Special Forces: Soldiers Vashtan/Aleksandr Voinov and Marquesate
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1984 Chapter XII—Insiders
August 1984, Afghanistan
It had gone wrong. So fucking wrong, Dan was screaming when the bullet impacted in his thigh, stumbled backwards, fell, just knew it was over. Wrong, goddamned wrong, was losing it all; goat-fuckers, duty, sanity and his life. Pain, bullets, blood and screams, and those motherfucking Mudjas dying like flies all around him. Fucking Russians, they’d done it this time. He’d under-estimated the Glorious Soviet Army. Cock-sure. Cock...nothing. No more. Reduced to trying to crawl out of the worst of this hellfire. Shot at from left, right, centre. Only a few more minutes and they’d be under fire from behind as well. Really fucked. Truly buggered, right up the arse this time; bullets, RPG, staccato of AKs and any old GMP. Gripping the flesh wound on his thigh, Dan slung the rifle onto his back, pistol in one hand, dragging himself forward on hands and knees, desperate to get to the outcrop of rock he’d recced earlier. Blind to the dying, deaf to their screams, his own pain bridled with clenched teeth and that never-ending greed to live. Crawling like a dog, eating dirt, using the dead and dying as shields, he had to get away, or they’d figure out that the man beneath the native rags was nothing like the Afghans. Turkey. Merc. Dead as a dodo after interrogation and torture, unless he’d be lucky and kicked the bucket beforehand. But fuck, he wasn’t ready to die yet. Damned Russkies. Damn them all and their ambush, and thrice damned his rag-tag of insurgents, unable to hold the village. Dan managed to crawl two, three feet, the rocks came closer, hope was just about in reach, when he heard more than felt a bullet, too close, impacting on the rock, a sound that made him throw himself down to the ground, belly first. Swallowing dust, dirt, and blood, then pain. Felled like a fucking bull, shot with a dart gun, ready for slaughter. The bullet had ricocheted off the rocks, would have killed him if he hadn’t thrown himself down. Grazed his temple. Hit with force. Blood. Pain. Over.
381
* * * “We’re finished here, Major.” “Very well, Captain. Congratulations.” The man gave him a crisp salute, and people were pulling out. A massing of effort, men, and gear. This was as much an example as would do. Part of a massive offensive designed to drive the enemy back, and underground, and generally out of the way. There was a mass grave, the bodies had begun to bloat and posed a health risk this close to the outpost. There was that smell in the air, sour blood, and oily smoke.
Vadim walked into the settlement, what was left of it, saw soldiers standing guard and was pretty sure everything had been looted already. Intelligence had worked with this one. They assumed they’d hit a lieutenant of one of the warlords…no names, just bets being hedged. He was only here to confirm. And that he did. He began to turn stones, metaphorically and literally, trying to find a scrap of information which faction exactly had been bombed and shot into the stone age, which of the many foes was no more...and found a bergan that didn’t belong here. He knew that one, knew the smell, the frayed, bleached thing. Thought, Dan, then thought mass grave, then thought Dan would not survive in the mountains. He sat there, hands shaking, thought of their last encounter, force and need as always, and thought again of the mass grave. Thought of the turkey that had been Dan’s comrade, and dread crept up and turned his throat to lead. What if, this time, it was actually what he had feared? He stood, composed himself, hid the bergan in its exact spot, and left to radio the Colonel. He was pretty sure the insurgent leader had left for the mountains, might be wounded, requested permission to hunt. Hemming and hawking, too valuable, but the target was valuable, too, and permission was given. Vadim got his kit from the Hind helicopter, and watched the men leaving, wrapping up, knew what they were thinking. The crazy Spetsnaz was out to get himself killed. But that was exactly how the crazy Spetsnaz had made Major, that was what the grandfathers said, and, eventually, Vadim was left alone, 382 with the stench of bodies and the settlement, aware that vengeance was in the air. If the Mudjas had any forces left in the area, they’d come crashing down on him. He should be out and gone as soon as possible.
* * *
Pain. Heat. Stench and weight. Impossible to move. Restricted. Bound and Held. Panic. Dan woke, unable to see, impossible to move. Couldn’t fathom where he was, what had happened. Dizzy, thirsty, head spinning from the bullet impact, face a sticky mess, eyes glued shut with blood. Bodies. Felt hands, arms, legs and torsos. Fabric, rags, felt and wool, smell. Blood. Stink. Flies. Too much weight and heat, and panic rose like bile in his throat. Alive, but amongst the dead. Pried his eyes open, tried to move, froze when he heard voices and pain shot through his leg, almost screamed. Stared at by a face, bloated, ripe-swollen skin stretching grey-black over distorted features. Mouth wide open, eyes bulging, dimmed like brackwater. Dead. Everywhere. Decay and horror. Unable to move; unable to die. Welcome to hell, McFadyen, the face seemed to smirk. We got you at last. Hours that felt like Days. Weeks. Dead and alive. Rotting corpses, exploding flesh. Fermented shit, curdled blood and bile. The heat drew in flies in the millions. Bodies oozing, fluids drenching, horror. Death. Please, dead. Let me die. Don’t talk to me. Faces, bodies, rotting and torn. Limbs, flesh, skin. Don’t touch me. Leave me. Dead.
Please.
* * * Vadim searched the settlement again. No Dan. No more bodies. Checked the surrounding area. No. He stood above the pile of corpses, blue and black, the
383 stench like nothing else in the world. Unforgiving heat. Had no idea what he’d do if Dan was in there, but there was only one way to confirm his death. Vadim downed half a bottle of vodka, trying to psych himself up for the deed, then climbed down into the mass grave. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, one of Dan’s expressions. He reached down to shift the first body, the stench was so bad it made him retch, every fibre in his body telling him to get away from this, from death. Some of the bodies were half-burned, skin had turned to ashes, torn open in the heat to reveal raw and half-cooked flesh underneath. Piss and shit, and the stench of death, and Vadim’s stomach churned restlessly, until he climbed out again, dizzy with exhaustion, and relieved himself of the vodka and the bile, wound the rag around his head again, and continued the search. He checked their faces, whatever their bodies looked like, even if they were only in pieces, even when they had been shot trough the face, had been ripped apart and were missing half the face or jaw. He needed to find Dan. Near the middle, there was a tall, bulky body, and Vadim closed his eyes. No. Please, no. He climbed over to him, treading into flesh and blood and guts and knelt down beside that body, lying on his front, wearing one of those rags, but blood-soaked, dried blood, native clothes. Reached for the shoulder to turn him over, and did, and at least the face was only covered in gore and not mutilated. He didn’t care any longer about whatever warlord, whatever Mujahideen, just grabbed that body and placed it over his shoulders, a heavy load, stumbled forward, tied rope to Dan and pulled him out of the hole. That was when the body twitched.
* * * Dead. Mercy, at last. Gone. That face didn’t speak to him anymore. No more accusations of why and what and how come he hadn’t died, the only one, while all others were rotting in heaps of mutilated corpses. Dead. At last. Free, no longer restricted. His accusers had left, no more weight on his body. Floated. Taken. The Gods had Mercy upon his Soul. Hell and purgatory. Guilt and questions. Why hadn’t he died, how dare he survive. No longer. It was 384 over. Thankful. No more eyes that stared at him. No longer hands that were pulling, dragging. Not anymore tied to legs and limbs, arms and heads that were moving around himself in ever decreasing circles. Dan groaned with pain when Vadim put him down on the ground. Unaware. Dead. Free. Only the final questions to answer. Would there be heaven or hell, and a god he’d never believed in.
* * *
Vadim checked Dan for wounds. Alive. Or dying? A wound in the leg looked painful, but not life threatening. The thing at his head was worse, though. He carried him off into one of the less demolished houses, found water, stripped him, cleaned up the blood and other mess. Working silently. Hoped there were no Mudjas close, no way he could carry Dan in this state. Maybe after nightfall. He dribbled a little water between the other’s lips, just elated he was alive, but wary because he was in a bad state. Out there. He didn’t react much to words, to being touched, even light slaps to the cheeks did exactly nothing more than a blink, or a flutter of eyelashes.
* * *
Fluid. Lips. Something touched Dan’s lips and dribbled into his mouth. No! Dan shrieked, eyes tore wide open, seeing nothing. Fighting. Arms flailing. No, not this, no! He’d been granted reprieve in death, no more of this, no more stench and drying blood, no more shit and guts running into his mouth. Fighting, screaming, pressing his lips together, whole body convulsing. No more, no more. No tendrils of putrid body-puss snaking its way into his mind and taking his sanity. Eating away with clouded eyes and open-mouthed grins, lips torn away from teeth, black- swollen tongue stretched out at him, trying to kiss. To taste. To take. He was theirs. No! Vadim pulled back, too surprised to restrain Dan. Fuck. That looked like shock. Or worse. Madness. They didn’t move like that in shock, did they? He left him in peace, hoped the other would calm, and he did, probably from exhaustion more than any real calm.
385 Needed to get out of here. Couldn’t risk the whole night. No way. Vadim began to scout, found a cave up in the rocks, might have served this village well at some point in time, but no sign of it having been used recently. Trekked up there twice, once with his gear and Dan’s kit, another time with Dan’s naked body wrapped in a blanket slung across his shoulders. He rested, made a fire, shielded it, then trekked down one final time to bring as much water as he could, because he just didn’t want to risk being seen. Not even in a forsaken valley like this. Dan was shaking. Eyes closed. Unaware of being moved, yet aware of the motion. ‘Let me die’. Mouthed. No voice, no sound. Trembling all over, refused to open his eyes. No more skull-stares and rotten greetings from the ones who’d died around him. “Let me die.” Whispered. “Sorry.” Repeated. “So sorry.” Lips moving again and again. So sorry, so sorry, so sorry, forgive me, don’t stare at me, don’t talk to me, don’t touch me, don’t feed me. Not your putrefied flesh in my mouth, nor your rotting stench in my nostrils. “Die...” Begging. Vadim stared at him, shook his head and returned to the cave mouth. Dan had lost it, lost it completely. He knew nothing about how to deal with this, didn’t even know exactly what it was, dreaded to know. But just couldn’t put a gun to the other’s temple and pull the trigger. Too much they’d done, and too much he still wanted to do. The man meant too much. Simply did. But he needed a solution to the problem, and he was pretty sure stroking his forehead and telling him all would be good wouldn’t do. He rolled Dan over on a blanket and insulation, covered him with another blanket, looked into the face and felt a forlorn pain that was unbearable after the hope. What to do? He rested next to him, hoping for a miracle, then let his hands run over that smooth, powerful back, trying to take a little of the tension out, nervous that would trigger another of those reactions, dug in the pack for Vaseline, and began to massage, knead the muscles, trying to make the other aware, aware of himself, and aware he was alive. And that that wasn’t the worst place to be. Dan shuddered. Touched. Moved again. Couldn’t understand how his body could feel the imprint of hands, why the stench was replaced with another smell.
386 Were they pulling at him? Trying to get him to join them in the mass grave, trapped between bodies upon bodies. But he could move. Arms twitched. Lost. Dan whimpered. Vadim worked like the masseur had worked, starting on the lower back, moving up, tackling the tension that just didn’t subside, went carefully ahead, tried to get the muscles to relax, murmured under his breath much like Dima did when working on a dying man, and shook his head, discarding that thought at once. Dan was alright. He needed rest, that was all. They continued. Dan felt those hands, touching, not pulling. Couldn’t understand. Wanted to scream, let out a pained moan instead. Where, what and why wouldn’t they let him die. Trying to open his eyes, shadows and shades, movements, something above him. Someone? He cried out, tried to sit upright, fought against the hands once more. A demon. Out to get him, a tall, broad- shouldered beast, and he was about to scream, unseeing eyes wide open, when the red firelight shifted, fell onto hair. Blond. Memories. Eyes, pale. Remembered. “Who are you.” Whispered, slumped, then focussed. That man. No demon. A glimmer of recognition in his eyes before he fell back onto the blankets. “Vadim,” said Vadim, meeting the wide-eyed gaze, hands still on the shuddering body. “It’s me. You’re...alive.” Worked down over the buttocks, felt the tension under his fingers, wanted nothing but to dig into that body, claws, teeth, tongue, take the terror away. Maybe...
Shit day at the office indeed. Amidst this insanity, that made perfect sense. Dan lay prone. Shuddering, trembling as if cold was wrecking his body. “Vadim.” Whispered. Who are you—who am I. Alive, dead? Body moving towards the hand, seeking protection from the shadows. Nameless terror, but he’d be safe under the wings of the broad shouldered demon. Remembered the hair. That name. Recognition of something deep, profound, reaching on a level where conscious thoughts did not matter. “Protect me.” Big words—small voice. Vadim’s hand scooped more Vaseline out of the tub, warmed it between his fingers, rubbed it between Dan’s ass cheeks, one hand splayed between the other’s
387 shoulder blades, to calm, and soothe, and keep him down, just in case he began lashing out again. “Trust me,” he said, and meant it, and hoped he would. “I’m here.”
“They want me.” Dan whispered, tried to scoot closer but the hand between his shoulder blades kept him down. Stilled. Easier to stay in this place, beneath the demon’s wings, and the strangely familiar touch. “They’re waiting for me. They kept talking to me with their rotting faces. Want me.” Dan trailed off, wrecked by a shudder. “They’ll have to fight me for you.” Vadim didn’t believe in hell, damnation, or gods. Only knew Muslims thought they went straight to Allah, whatever happened. Nothing could keep them away from their god. Dan – was a different matter. He needed something, and Vadim remembered Mark’s moment of complete awareness, of trust, of longing, deeper and more powerful than anything else he had thought possible. He pushed away thoughts of his own lust, he didn’t want to take advantage, all he wanted to do was bring Dan back into his own body. The ring, resistance, but yielding, warm, living flesh. Vadim knelt between Dan’s legs, kept them open with his own legs, pushing a finger into the body, easing it in, the other hand on his lower back, the man, sprawled, nothing but strength, even now, strength that was confused and had no focus, off kilter, no will that held him together. Suddenly something in Dan that forced him to focus. Something his body felt. Somewhere. A centre, sensations, inside of him, but tiny. Insignificant, yet there. Tried to focus, feel, but his mind flittered away again. Murmured sounds and words with no meaning. Brought back for another second to that something inside, this point in his body that made more sense than anything else. Dan stilled for a moment, seemed to gather his thoughts, before his mind was lost again. Vadim leaned in to check whether Dan’s breathing had changed, he thought he’d heard something, then proceeded, pulled the finger out, Dan was nicely slicked up now, and entered him with two fingers, thumb rubbing against the ring, feeling it relax slightly, listening into the other’s body for any sign of panic, murmuring softly in Russian, about trust and about being there, then joined a third finger to the two inside. 388 Dan felt that focus again. More now. Back again and moving, centring. Never leaving him alone, and he started to pool all of his thoughts towards that one point. Nothing else mattered. Just the protection from the shadows and that focus. Inside his body. Safe. He shivered, minute movement of his hips as if getting closer to that thing inside of him. Dan murmured nonsense, about shadows, death, life and guilt. About killing and murder, duties and genocide. About corpses and bodies, lust and living. The body responded, finally did. Vadim ran his free hand down Dan’s flanks, down the powerful back, leaned in to make contact with his body, not restricting, not crushing, more a touch of body against body as his fingers stayed exactly there, firm, but gentle, not forcing, waiting for the other’s body to yield, movements minute as he joined a fourth finger, amazed at the flesh that allowed this. He’d seen it, no doubt it was possible, but Mark certainly had a lot more practice. Listened to the body speak, the shift of breathing, the shudder running through that strong back, the flowing and subsiding, tensing of the legs, bare toes stretched as if Dan was trying to push something away. Dan felt alive. One in that single point that made sense. The intrusion that was part of himself. His mind curling around that focus, unable to notice anything but the sensation inside him. Stretching, asking. Felt as if his demon demanded. What? That pressure point kept increasing in intensity. Demanding him to focus? Live? Dan’s breath evened out. No more shallow desperation; no more air being pulled into burning lungs that remained filled with the putrid stench of rotting corpses. Breathing instead like a dragging of wings. Birds. Slow and steady, circling above the mountains, focussed on nothing but their prey. Like his body. Centred in the intrusion, the demand to live and to accept—to yield. Dan moaned continuously. Didn’t realise it was his own body, crying out quietly as it opened up. Accepted. Vadim reached for the Vaseline, pulled back a little, added more of the stuff, fingers close together, trying to make this easy on Dan, but could feel him respond, slowly return, maybe. It sure as fuck would override anything else. Shit day at the office, rotting bodies. Fear of dying. Even a fucking death wish. He felt his shoulder tense from the control, from the work to keep the pressure up, slowly
389 moving his hand back and in again, not fucking, not truly, he wasn’t quite sure there was a word for it, just a different way of touching, even if his body thought it was about sex. How could he not desire Dan, open like he was now, and how could he, in that fucked up state that he was.
Dan was lost, yet caught. Didn’t have to think, not required to act. Wasn’t needed nor wanted, just allowed to feel. To be, not do. Felt nothing but that something inside himself, more and more, growing with intensity and slow-tender yet relentless demand. Further, more, opening wider, accepting, his body growing accustomed to the intrusion until that intense focus became part of him. The part that wanted to be alive, that refused to listen to dead eyes and bleeding mouths. He had no idea what he was doing. His body merely reacting. Moaning, whimpering, sounds he’d never allowed himself. Small cries, needy groans he’d have berated himself for. Didn’t matter. Nothing did, just that powerful sensation. Body and mind focused, hips moved on their own accord, backwards, further, moving and shifting, legs opening further, as far as they could, until he was on his knees, face on the ground. Following the demand inside his body. Download 4.34 Mb. Do'stlaringiz bilan baham: 
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