Struggle. Retribution in the Twilight
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He had slept all evening, and it was already night. It was just the right time to inspect the positions of the chivi and look out for chums there, if they were still there, of course.
He covered the next ten kilometers quite slowly, telling himself to move as quietly as possible, in reality realizing that he just didn't want to see and accept the truth right now. When the industrial pipe showed, he got off his horse and tied it to the nearest tree. Now he moved even slower and even more quietly.
It has to be the Kiwis first, he knows that. They patrol the territory on their own, without the help of anyone else, like the Imperial Army plagues or the SCK, whom they obviously hate. And they're great at hiding, oddly enough, much better than the Maquis. They were so good at it, in fact, that it wasn't quite clear why they hadn't already identified all the rebels and killed them one by one.
Maybe they don't really need it? Really, what are they going to guard and do if there's no Maquis? A final defeat wouldn't suit them… Or is he idealizing them too much? And their abilities in general… At the same time, it's time to check it all out properly....
– Listen, quietly…" someone said in a whisper from behind. – Put your hands up.
Holy shit. How's this? Going to investigate, get a tongue, interrogate, learn something new. And this. Right at the entrance, they took him like a lousy sheep… How professional. Not shouting, but whispering and careful. They know that many people have this defense reflex to try to kill the enemy faster than he kills you. It's just automatic. While there is still a moment, and the invader himself does not want to shoot yet… And then whisper. Just to convey the humble message that we have to surrender. No shouting, no noise, no surprises.
Bolotnikov raised his hands slowly, still even hoping that it might be someone from the Maquis even and other units who decided to make a sortie for a new diversion:
– I'm my own– Relax.
– One of our own, of course, how could it be any other way.
The enemy began to step carefully around him, barely shuffling one foot after the other, and at last appeared in front of the major. He was rather gloomy-looking, small, low, somehow unevenly built and stooped, but with some very shrewd eyes:
– You look familiar, fine.....
– Of course you did. I used to guard the Jackal. Till they started moving him.
– A jackal?
– The jackal, yes. The one who was an SSchekist bitch....
– I know who you mean. Everybody knows who he is.
– All the chivvies know. That's what I'm saying. I'm telling you, it's mine.
Slouch was silent. He was already looking at Bolotnikov a little differently. He was thinking something of his own at that moment:
– I don't need to hear about the Jackal. What's your unit?
– What about you? So I told you. – Bolotnikov knew very well the braggart nature of the hivi, and how they did not like to share unnecessary information even with their own. Who knows, maybe he'll take them for his own after all.
– You don't want to take a bullet?
– Everybody gets caught at some point. Not everyone's gonna be a rotten ass in the process.
Hearing this, the slouch seemed to smile a little and even relaxed a bit, but in essence it meant nothing – he held his AK-74 still firmly and aimed exactly at the center of the major's solar plexus:
– I agree… Well go that way… Penalized....
Bolotnikov turned slowly in that direction and, keeping his hands up, walked in the direction indicated. There seemed to be no chance of escaping – his escort had deliberately lagged behind by six or seven steps, so that there would be time to shoot, both in case of an attempt to escape and in case of an attempt to seize his weapon.
– Do you know who the jackal snitched to? – Bolotnikov suddenly had an idea of how to fix or at least change the situation.
Slouch was silent and only breathed back occasionally.
– He knocked the plagues from the SCK. – Bolotnikov replied, turning his head slightly and noticing the enemy out of the corner of his eye.
– What?!
– Yes, yes, to the chums from the SCK… – the major stopped and turned back a little. – He said he had no choice....
– What fucking choice?! These bitches snitch! Did he get a bad fucking meal here?
– He wasn't complaining about the food, you know… He was in the shit and he wanted to get out of it. You know, everybody protects your own skin more than somebody else's.
– So what? BCC's gonna help him out?
– You see, it didn't work. But somehow he wasn't too upset. He wouldn't even smoke. He said I smoked mine a long time ago…
Slouchy laughed and lowered the machine gun altogether:
– That asshole gave me the smokes. We used to be together. Only he went upstairs, and I didn't think I'd say anything. You know, he's a brave guy without epaulets. He's braver than a lot of fancy men. It ain't my thing to chase rank. But when we were young, he bet me a carton of cigarettes. And that was expensive for him. Very expensive, bitch. Ha-ha-ha. So he got upset. And he says, "I'm not fucking smoking anymore." Like he can't afford to buy any more. And then he quit altogether… And here's this dandy who says he's already smoked his own. Ha-ha… Well, on the other hand, at least he didn't completely deceive you. I was the one who fooled him with that block. Ha-ha-ha-ha.
He laughed so hard, folding himself in half sometimes, that he involuntarily came closer and closer. And at some point it finally seemed that it was possible to take advantage of it. Bolotnikov rushed forward and sharply raised his fist upward, hitting him squarely in the apple of his eye. The stooped man fell to the ground… That's what happened, and the Shakal helped him....
Swampy tied the hands of the Hivi fighter with his own belt, then took the laces off his boots and tied their feet together. Then he examined his pockets, and there was nothing particularly interesting or unexpected: ammunition, two F-1 grenades, ammunition, a Makarov pistol, cigarettes and a notebook, which contained debts, apparently card debts, judging by the fact that there were tambourines, hearts, crosses, spades, as well as the names of games opposite the surnames: goat, borax, preference. It seems that the Jackal not only lost to him, but lost at katran, that is in a game where cheats know each other, and play on who will cheat whom better. Logically, after such a defeat, he stopped smoking altogether.