Wherever you look, all the way to the horizon is overgrown with meadowsweet. Bright yellow fluffy plumes sway like waves under the blue sky. A drone labeled "Press" films the entire panorama from above. Viewers on the other side of the screen eagerly await the appearance of their favorite. Today's performance is taking place without me. I am just as ordinary a spectator. Yet, I still sit in the very first row—on the turret of a wrecked Abrams tank.
About three hundred meters away from me lies—or rather, used to lie—a well-equipped training camp. Hundreds of kilometers of air defense-covered territory stretch toward the front line. Could the "good service personnel" have imagined that today their combat training would unfold according to a special scenario? Hardly... Now there is an unimaginable nightmare unfolding there.
Large canvas tents are overturned and scattered everywhere. Several covered trucks are literally crushed and torn apart in the middle. Desperate human bodies scream and try to hide in the tall grass, but it's useless. Their death is everywhere. In every blade of grass. In every centimeter of soil. In every breath of air infected with spores.
The tentacles of a giant multi-headed hydra, as thick as heavy logs, emerge directly from the ground. Like toothy flowers, they open into predatory eight-petaled mouths. They fling people aside, breaking them in half, grabbing them, swallowing them whole, and tearing them into pieces. They regurgitate black slime, which instantly rises upward. Swarms of predatory cells cover the still-warm, trembling flesh, dragging it into the bubbling dark sludge.
Equipment, weapons, people, living and dead, even the earth itself with its grass and yellow flowers—all are ripped from their places, compressed into a pile, crunching, splashing, and being chewed up. In the middle of the churned-up clearing, like a giant mushroom, an earthen colossus grows toward the sky. A dead head made of bones and clay, somehow reminding me of Che Guevara. With a burnt tire instead of a star on its rounded beret, golden strands of pulled-out flowers, and empty black eye sockets. Around it, white skulls rise evenly from the ground in rows.
And everything freezes. Cutting through waves of golden plants, Agnia slowly approaches me.
She turns around, assessing the distance, takes out her smartphone, selects the best angle, and takes a selfie against the backdrop of her creation, striking a graceful pose with four arms spread wide.
"Why do you need this?" I ask. "The holding company has already filmed everything."
"For my personal account," she replies.
"What?"
"I signed up on the platform. I'm running an art blog. Kali108. I already have thirty thousand followers."
"You call yourself an artist..."
"What's wrong with that? Musicians have already done it. What makes us worse?"
I have nothing to say to this; I just shake my head disapprovingly. She picks off the nearest yellow cluster and, laughing, sticks it in my face.
"Relax... Smell it! Can you smell it? It smells like honey."
Indeed—it smells like honey. Looking into her smiling green eyes, I involuntarily start smiling myself. How much attractive humanity remains in this monster. And who is she to me now? My wife? My sister? My child? Perhaps I myself? A question that remains outside the tactical interests of genetic engineering. Still, jokingly, I ask:
"Do you understand that someday I'll have to eat you?"
"Why?" she asks cheerfully in return.
"Well, I'm a phenomenon. A revolution in bioengineering. The apotheosis of the war for survival. The father of all monsters," I tease. "And all revolutions and wars eventually devour their own children."
"There should be only one left at the end, right?" Agnia laughs. "And what's your plan next?"
"We'll move further—westward."
"No. Your plan is for the last monster."
I ponder.
"I don't know... To cover the entire planet with myself. To turn into a thinking ocean..."
"Why?" she becomes serious.
"So that I can find peace."
"Well... Then I agree."
Philosophical reflections are interrupted by the sound of an engine. An armored Humvee moves along the overgrown dirt road. Turning directly onto the field, it quickly approaches and stops in front of us. A good-natured soldier in NATO uniform looks out from the cab. Yellow tape on his helmet. Crests with crosses and forks. Judging by his exterior, he's a thoroughly trained Nazi. No arguing with that.
"Hello to you and your lady!" the soldier laughs. And suddenly I recognize my helicopter pilot.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm getting used to it... And smiling," he answers with a sigh. "That's the job."
He waves hello to the filming drone. His people, he says. All is well. The operator moves away. Clear. It's time for the main characters to change locations too.
"See?! He waved, as they say, without looking," he says, patting the side of the car cheerfully as he leans out the window. "Get back in! I'm tinted all around. Ha! I'll drop you off at the first checkpoint, and then you're on your own..."
Suddenly, it seems to me that I see a thin black thread twisting beneath his skin. Have they put it into production? Probably not... I must have imagined it. We get in. The car starts moving briskly. It returns to the road again, turning westward. What awaits us there? Even more food. Of that I am absolutely certain.