The sun was just beginning to set, basking the area in deep orange hues and flecks of golden-red coloration. Anywhere else, it would have been beautiful; but in Chetverta-6, it could only be viewed through the perspective of the dark, gray cloud cover and the mist that, just now, began to seep in from the ginger forests that surrounded the compound. It was going to be a long ten days, that, Trotosk was sure. Yet, one could hope it would be truncated by a nice period of leave; time to return home, time to spend with his wife and child...
Yet, the dark, dim, blue glow to the South-west, piercing the shadows cast by the setting sun, seemed to assure him, if silently, that such would never come to pass...
A dead cell.
Chetverta-6; April 9, 10 A.R.
A dead cell didn't have two radiological anomalies within five clicks of it. A dead cell wasn't a former, military communications-relay base that was within ten kilometers of a direct nuclear impact. A dead cell wasn't prioritized above normal scouting missions; nor was a dead cell to be cleansed by not simply Home Guard soldiers, but the brutally efficient and heartless operatives of the Civil Contamination Prevention Bureau. A dead cell wasn't of any importance to the State. Dead cells littered the landscape: former military bases, damaged by the falling stars of its enemies, ruined beyond recourse; abandoned towns, their citizens left to rot in the fallout or freeze in the nuclear winter that came after; even entire cities, decaying, crumbling where they stand, crawling with the afflicted and the deviant rogues who sought to inhabit them, luring the foolish deep into the catacombs of fallen roofs and bent rebar.
“A dead cell,” they said. Then why were Deusan operatives joining-in on the “fun”? What was so important...? Why did Chetverta-6 have to be cleansed then? Testing equipment? Negative. Training? Hardly. Something else, some other game was afoot. Something devious; something malign. Something that, if the greater mass of Kyrusians knew, they would find it something less than appealing. Something meant to be done in secret; something meant to prepare for something far worse.
Then again, it's just a dead cell...
• • • • • •
The Rolling Stones blared from the small, portable radio that sat between Sergeant Davij Trotosk and his corporal, Friejinc, or, as he was commonly known, “Friday.” It was chanting something about a red door, but most of the soldiers of Trotosk's squad weren't paying attention to it. They'd exited normally sanctioned flight-paths nearly fifteen minutes ago, and one of the privates couldn't have helped himself and had opened the side-doors to the Kyh-28, allowing the rookies a chance to look down at the fabled ginger-brown forests that blanketed the precinct of Skhidinjtsi.
Eastern Kyrusia had been hit hard by the Reckoning, but not hard enough it seemed. Much of the landscape was rather intact, spare the occasional crater of blackened, blasted earth where, no doubt, a tactical nuclear munition had struck. What was of note, however, was the way the land had adapted to the pestilent clouds of noxious, radioactive particulate that filled every available space. The trees, soaked by the fallout, had eagerly siphoned the contaminated ground-water, turning shades of ginger-brown, black, and the deepest red that could possibly occur naturally. Animal life had almost been entirely eradicated, spare the heartiest of wolves, stray dogs, and the sporadic bear. The few that had survived, however, had taken-on almost surreal aspects, becoming little more than shambling behemoths, thirsting for meat and the off-chance to swipe at a potential meal.
Sad thing was, that was the norm – at least for the veterans of the scouting missions East. The rookies, however, were greenhorns, never having even conducted a reconnaissance mission outside of the State-controlled, military-operated simulation ranges. They were in for a surprise, at least that's the way Trotosk saw it. Corporal “Friday” wasn't worrying as much; but, then again, he wasn't called “Friday” without cause. A veteran of over nine hundred hours of scouting, surveillance, sampling, and cleansing, Sergeant Trotosk was one of the better-equipped – at least psychologically – soldiers of the Home Guard attached to the operation. “Friday,” of course, his best friend since “silly wallows” (or “boot-camp,” as some knew it), was right behind him.
“I just don't see why y'r so fuckin' worried, boss,” corporal Friday chortled, assuring his respirator was firmly attached to his rounded helmet. They'd been equipped with only basic radiation protection for Chetverta-6; after all, it was only meant to be a ten day operation.
“Jus' got a feelin', is all,” Trotosk responded, turning back from peering out of the tilt-rotor's right-hand door, seemingly drawn from his own internal monologue. “And don't call me 'boss,' Friday, for fuck's sake; you've done just as much as I've done. I just happened to be better liked than you are.”
“Sure thing, boss,” Friday was smiling, but Trotosk wouldn't have known, his face obscured by the clunky face-mask and respirator. Even so, he knew he was; even Trotosk was grinning.
Even with the good humor felt amongst friends, Trotosk couldn't shake that feeling... That feeling that something was amiss. Sure, the Kyrusian re-emergence brought with it certain necessities in regard to international cooperation, but this was different. Officially, the Deusan Empire and the Fortified State didn't even have open diplomatic relations; which begged the question, why cooperate with them? Much less invite them onto Kyrusian soil for some cooperative operation; that, above all, was what was troubling the Sergeant. It was as if something behind the scenes was nudging the State in a different direction. Of course, Kyrusia hadn't been unknown for its plots. Elba, for example, served as a stark reminder.
Then again, perhaps it was nothing; but if it was nothing, then why were five “liquidators”, as they were commonly called, of the Civil Contamination Prevention Bureau tagging along? Hell, not even tagging along; they were running the show – another facet of the operation that perturbed Sergeant Trotosk's “well shit, something's wrong” RADAR. Sure, cooperation with the Bureau was a day-to-day thing near the cities – barricaded or otherwise – but never out this far, much less for a so-called “dead cell” as the briefing had indicated.
'Bullshit,' Davij mused silently. 'Otherwise we wouldn't be out 'ere. Hell, this wouldn't even be a “cleansing” mission if it's a “dead cell.”' Yet, six-half dozen, it didn't really matter. As a member of the Home Guard, Trotosk followed orders; he went where he was told, and did what he had to do. He had a three-month old at home and a young, nymph-of-a-wife to care for. He wasn't about to question the source of his bread – especially in this case, regardless of what had to be done.
The tilt-rotor began to bank in a dull manner to the South, indicating they were within thirty minutes of where they were to set-up base camp. To the front of the hold, the “liquidators” seemed to be surveying briefing reports and various documents, no doubt detailing the certain aspects of the operation that couldn't be trusted to the normal soldier. They were dressed in their common attire, but with dark red and brown camouflage strapped to their bodies beneath their thick, great coats; of course, they were always equipped with the latest technology in regards to radiation protection, indicated by their inclusive respirators and gas-masks. Already, even now, tensions had begun to build between them and the Home Guard infantrymen; it was a common thing, really – animosity between the Bureau and whatever organization they happened to be working with was a given. After all, they were commanded by that cunt of a State-Commissar who thought she could do anything she damn-well pleased; of course, most understood that she, in fact, could. That still didn't stop the men from despising her for it...
A large man dressed entirely in attire common for the Bureau stood toward the front of the hold before making his way toward the rear, where the gear was stashed and the Home Guardsmen were cramped into small, fold-down chairs bolted to the side of the Kyh-28. After firmly gripping an over-head railing, it became evident that a true field briefing was coming, and though their faces were hidden beneath their respirators, it was evident the Guardsmen weren't happy to be sitting there, listening to some Bureau-dog give them orders.
“I'm Captain Pytor Khiron,” the “liquidator” announced, steadying himself with a firm grip to a rail. In the rear of the tilt-rotor, a couple of the rookies gave sarcastic remarks in response to his attire, even though they themselves would have preferred to be so well-equipped. “I'm going to be your C.O. for this mission,” he continued, “and I expect you to listen and do what I damn-well say, y' dogs.”
Friday interjected for a moment, slapping the top of his helmet for emphasis, “Ja, mein kommandant!” The German accent was spot-on, eliciting little more than a sideways glance from Captain Khiron.
“We're en route to Chetverta-6,” the Captain began, “It's a former comm-que-tel – communications, query, and intelligence, for you rookie fuckers – relay station in the eastern half of Skhidinjtsi. That means two things: radiological anomalies and it's goin' to be fucking cold. You've all been equipped with the appropriate equipment, and I expect you to wear it unless you're fuckin' sleeping or wackin'-off; and even then if you're outside of a containment tent.”
“That's goin' to be damn difficult through the suit, Captain!” corporal Friday remarked, grabbing his crotch and squeezing, causing the thin cloth fabric to ruffle across the Charon radio-resistant layers.
“You'll get fuckin' use to it!” the Captain jerked, slamming his foot against the floor to silence any further comments. “Now fuckin' listen unless you want t' have your arms ripped clean-off by some fuckin' stray nejmrutav, or have your eyes evaporate staring straight into a fuckin' anomaly. I don't get fuckin' paid enough to escort you pathetic excuses for soldiers; and yes, I can tell you're not too damn pleased with me havin' to do it. Well, fuck-sticks, I'm not too damn pleased to be doin' it. I'd much rather be plowin' the ass of a fine-thing in Odecca than carting your sorry asses around...
“But, I digress... We're en route to Chetverta-6, and we've got only two things we're to be doin': cleansing and scouting. Reports tell us there may be a few stray, afflicted dogs in the area, perhaps a few nejmrutav taking roost in the Administration Building, but nothing we can't handle. Secondly, the white-coats up there,” he indicated over his left shoulders, his thumb pointing to a cadre of ten individuals, none obviously prepared for field operations, spare the three engineers who seemed to be securing their respirators like they were professionals. “They're here to take samples and assess the state of Chetverta-6. You don't fuckin' talk to 'em unless they're 'bout to be gutted, y' hear? They're none of your fuckin' concern unless you're guarding them, and that'll mostly be our responsibility.
“Now, we'll be landing in around,” he quickly flipped over his right arm, tugging back the sleeve of his gray-drag great coat, revealing some metal apparatus, rectangular in shape, strapped to his forearm,”Twenty-five minutes. After we land, you're to set-up base camp and assist our associates...” The Captain paused for a moment, reaching-up to seemingly fiddle with a strap to his mask, but to Trotosk, it looked more like he was trying to rub his temple. “Appears the Central Authority has seen fit to let some Deausan soldiers come along for the ride. They're en route, and will probably arrive soon after we do. Same goes for them: don't talk unless spoken to; only worry about their soldiers, since that's all you'll be workin' with for the next ten days. ...Now keep y'r mouths shut and get ready to land...”
The Captain turned, stepping heavily back to where he was seated, haphazardly slamming down into his own, wall-mounted seat, pressing his gloved hand against the eye-sockets of his gas mask in a stressed and exasperated fashion.
Trotosk turned, giving Friday a questioning look – one that was returned in kind – before gripping his assault rifle, slamming back the slide, then sitting it between his legs, his eyes turning to peer out onto the great waste that was below...
• • • • • •
An endless wasteland, that's what eastern Kyrusia had been reduced to. Sure, the temperate forests were mostly intact, though the plant-life was blighted and the animals less than friendly, but mostly intact. What Trotosk wasn't looking forward to, however, as they began to enter a circling pattern just outside of the heavily-forested boundaries of Chetverta-6, was the cold.
Since the Reckoning, due in part to the high-mountains to the North, the Fortified State had suffered a near-persistent form of nuclear winter. A quick glance at his watch indicated that, at altitude, temperatures were at 6.6°C (44°F), not boding well for what it was like actually inside the station. This, however, took a back-seat in Trotosk's mind once Chetverta-6 came into view...
Immediately, the Sergeant saw the massive walls of relays that towered above the majority of the base. Two, in total, with each being at least 137 meters (450 feet) in height; massive, cyclopean monstrosities of steel and iron, each forming some mockery of a telecommunications array that, as the tilt-rotor drew closer, decelerating and beginning to circle, looked more and more like the skeletons of some great beast that had fallen astray and collapsed, dying and subsequently rotting where it last stood.
Overall, the facility was relatively small – merely five buildings in total, most reaching a height of three to four stories. Each building appeared merely as minute notes in comparison to the all-encompassing relays that towered high above them; each building, seemed to line one side of the relays, ending with a large, six-story complex that seemed familiar to many: it was shaped to that of a right angle, a cracked concrete square conforming between the two, perpendicular arms of the construct.
For several minutes, the Kyh-28 circled, rookie and veteran alike staring through open door or thick, glass windows down upon their new, temporary home for the next ten days. The compound was littered with strewn glass, shattered concrete barricades, and overturned vehicles, but was otherwise intact. None of the buildings had suffered major structural damage, spare the Administration Building (the largest, right-angled structure), which appeared to be missing a relatively large section of wall, encompassing two stories and at least four meters in diameter. Most of the windows were missing across the facility, exposing little more than dark, abysmal portals into a no doubt dank and putrid interior, corridors and hallways of plaster and drywall serving little more than safe-havens for maggots and nejmrutav as they rotted away.
As the tilt-rotor began to descend, the familiar jerk and “whurr” of the lowering landing gear, the scent of the place became apparent, even penetrating the respirators the Home Guardsmen wore. The scent was of decay and, strangely, moisture; it was as if, even in the near-freezing weather, the forest had contained a pocket of humidity. Then again, such a perfume could be caused by nothing more than years of rainfall and a liberal soaking of furniture, walls, and canvas, giving way to the rising moisture and particulate.
Suddenly, a great cacophony filled the air, serving to shudder even the massive transport craft as it began to descend; an explosion of some sort, or so it seemed, expanding from the East of the compound, filling the air with its concussive force and a sound that resembled a ruptured air compression tank one hundred-fold.
“Remain calm!” Captain Khiron shouted, “It's from one of the anomalies! Happens every so often! Nothing to worry about! Dead cell!” He was shouting over the roar of the engines and the turbulent noise that accompanied landing, even still, the hint of trepidation in his voice did not go unnoticed by the Sergeant.
Upon landing, the Home Guardsmen exited first, followed by the various scientists and engineers, leaving the “liquidators” to confer in privacy as the “grunts” began to unload their gear. Along for the ride, they'd toted two, side-by-side all-terrain vehicles, machines composed of little more than a chassis, large wheels, and a roll cage, but served as better (and more efficient) transportation in the rural regions than armored personnel carriers or infantry fighting vehicles; several cases of scientific equipment also accompanied them, the large, black and silver cases having to be coated on rolling carts due to their weight; enough supplies for fourteen days of food, work, and maintenance; as well as the necessary base camp structures (including two containment tents, complete with air-seals and decontamination corridors). In the end, it was a relatively light load; then again, it was a dead cell.
Almost immediately upon disembarking the craft, the scientists began their business, measuring and sampling the immediate area for radiological hazard, chemical spills, and possible sightings of nejmrutav. A scientist by the name of Mhikail Frujanopov, a nuclear physicist, remarked on how radiation levels were relatively low – a mere 1.3 to 1.7 sieverts – but would have been deadly under periods of extended exposure without adequate protection.
“I hope the Deusans have come prepared,” Sergeant Trotosk remarked to Friday as they began unloading one of the large tents, rolling the rectangular container on its rear wheels onto the nearby, concrete square.
“You know how foreigners are, boss,” Friday smirked beneath his mask, hulking the bottom-end of the tent container over a small chunk of broken cement, “They don't understand how it is 'ere. They'll probably come with a few 'pirators, sure, but nothin' in the way of body protection – much less a containment tent. That's why w' brought two!”
“Oh, wonderful,” the Sergeant shook his head, dropping his end of the rectangular capsule onto the square, kicking open a small clamp, immediately causing the module to shatter open and begin the auto-erection of the tent, large, metal poles telescoping out of the heart of the capsule. “That just means we're going to be cramped into one of these fuckers.”
“You kno' they're suppose to be rated for fifty men,” the corporal chuckled, stepping back just as the exterior poles began to ascend and the bases began to unfurl, forming a thick base of Charon fabric between the irradiated concrete and the air inside.
“Bullshit,” Trotosk shoved Friday in the way only soldiers can, “Get back t' unloading, otherwise 'boss man' is going to be pissed.” He grunted in a mockery of Captain Khiron, stepping off the square just as the central pyre of the containment tent began to ascend and lock into place, forming a rectangular, sealed and quarantined living quarters for the soldiers and scientists, approximately twelve meters by six meters in size.
“O'course! O'course!” Friday shouted, giving a faux-salute to his superior officer – an act of friendship that, for the time, was permitted - before returning to the rear cargo-access of the tilt-rotor.
Even so, Trotosk remained for a moment, standing in the shadow of the containment tent. The sun was just beginning to set, basking the area in deep orange hues and flecks of golden-red coloration. Anywhere else, it would have been beautiful; but in Chetverta-6, it could only be viewed through the perspective of the dark, gray cloud cover and the mist that, just now, began to seep in from the ginger forests that surrounded the compound. It was going to be a long ten days, that, Trotosk was sure. Yet, one could hope it would be truncated by a nice period of leave; time to return home, time to spend with his wife and child...
Yet, the dark, dim, blue glow to the South-west, piercing the shadows cast by the setting sun, seemed to assure him, if silently, that such would never come to pass...
