The Nuclear Fortress

The sudden screech of tires against asphalt pulled me out of the bottomless pit I'd fallen into, like a hook that caught a starving fish; it was better to throw it back into the lake and let it go.

However, as much as I wanted to continue to soak in my own sorrow, I had to move. Taking a glance at the other passengers didn't do me any good; the sorry sight almost made me feel even worse, almost. What was different from the start of the drive to the present was that one of the wounded, his face covered by a stained cloth, wasn't moving. The medic that sat beside him didn't even bother shaking him awake, telling me all I needed to know about the fate of the poor bastard.

Since I was at the closest to the truck's end, with great effort, I pulled myself from the position I was lying in. My back hurt. I should've zoned out in a more comfortable one, but I couldn't care one bit. Compared to everything else, it was as numb as my teeth after eating ice cream.

Pulling at the handle, the bed of the truck opened wide, allowing the passengers to exit the four-wheeled graveyard.

I made a mental note when I discovered something a little funny; even as I were, I was becoming familiar with gore on an unhealthy level. The brutal dismemberment of flesh, the red paint that stuck to every surface it could get its sticky fingers on, the paused expressions. However, the smell...

God, it was terrible. I could never ignore it, it was so strong, so disgusting, similar to the feeling of being poisoned. Even if I closed my nose, I could still taste it in my mouth.

I shuddered at that, pulling my legs to my chest in order to let the others step out of the back. One by one, the healthier soldiers left the truck, leaving only the field doctors and the wounded inside. Soon after, out of the corner of my eye, a few soldiers climbed in. They were different, they hadn't come with us from the battlefield. Their clothes were cleaner, and they were determined, functional members of the army. There was so much life in their eyes, so much light. I wanted to envy them, but I couldn't. I just couldn't. It wasn't their fault they got lucky and stayed behind to guard the powerplant.

I would never wish anyone to fight alongside me on that field. I wouldn't wish it upon my worst enemies, though I never had many anyway.

Counting the hairs on the back of my left wrist, I watched in silence from time to time as the guards helped the crippled out of the truck, two of them conversing with one of the medics. The entire conversation was lost on me, but there was something along the lines of "what happened?" and "how many?" and "situation report."

Eventually, after five minutes, give or take, I was the only one left in the truck. The guards didn't bother with me, and I didn't wonder why.

Resting my forehead on my knees, I closed my eyes, a distant artillery shot going off elsewhere. I breathed the air, deep and slow, the ever-present scent of gunpowder there, always. At least they had the decency to take the deceased out of the truck.

"Hey..." a voice I recognized called, quietly.

I groaned in response, turning away from the good doctor.

"C'mon, step out. The driver needs to park the truck."

"N... No..."

"... I know how you're fee-"

"Shut," I cut him off, a touch of anger rising within me, "You don't, so don't try..."

He sighed, "Please, just get out... They have rations, would you like that?" I could go for a snack right about now. I hadn't eaten since morning, having to be ready for an attack any second made me forget about...

Why did he have to be so nice? It wasn't fair. He didn't have to be so patient with me, yet he chose to not give up. I bet even if I told him the worst insults I knew, he wouldn't budge. I guess that's one of the things that made him such a good medic.

"... Yes," I took the deepest breath I could, and rolled out of the truck.

Almost missing the landing, I leaned against the truck, my legs wobbling in protest. You know that feeling when you lose sensation in your foot because you sat in a certain position? That's what everything below my knees felt like. Seeing I was struggling, the medic threw my left arm over his shoulder, helping me regain my stability.

"I'm fine, you don't have to-"

"You nearly fell face first into the ground," the medic pointed out, starting to walk without another word. Another groan was my reply, and I let him lead the way.

Most of my childhood was spent in the suburbs of Moscow, right at the edge of the territory. Growing far from the bustling city life and without the technology more privileged families had access to, I learned the ways of the simple life. My memories from the short summers were the ones that lasted the longest, the uncommon sight of green brought joy to me. The other nine, on better years eight, seasons were a white blur. I liked playing in the snow, but everyone needs a break from the norm once in a while.

So, one could understand my silent shock at the current situation I found myself in. Not in a million years did I think I would stand inside the compound that housed one of the most powerful reactors in the Union, if not the whole world, although the former didn't take away any glory from the achievement.

Despite recovering from the numbness in my legs, I let the medic accompany me wherever we were going, gawking at every detail my eyes caught. In total, there were six reactors, I assumed. There were six cooling towers in total from what I could see, acting as a landmark that was hard to miss unless you were as blind as a bat. A three meter concrete wall surrounded the compound, watchtowers every twenty meters apart. The wall had to be newly constructed, it was just too clean to be part of the original design. Impressive nonetheless.

And that was only the start.

Unlike the frontline, though you could say the powerplant was the line now, the compound was organized, clean, and orderly. Soldiers went to and from, carrying supplies such as munitions, weapons, food, water, medicine. Hell, a crane was moving a stationary auto-cannon to the roof of one of the smaller buildings, a countermeasure to any aircrafts that tried to fly over the half-assed bastion.

Don't take it the wrong way, just because it was incomplete didn't mean it couldn't withstand an attack... I hoped. It reminded me of the Death Star from that one movie, I forgot the name of it. Vehicles that weren't in use or too damaged for service were being disassembled down to their core parts, the metal repurposed to further reinforce the shorter buildings in the compound; possible bunkers. One could only speculate what hid beneath the surface.

Spotting a glint above one of the cooling towers, I stopped in my tracks, no longer needing the medic's assistance. Noticing I wasn't coming with him, he turned to address me.

"Why did you stop?"

I didn't answer right away, trying to figure out what that glint was. Squinting my eyes, I realized it had to be one of two things; the scope of a sniper, or a pair of binoculars.

"That's a good vantage point," I voiced my compliment before resuming our walk. The medic took a quick look to see what grabbed my attention, understanding the meaning behind what I pointed out.

"We're almost there," the medic said, his name I hadn't bothered to ask.

"Hmm," was my reply, a silent yawn escaping me.

Somewhere far in the sky, an airplane passed. It wasn't aiming for us, so it had to be an ally. The clouds were no longer white like they were at the start of the day; a thick, gray blanket partially blocked the rays of the sun, uneven blobs of black splashed at random, slowly being carried by the wind.

As a result of spacing out once again, I bumped into the medic, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"A-ah, sorry, I..." Craning my head upwards, my jaw was left agape at the sight before me.

We were at the entrance to the facility itself, and it was fucking huge. Shaped like half a cylinder, the metal barrier protected the inside from the elements. I don't think it could withstand a bombing run, I doubt they took that into consideration when designing the powerplant.

In front of us was a vague line of soldiers, some of them I recognized from the truck. Guarding the entrance to the facility were two soldiers accompanied by an old man, his wrinkles prominent, making him appear much older than he probably was. His head was devoid of hair, excluding the sad line wrapping around from one side to the other from the back. What made him stand out even more was the scar across his face, a striking cut starting above his left eye and ending below the right side of his lip, an indent in his nose showing the scar's path. And to add a cherry on the top, his rank said more than any words could; a yellow background, a red outline, three silver stars, and a circular, communist symbol.

He had to be the "boss" around here. I couldn't help but gain a level of respect for him since he didn't hide behind safe walls like many others in his position would not hesitate to, and actually showed his face amongst the "commoners."

Facing the trio was another soldier, they were talking about something before the Colonel sent him on his way inside. One by one, the process repeated itself until it was my turn. I won't lie, I was a little nervous. Not just because of his rank, I never cared much about who was "better" than who, I just didn't like being in the spotlight, and he had the face of an experienced interrogator in East Berlin.

Standing before the Colonel and his guards, I saluted him, a habit drilled into my skull in bootcamp.

"There's no need for that," he gave a quick salute in return, "Formality doesn't mean shit when you're against time," he chuckled, but seeing I kept silent, he cleared his throat, "Name, rank, and occupation."

"A... Alexei Morozov, Private, tank loader..." I croaked out, swallowing hard.

"Where did you come from?"

"I... Originally, I'm from-"

"I meant where did you fight?"

"..."

"Private...?"

"Pripyat," something between a whisper and a voice crack rushed out, my eyes avoiding contact with any of them.

After a quiet moment passed, the Colonel sighed, pursing his lips, "Understood," he glanced at my side, "I see you're also armed."

Reaching for my holster, which I completely forgot about, my hand hovered over it, "Y... Yes, I am, sir."

"Colonel, if I may?" the medic joined in. The Colonel simply huffed, gesturing with an upwards nod for him to continue, "As you can see," he pointed to the red cross on his left shoulder, "I need to treat patients in the medical bay... You do have one, right?"

"Of course, lieutenant," the aged man replied, stroking his short beard.

"Great, great. You see, I need an assistant, and Alexei here," he patted my back, "Could be of great help," he mustered the best casual smile he could, but I stayed neutral.

Whatever job they assigned me wouldn't affect me. I can't tell what kind of work needs a loader in a fortress, perhaps to load the artillery guns? Yes, and the AA. I take that back, something in that area would be most compatible with my profession, though even an idiot could do it.

However, someone with talent and quick hands can make the job tremendously efficient, like me. That doesn't mean I'm not an idiot, just an observation I made over the past weeks.

"Is that so, private?" The Colonel asked me, a neutral expression on his face as well.

I suppose helping the nice doctor can't be that bad, "Yes, sir."

"Hmm... Take a left, a right, and keep heading straight until you reach the hospital," The Colonel instructed, finishing our conversation with "Next!"

Then, the medic pushed me around the trio and into the facility, sighing in relief.

"What was that?" I whispered to him, going along with the flow.

"I think things are a little... chaotic, so they're re-organizing-"

"No, I mean... Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you do that?"

"... Because I wanted to," after that, I didn't dig any further for his motive, though I was a little thankful since working as a nurse was far easier than whatever else there was to do. Usually, women get those kinds of jobs, but I guess there were little to none on the frontline.

As the Colonel told us, we navigated through the inside of the metal shell to the medical ward. Before our first turn, I focused on something inside the structure. It took half of the vast space in the center, but I wasn't sure what it even was. Scaffolding surrounded the thing, and a blue fabric censored the majority of what they were trying to hide.

I didn't stay for too long on the subject. Taking the correct order of turns in the wide hallways, we arrived shortly at a double door. Above the entrance was the all too familiar red cross spray-painted onto the concrete surface. So, without further ado, we went inside.

And the picture wasn't pretty at all.

To the right was a shameful stockpile of meds laid out on desks, everything ranging from syringes, bandages, antiseptics, pills, splinters, and instruments for surgery. To the left were a dozen army beds, the foldable ones, and every single one of them was occupied. Separating the two sections was a meter of empty space. Few doctors dressed in white and blue went to and from, doing whatever had to be done with the sick. From where I stood, I recognized for the second time a few of the wounded that rode with me in the back of the truck.

And above all was, again, that fucking smell. Having no windows meant the room could only be aired by vents, and let me tell you, they were doing a terrific fucking job.

Like the battlefield, I could literally taste the death in the air. The fire, the gunpowder, the burned flesh, the rust, or copper, it was something akin to coins coated in sweat. That last one threw me off, it wasn't exactly good, but... Imagine the feeling of sniffing glue, or a sharpie, or crack, but toned down to a non-addictive level.

The medic beside me covered his nose, coughing as he tried to wave the smell away, "Jesus, is the AC broken or something?"

I simply shrugged, quickly growing used to the illness in the air. After a few moments of suppressing the natural impulse to throw up, the medic cleared his throat and sniffed. He scanned the room for something, and when he found it, went straight towards one of the doctors. I followed him since I didn't have anything better to do, even if he'd lied about needing an assistant.

As I caught up with him, I listened to his conversation with the other doctor.

"Don't worry about it. So, where do you need me?"

"Anywhere. We're very lacking in staff, most of them were... moved."

"Really? Where?"

"Again, anywhere, other than here apparently. Moscow, Kiev, Petersburg, fuckers said we had a 'surplus.' Now look at this!" He spread his arms out, wearing an empty smile, "There's nothing we can do. Even if we had enough for everybody, more will keep coming, and..." He stepped closer to the medic, whispering something in his ear.

"Fuck, really?"

"Best we can do is keep treating them, relieve their pain," as if on cue, one of the patients began wailing. I turned to see what the cause was; a man with a bandage around his head clutched his side, curled on a bed in a fetal position, rocking his body from side to side.

The two doctors rushed to his aid while I followed calmly behind. Since I was closer to the source of the disturbing cries, despite having no qualifications whatsoever, I couldn't tell what was wrong with him. On the outside, he didn't seem to have anything wrong with him besides the obvious.

The medic that accompanied me held the screaming man down while the other doctor took out a syringe from his coat's inner pocket, gently stabbing the tip into a vein in his forearm.

I don't know what I was expecting, but whatever drug was injected into the man didn't work right away. Stupid to even think that, movies always exaggerate. However, after a few moments, the man calmed down to quiet sobs, reminding me of an effect where the brain accelerates the effects of a drug that hasn't even begun.

"See what I mean?" The doctor said, wiping his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

"I... God... I- I don't- I can't! I-It's wrong!"

"What are you talking about?" I joined the conversation, having stayed silent until that moment.

"Nothing," the doctor dismissed, "Nothing important," he then turned to address the medic, "Do whatever you can to help the wounded... Remember; their lives are in their hands, not only ours."

"I won't... I can't accept this!" The medic frowned deeply, the context behind their words lost on me.

"It's an order, lieutenant," the medic had no comeback to that. How could he? The doctor's rank was higher than the medic's, and an order was an order. Yes, I am aware the darker meaning behind that line. I studied enough history to know to never repeat the mistakes of the past.

With the doctor leaving us to our own accord, the medic sat down on the floor, cupping his face in his hands. He was trembling, what could've been so bad it warranted this sort of reaction?

I crouched down to his level, "Sir?"

He didn't reply, shaking his head from side to side. Ironic, how the tables have turned.

"Sir, what did he tell you?"

"I... I can't. I'm sorry..."

"Why?"

"... No, you're right, I can," he stood back up, determination written all over him, "Get me a little of everything from the stockpile, you can use a vest... or that cart over there," he pointed behind me, I didn't bother looking though, "You're going to help me... right?"

"... Eh. I don't have anything better to do," I shrugged, scratching the stubble that had begun on my chin.

"Good, good..." He turned away from me, starting towards a different patient on a bed nearby.

"Wait, what did he tell you?"

"... Do you really want to know?"

"Yeah, it can't be that bad," in response, he chuckled, and that worried me, rightfully so.

"Put two and two together, Alek. Too many wounded, and too little supply," oh, "What do we do if someone more important comes in who's in dire need of treatment?" Oh no, "We clear a bed, how?" Please, stop, "Simple," he raised a finger, a pregnant pause hanging in the air.

"..."

"Euthanasia."

Back in high school, I had to do a project in one of the civic classes; a debate. Students had to form in teams of three to present a topic they were for or against, and another team would present a counterargument to the former. Me and my buddies picked abortion, why? Not to actually invoke thoughtful questions in the class, but to make fun of the problem.

I was never really on any side. My true opinion on the matter? If they want to kill a baby, let them. One; it's not my problem. Two; her body, her choice. And three; if the mother gets to decide the fate of the child, the father doesn't have to pay child support if she keeps them.

However, that wasn't what we said on stage. We half-assed the shit out of the project, but we passed.

So, within reason, one could argue why a terminally ill patient has the right to end their own life. In some cases, one could also argue the patient is mentally unwell, and that there's still a chance and so on. That didn't mean I wanted to be part of the fucking process. I've witnessed enough on the battlefield, and now I had to help the medic, even if it included...

What the hell is wrong with me? All this time, I've been just... going along, never questioning anything. I shouldn't be here, I should... What should I be doing?

I shook my head, jumping away from the void that yearned to swallow me whole again. I had to stay focused and keep pushing forth. Don't think too much, let the stream carry you down the river. Where to? Doesn't matter.

The medic called out to me, so I went to help him with whatever he needed.

In the following hours, I did whatever he asked of me; bring him this, give him that, hand him the sharp tool, clean up a pool of bile, and so on. The only sounds that broke through my mental barrier were the medic, the other doctors on rare occasions, and the constant ticking of a clock on the wall.

The second patient was a burn victim. The majority of his torso was wrapped in bandages soaked with gauze and blood. The medic gave him an injection as well. I inquired about the liquid inside the syringe, and he said it was something akin to morphine, albeit weaker. After half an hour, the patient went from rasping like a life-long smoker to quiet snores.

The third patient was also doing well. His right arm was in a sad excuse of a cast, so the medic replaced it with a proper one. The man didn't complain much about any pain, his body language indicating the same. So, once his arm was fixed in place, we moved on to the fourth patient.

The sight nearly made me vomit.

A bandage doubling as a blindfold was wrapped around his head, I hoped he hadn't lost his sight. But that wasn't all; his legs were gone. His right one had a wrapped stump below the knee, but his left one was cut off two thirds down his thigh.

What forever etched the image into my mind was his state. He was silent. Even when the medic shook him and directly addressed him, he didn't respond in any way. Out of concern, he checked the man's pulse.

When he turned to me, his eyes told me everything I needed to know.

"Take him out front... There's a firepit," the medic told me, covering the man from head to toe in a white sheet.

"I thought... Never mind," I sighed.

The medic looked under the bed, his lips pursed in a subtle grin, "What luck. The bed has wheels, that saves us some trouble."

I didn't say anything about that, opting to take hold of the bed's head and start pushing the covered man out of the medbay. Ignoring the knowing glances some soldiers gave me, I proceeded towards the exit mechanically. When I reached the entrance, the Colonel was nowhere to be seen, leaving the duo guards at their post. He was probably overseeing some operation.

I didn't have to search too hard to find the firepit the medic referred to; the smoke pillar a dark beacon of despair. Grabbing the metal bars tighter, I wheeled the bed towards my destination. Nobody stopped me, for they knew what I had been tasked with.

At some point, the smooth concrete turned into rough gravel, the massive fire concentrated at a corner of the compound. Sometimes, the wheels were caught by a loose stone, or a tiny pit in the ground. Regardless of my darkening environment, I kept pushing the bed towards the fire. The once clean, white sheet was now stained by a muted shade of gray, filth sticking to the surface like a bug in a Venus flytrap.

Eventually, I reached the firepit. Even from the distance I stood, I felt the heat of the flames. Worse than that was the fuel; bodies. Countless corpses served as the catalyst to the fire, the smell painfully crisp and thick. A small number of them were freshly thrown into the mix, slowly becoming one with the black biomass.

Sweat trickled down my skin as I breathed through my mouth. I spat to the side, holding back a sob. I couldn't think, I couldn't look away, nothing could ever erase the horror from my mind.

With a deep exhale, I held my breath, and went to lift the man from the bed. At first, I tried to drag him by his torso, but he was too heavy for me, so I went for whatever remained of his legs. Wrapping my arms around them, I pulled him off with all my might.

"God, the fucking smell..." I gasped, with another strong tug, the man fell to the ground, the back of his head hitting the ground. Yet, no sound came from him. Letting go of his legs, I went around to take him under his armpits, starting to drag him towards his hot grave.

Despite never believing in anything, my father tried to instill some Judeo-Christian values in me. He succeeded in some, but failed in others. That memory came to me because I remembered him teaching me about different burial traditions. Some believe that burial in the ground is the right away, as the saying goes: "From dust to dust." Some believe it doesn't matter, whether it be cremation or any other form of ritual.

Personally? I hated the inferno. The sight was barbaric, disgusting, it made my eyes water and skin itch. It left a terrible taste in my mouth. However, I understood the reason behind it. This was the only way to ensure that no plague would spread across the fortress, that was the last problem we needed on our hands.

Reaching the edge of the firepit, I laid the man's body perpendicular to the steep slope, coughing towards the ground with my hands on my knees as I recovered from the experience, though it wasn't over yet.

With one last, mental push, I placed a foot on his side, and rolled him into the pit. The corpse went down like a barrel, the sound of it hitting the others muffled by the crackling of the flames.

The deed was done.

Moving back to the bed, I wheeled it back to the facility, the absence of its passenger made is significantly easier to maneuver. From the gravel to the road and to the facility.

When I returned to the infirmary, it was peaceful. No longer were there groans and cries from the wounded, and there were noticeably less patients in total. Was I gone for that long? It only felt like a few minutes.

I chuckled, leaning heavily on the frame of the bed. Clearing my throat, I pushed it back to its original place, letting go of a breath I didn't know I was holding.

Taking a seat on the empty bed, I grasped the dirty sheet, the mattress itself naked as a newborn. A look around the room revealed the only other staff present; the medic. The other doctors must've gone elsewhere. Manpower was always needed, no matter the task.

"Ah, Alek, you're ba-" the medic started, but after reading my mood, he stopped. I probably looked worse for wear, and there was still that fucking taste in my mouth driving me mad because I couldn't get rid of it, no matter how many times I spat.

"Yes... I am here," I replied, taking deep breaths, staring at the floor with great interest.

"I... I think you need a break," the medic said, going to the opposite side of the room before returning a couple moments later. In one hand was a package of crackers, the layers as thick as my bicep. In the other was something that made my heart speed up, and for the first time in a while, feel joy.

Vodka.

"S... Sir..."

"Sergei is just fine," the medic added with a tired smile.

"Seryoja, how did you get that?"

"I have my ways, don't worry about it," he approached me, pushing the unhealthy meal into my chest, "Come back here in fifteen minutes... twenty, okay? I still need your help."

"... Okay," I grabbed the items, "What if someone sees the bottle?"

"I doubt anyone will care, maybe the Colonel, good point," he went back to the stockpile, so I followed. There, he gave me a white coat, similar to the one he wore now, "Hide it in your inner pockets and walk with confidence, that way anyone will think twice before bothering you, yeah?"

"Y-yeah," I gulped, but no because I was scared of the consequences, "Can I have some water too?"

"Sure, but you can't mix water and alcohol, so-"

"Never mind, I'll manage," I quickly back-paddled, already having hidden the bottle in the coat, "I'll manage..."

"Alright, if you say so," then, he went back to his work.

But before I left, I said, "Sergei... Thank you."

He returned a stern nod, and we parted for the time being.

I left the room, then the facility, and went around said place to a different side that had less activity. The walk took about three minutes of my break, I was counting the seconds in my head and guessed a rough estimate with my gut. Sitting down with my legs crossed against the towering metal wall, I tore open the crackers, practically shoving the dried goods down my throat. The taste was as dull as you'd expect, but far better than the firepit, and a far laugh from the frontline. The alcoholic drink stayed in the coat's pocket, even when I drank it. I knew it looked weird, but nobody cared, not the fucking slightest.

I was being paranoid. Why would anyone give a damn if I ruined my liver? Now that I really thought about it, I shouldn't be drinking if I am to help the medic. The following thought assured me that there was nothing to worry about since I was the assistant, and he is the one who shouldn't be intoxicated while on the job.

The poor bastard deserved a break. He should be taking it, not me.

"Ah, fuck it," fully convincing myself, I chugged down about half of the bottle. It burned, and it hurt very much, but I'd be damned if it didn't make me feel great. Some of it was psychological, but I didn't care.

My father would've killed me if he knew I was growing a dependency.

After around ten minutes or so, I finished the crackers and two thirds of the bottle. As a result, I felt fan-fucking-tastic. Better than ever! The hangover was going to hit me like a boomerang, but the realization was subdued by a care-free chuckle.

Nothing mattered anymore. I was absolutely fucked, both physically and mentally, mainly the latter. If I was going to die in the following days, I want to go out my way. I want to be happy, even if it's superficial. I want to be happy!

"Is that too much for you, God?!" I gave the middle finger to the heavens, a sob sneaking its way between my chuckles.

I was hopeless. I couldn't form a single, focused line of thought. I kept on jumping from train to train, and I didn't question shit. Even now, I should be screaming my lungs out while tearing the hair out of my scalp. Although, I suppose it was only a matter of time. Everything is. Until then, I'll do my absolute best to help Sergei. That's the most I can do for him, and I had nothing better to do anyway.

Having finalized my little personal tantrum, I stood back up, albeit a little wobbly. Heh, wobbly. Isn't that a funny word? Like the word Bob. Bob. Mr. Bean has a magical way with pronunciation.

"I shouldn't have done that..." I muttered to myself, every breath I drew felt exceptionally good. Starting back to the infirmary, my mind rested for a while. I'd found a good way of coping, and no one had the right to stop me. It was my right to do as I pleased with my body, no? Eat your heart out, liberals! Ha!

However, you shouldn't play politics. It's a losing game, no matter what side you're on.

As I re-entered the depressing facility, a lone thought appeared in the front of my mind.

When will reinforcements arrive?