Taking Lives

Chapter 2. Baptism by Fire(8)

He paused to collect his thoughts and soon continued.

My first combat operation took place far from home. It was a showdown in the Middle East, in which we participated unofficially. I went there as a volunteer. I was full of youthful idiocy, called ideals—I wanted to do something useful for my homeland. But most of all, I probably wanted to distinguish myself, to show everyone, the whole world, what I was worth. I returned from there a different person and learned one lesson for the rest of my life: when the battle begins, you need to shove all your ambitions and fears deep up your ass, because by getting distracted by them, you risk not only your own life, but also the lives of your comrades. Any thoughtless initiative on your part, any indecision could cost them their lives. So remember the first thing: under my command, everyone fights, no one hides or runs. And secondly, if you chicken out and don't shoot, that means the enemy is shooting at your comrades, and right now, one of them is dying. And if you're not willing to risk your life for your comrades, who's willing to risk theirs for you?

After this conversation, Rodionov’s words constantly swirled around in Andrey’s head.

Could he handle it? Could he? He could. Besides, he'd killed someone once before... True, he'd shot someone unexpectedly, even to himself, and he didn't really understand how it had happened. Immediately after the shot, he and Igor took off running and barely escaped pursuit. Because of this, Andrei had no opportunity to see the results of his actions or reflect on what had happened. But how would he have reacted if he'd seen what he'd done? Afterward, Andrei returned to that situation many times, but the emotions that had overwhelmed him at the moment of the shot had long since passed, and he couldn't even remember whether he'd actually killed the bandit or merely wounded him.

Now, as every minute brought him closer to actual combat, his courage was increasingly weakening. Even despite Rodionov's arguments and his strong desire to avenge the bandits for his dead or lost friends, Andrei was still torn by an internal conflict. Something was making him doubt, preventing him from easily accepting the need to kill. Conscience or humanity... or something else.

The next day, sitting in the dilapidated shack proudly called a "hut," Andrei watched with interest the silent Vorobyov, who hadn't said a word for the past three days. Sergei sat on the table, his hands propped up behind his back, and gazed intently out the window at the road. Occasionally, he'd take out one of the hand-rolled cigarettes he'd obtained with some difficulty from the locals and smoke with relish. Then his face would take on a look of undisguised pleasure.

Vorobyov was distinguished by his phlegmatic nature and completely dispassionate attitude toward everything going on around him. People sometimes even teased him, calling him Chuck Norris because of his imperturbability, so Andrei was unaccustomed to seeing expressions of emotion on Vorobyov's usually impassive face. It seemed to him that Sergei was completely unconcerned by any of this world's problems, even death, which they might soon face.

And indeed, Vorobyov didn't believe in the possibility of his own death, just as no one believed in it who hadn't been on the brink of life and experienced someone else's death as their own. He couldn't see it in the death of another, perhaps someone who had deflected a fatal blow from fate that wasn't intended for him. Yes, he'd seen dead bodies, he knew that people died in battle, but he'd never witnessed it happen.

"What?" Sergei asked, noticing Andrey looking at him.

“It’s nothing,” Romanov shrugged and turned away.

Vorobyov took a drag, closed his eyes, and tilted his head back. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he released several swaying smoke rings.

"Are you eager?" he asked suddenly, without changing his position or opening his eyes.

Andrei glanced at him again. It didn't sound like a question, but more like a statement, delivered in a questioning tone.

“Yes, there is such a thing,” he admitted honestly.

Vorobyov grinned, still keeping his eyes closed. Then he took another deep drag and blew out another pair of rings.

“Me too,” he said.

“I thought you’d been in such scrapes before,” Andrey said in surprise.

- Nope. This is a first for me too.

- How so? You've been with Rodionov from the very beginning of all this, haven't you?

‒ First of all, we lived in a valley, remember? Who would we shoot at there?

Andrey nodded, as if to say, “I understand.”

"Secondly, Rodionov is a special forces soldier. He has a lot of experience; he even fought in hot spots. He commanded us at the base until Gronin was sent. And I'm a regular soldier. Before the epidemic, I served in the army for four years and had been to the firing range many times, so I know how to shoot, but not at people."

He fell silent and leaned forward, peering intently into the rain – a lone figure was descending the hill, a little awkwardly, but quickly.

“They’re here,” he said, jumping up from the table.

Vorobyov, one of the most trained fighters in their unit, had two of the four grenade launchers in addition to his Kalashnikov assault rifle. He confidently slung them over his shoulder, grabbed the assault rifle, and climbed the ladder to the attic. Andrey picked up his weapon and ran to the window. His hands, as if on cue, began shaking wildly.

Kirill literally burst into the house where Rodionov was, almost tearing the door off its hinges.