... in which Bassoon plunges into vodka and memories, and at the same time makes a confession to his colleague's wife
Bassoon downed a shot of vodka. It seemed to be his third one already. But unfortunately, it didn't help much. Before his eyes still stood the corpses rising from the ground: their torn bodies and bloodied clothes, broken and half-torn-off arms, gaping bellies with intestines spilling out, black eye sockets staring emptily without eyes. Most importantly, he couldn't shake off the familiar and well-known face of Vityun, whom Bassoon had never seen like that before. The moment when he aimed the gun at him and pulled the trigger. The Rosgvardia officer winced and stared aimlessly at some invisible point.
"Mish... What happened there?" cautiously asked a plump young woman in her mid-thirties, wearing a wrinkled robe, sitting across from Bassoon at the table.
He looked at Zinaida, slowly returning from his memories into reality, and caught her restless, darting gaze.
"Something happened..." repeated Bassoon, feeling completely unable to explain exactly what had occurred.
"Got yourselves into some kind of trouble?" Zina asked, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice.
"Could say that," nodded the Rosgvardia officer, again staring intently at his glass and pouring himself another drink from the already considerably empty bottle.
"Did something go wrong?"
"Yeah, right—what kind of plan was there anyway?" Bassoon slammed back another 50 grams. "Honestly, I don't know what to say... How can I explain it to you? We weren't prepared for this."
The agitated woman looked at him closely.
"Like back then in Dagestan?"
"In Dagestan..." the Rosgvardia officer repeated the end of the sentence again, because Zina's question had already sent him eleven years back in time.
The Second Chechen campaign is over. Federal forces, including police officers, continue clearing territories of remnants of terrorist gangs. Here he is, much younger but already an experienced fighter, storming a village school as part of a special forces unit. A small two-story building, battered by war. Bullet marks on the walls painted with solid-colored paint.
A sniper through the windows takes out two jihadists. Those remaining inside, deep within the building, weakly fire back from the second floor. It's summer vacation, and there shouldn't be any children inside. No demands are being made, so the decision is made to enter. While others provide covering fire at the windows, Bassoon and two other soldiers approach the building from behind and enter through the service entrance.
On the first floor, among broken glass, lies the body of someone who worked there, apparently the caretaker or maybe even a teacher, judging by his pressed trousers, a gray-haired man with neatly trimmed beard and a slit throat. A rural intellectual; they didn't even bother wasting a bullet on him, just slit his throat like a sheep. And yet people say that respect for elders is shown in the Caucasus. Not everyone does, nor does everyone show it. When civil war breaks out, sometimes even one's own father can cease to be one's own.
Bassoon catches himself thinking that against the backdrop of the murdered old man's bloodied beard, rainbow lights flicker. Sunlight filtering through shattered windows plays in the shards. The commander silently curses him. The first floor is clear, but shots are heard from upstairs.
"One more taken care of," Seriozha crackles into the radio from outside, where he's stationed with his SVD rifle. "According to my estimate, two or three remain..."
The commander moves his lips again. In another situation, he would have definitely responded, but not now. Everyone begins slowly climbing the stairs, pressing themselves against the walls decorated with flowers and fairy-tale characters. Bassoon notices Baba Yaga, depicted by some craftsman with a nasty wart on her large, crooked nose. And there's Alyonushka, hiding from the witch behind an apple tree. Glass crunches treacherously underfoot, but due to the shooting outside, it no longer matters. The first shot is important. You can still catch the first one by surprise. You won't be able to do that with the rest. And then everything will begin.
The staircase leads to a small recreation area that transitions into a corridor. Here's the first stroke of luck. A dark figure hides behind a concrete lintel above the windows. The guy is about twenty years old. He doesn't show himself. He's afraid. It seems he was left on guard duty to cover the stairwell, but he was more concerned with hiding himself, so he noticed everything too late from his position. He stares almost in surprise at the barrel pointed at him, raises his automatic rifle, but gets shot in the head. Blood splatters onto the green radiator and the wall covered with floral patterns. The shooting stops, and after a fleeting second of silence, it moves into the corridor. That's it. It's started...
The soldiers take up positions in the recreation area. Bassoon covers the commander. The third soldier, tall Sanyok, fires short bursts into the corridor. Pieces of oil paint and fragments of door frames fly outwards, chipped along with plaster. One of the militants peeks out of the classroom unsuccessfully and catches a bullet from Bassoon in the shoulder. Sanyok finishes him off as he advances forward. They manage to take down another one, after which silence returns.
The commander gestures for them to check the classrooms. Understandably, someone could have hidden inside. And if they could, then they did. That's certain. Two soldiers cautiously peek around warped and broken doors. One by one. Clear. Clear. Clear. Could this be the end? While Sanyok hesitates slightly behind him, Bassoon opens the door to the office and freezes.
Behind the desks sit children, around nine or ten years old. What grade is this? Third grade? Small, curly-haired kids with round black eyes like beads, staring fearfully at the special forces soldier. All this time, while shots rang out in the corridor and bullets flew from street to street, they sat silently, folding their little hands together as their strict teacher instructed. Usually, schoolchildren are told to sit like this. Now they were told to do the same. But standing near the blackboard was a different woman. She wore a black burqa and was wrapped in explosives.
Female suicide bombers don't always detonate themselves. It's the nature of women, their restless souls. And for such cases, there's always a man nearby, ready to remotely activate the explosive device. But now, there are no confident men left, meaning the decision rests with this woman. What will she feel at this moment? What will she decide? What will influence her choice? Fear? Fanatical faith? What will her decision be? Bassoon's task is simply to leave her no options, to make the right choice so as not to allow her to make a mistake. Therefore, he pulls the trigger. Several bullets hit her face covered by the scarf, and her entire figure collapses like an awkward black sack.
The special forces soldier shouts something sharp, and the children who had jumped up from their seats rush toward the exit. Sanyok urges them along the corridor. The commander drags Bassoon out of the classroom by the collar. He still fears an explosion, but there won't be one. Everything is over.
Later, Bassoon learns that the militants had gathered children from several houses adjacent to the school beforehand. Mostly from families who supported the federal government. They planned to use them as a human shield. And in that classroom, there were also children belonging to the killed terrorist. Why did she bring her own children? Did she believe that martyrdom was the best fate for them? Or was she forced to do so? Would that have made her change her mind at the last moment?
The special forces soldier didn't know the answers to these questions. Either way, he had killed the mother in front of her own children. And now they might hate him. Or maybe they'll be grateful to him. But either way, they will live. With this thought...
Bassoon raised his eyes and stared intently, painfully, at Zinaida for a long time. She was also a mother... Vitalik was snoring behind the wall. Every day he waits for "daddy." "Daddy is cool." And she... What was she waiting for before asking the question that had tormented her ever since Bassoon entered the room? But she asked a different one:
"What's going on there, Misha?"
"Some kind of madness... Many casualties."
"Riots? Some protests again?" Zina tried to clarify.
"No. This time it's much more serious... Much more..." Bassoon stood up. "I have to go, Zin. I just came to warn you... Don't go outside. Better not let anyone unfamiliar into the building either. Tell your neighbors, if you can. If there are strong men among them, maybe someone who hunts and has a rifle, tell them to prepare. They might be needed... You'll be informed. And you... Take care of the boy."
The Rosgvardia officer easily turned the familiar lock and cautiously opened the door, but the ill-fated question still caught up with him.
"And what about my Vitya? Is he alive?" To push away bad thoughts, Zina tried to make her tone as casual as possible, as if asking about a friendly drinking party at the dacha. But from Bassoon's silent glance, she immediately understood everything. Her rosy, round face paled and grew pale unnaturally quickly.
"Oh, God..." Zina reached for her mouth with her hand, trying not to break down into hysterics, although her eyes were already filling with tears, and barely managed to choke out: "How is that possible...?"
"I shot him," replied Bassoon and left his friend's apartment forever.