On the banks of the Pripyat, the Devil is sleeping,
pretending, the scoundrel, he’s a dried up willow.
On the banks of the Pripyat, the river that once was deep blue,
an atomic black candle is flickering for him.
On the riverbank sands, his hooked claws sink in.
In his ears the wind whistles and whines.
His obscenities scrawled on the windows and walls,
cracked icons and wrecked respirators.
And now he feels that he’s due a good doze.
This, his empire, and he is the emperor.
The reactor, all black — his hell and his throne.
In the sands he sleeps, curled up in flame.
In his circle of ravens, he dreams.
“Heard anything interesting lately?” the man in black asks. He lights a cigarette, staring off into the pale white-and-black horizon.
It is a cold, quiet morning. 25th of November, 2102.
The two stand on the rooftop of the remnants of Apartment Complex B7. In days long passed, it housed hundreds of proud comrades, workers, peasants, soldiers. Their children hung around in the playground just in front of the building, screaming in joy as the local dogs chased them playfully.
“Heard the lot’s comin’ today,” the younger man responds, and takes a swig from his bottle.
Today, Apartment Complex B7 houses hundreds of proud comrades, though none of them would call themselves such. They call their home, “Wuchu,” though more specifically, “The Barracks.” Beds and cots have been prepared for the incoming hordes of guests.
The two men nod in acknowledgement. A howl is heard in the distance. It is followed by gunshots.
The interior of The Barracks is unkempt, and often frigid, warmed only by the fires of its residents. Many of the windows have been ‘repaired’, sealed, so as to try to keep the minimal heat in, and keep the local fauna out.
Gray snow falls from the heavens, and like an old blanket, it covers the landscape, hiding both its beauty and filth. The trees are all dry - not a single leaf in sight.
“Heard there’s gonna be a blowout,” the younger man speaks again. “18:00, I think.”
The drum of an acoustic guitar.
The man in black nods once. “They better hurry up, then.”
He looks at his watch; its short hand is pointing to 7. The sky is still a deep blue shade.
