Home Again.

Home Again

The fire crackles gently in the night, illuminating only a very small area and casting mysterious shadows across the lone man who sits beside it. In the distance a wolf or some similar beast howls, answered in kind by at least a dozen of it’s fellows. Far in the distance the rough cough of artillery and the whine of military aircraft are just audible over the crackle of the flames, the flames that illuminate so very little. Moon and stars gaze down upon this lone traveler, casting their own illumination across him as if to mock his petty fire. The figure does not respond to mother nature’s jeer, he does not react to the howl of the wolves, in truth he hardly hears them. Instead, he slowly runs a hand across his face caressing his weary mind as much as his rubberized skin.

Something stirs in the undergrowth near his camp, the figure responds only with a slight nod. Running his hands along the small patch that said, “Уголовный отдел 74602” (Penal Division 74602) he allowed himself a moment of reminiscence. So many Comrades lost, so many friends brutalized before his eyes by either the Commissars, the Ministry of Contentment, or the enemy. A victim, perhaps the first victim, of the Penal Division days had been his personality, and he knew it. It was hell, he had concluded early on, it was hell. In hell, a man had everything taken from him, in the Penal Division he had even lost his name. Both those few Comrades who survived somewhere out in the wastes, and the man himself knew that his only label other than “Comrade” was “8436”.

8436, a simple Party issued number that had come to not only label but also define the man. The simple numbers, recognizable by any culture contained the essence of over ten years of hatred, of bloodlust, of indescribable pain. Of his previous life he remembered very little, he knew that at some point he had lived in an apartment complex in Utopia, he knew that he had had friends, he knew that for some reason he was looking for someone…or maybe it was something. All he knew was that the purpose for his continued existence, the purpose of 8436 was to find another number, 2734. For what or why, 8436 did not consciously know, but he knew that in his heart of hearts he could not rest until he had located 2734.

The bush rattled again, someone or some beast trying hard to stealthily edge closer. It was probably a mutant, some kind of predator that even now gazed upon the seemingly oblivious man, or perhaps it was one of The Contented hoping to snag another man to throw back into the system. Unseen by them, 8436 was gently unbuckling his pistol’s holster, caressing the Nagant Revolver that he kept by his side at all times. There was a final shake of the bush, a final little movement that was followed up with a low and ominous growl. In response, the man swiftly pulled his pistol and in one fluid motion fired four rounds into the bush at varying heights. Rising slowly, he kept the gun raised as he searched around with his left hand.

After several seconds of searching, he grabbed hold of what appeared to be the corpse of some Pseudo-Wolf. Dragging the balding beast out from the bush, he calmly thrust his barrel into the thing’s eye and fired a final round that obliterated the animal’s brains. Sitting heavily next to the corpse, 8436 regarded his final round. Did he have the courage to place it just below his mouth? Did he have the courage to end himself, in the name of preserving his sanity which was already worn so thin? Slowly lowering the gun, 8436 determined he did not. Sliding the revolver back into his holster, the lone man returned to his fire and grabbed hold of his rifle.

The battered Kalashnikov AK-74M was his only valuable possession, and it was the only thing that comforted him. It was something about the curves, about the glint of the moon on it’s stock. Light, reflection, they reminded him of a time when he could smell, when he could hear properly, when his skin was not rubberized but proper skin. Running his free hand along the scar line that marked where his mask had been melted then pressed to his face, he came very close to tears. It had been so long! So long since he had eaten without the use of a direct nutrient and paste injection into his stomach via the surgically emplaced receptacle. So long since he had smiled, or felt the breeze on his proper face. His lenses, they obscured more than just the details of his peripheral vision, they concealed the window to his soul, they concealed the only evidence that he had a soul anymore.

Perhaps he did not have a soul? Perhaps no one did after the blast? Most of the Neo Bolshevist Union was scorched wasteland, who’s to say that Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory had not also been atomized? The Gospodar Lubanja supposedly remained with his people, or at least that was what the Divisional Chaplain had said before he was butchered by the angry remnants of the Division. Who was he to say this though? The Lubanja surely had abandoned 8436, so who was to say he had not left all of his children behind? Shaking his head again, the lone man determined that the point was moot. He was alone in what surely was the Ochagi Dead Zone, he had not seen another sane person for weeks, and the fucking mask was still on his face.

Hating himself, hating the State, hating the world, the lone man slowly closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep. If another mutant wanted to slay him in the night, then 8436 hoped that the beast would have the decency to cut off his mask before he died.

***

It was cold in Utopia, it was always cold. Ash and rain fell in equal measure, the ash from the massive radioactive ruins that marked where the city’s world famous industry once stood. He did not know why he had come back here. It had been weeks since the Pseudo Wolf in the night, and in that time he had just trudged west; as if pulled by some force that he could not control. The slums had arisen where once stood Worker and Proletarian housing, the occupants largely the same people or immigrants from other parts of the Land of Socialism and Eternal Bliss.

Echoes from his past life flickered in and out, shadows of buildings stood where only shanty shacks or blasted ruins towered. Gas Mask and Kalash men walked through rapidly dissipating memory-ghosts of Ministry of Contentment men, and at one point a gaggle of former Red Army men walked exactly where a recruitment procession had once marched. 8436 was sick, sick of not only his mask and life in general, but physically sick. He needed shelter, somewhere where he could rest and collect the broken fragments of his mind. He felt close now, close to 2734, close to destiny.

Passing by small groups of Gas Mask and Kalash men and youths, he stumbled into a small schoolyard where he saw two people diligently wiping away the remnants of a lesson on a chalk board. The women was pretty, young and sweet looking. Her slightly darker skin and wider frame marked her as a foreigner, while the man was a classic Abruzian. The women could not see, but 8436 was watching them. They appeared normal, until the man leaned over, 8436 saw the mark, the small scar at the base of the neck where a miniscule brand was set. The man was Ministry, the man was Ministry and if he saw 8436, he would be damned to returning to the System. Turning quickly, he walked rapidly away from the school and continued on; deeper into the slums.

Instinctively, his feet pulled him to the south. Angrier and more violent Gas Mask and Kalash men were walking on both sides of him, yet they did not react to his presence. Perhaps it was the obvious way he held his rifle, or perhaps it was the horrendous scarring around the melt-marks. Either way he was allowed to travel unmolested. The shanties grew thicker, more populated until finally he emerged onto a building that stood tall and proud where the others shrank and hid. A battered sign marked it as the,

"Центр Товарищи!" (Center for Comrades)

8436 stood uncertainly outside of it, the guards that patrolled it mixing and flashing in and out of focus. Amongst them walked the overcoat clad ghosts of a few Ministry men, men that had nodded to him, men that had allowed him to go [i]home[/i]. Home…what was home? Where was home? Did he live here? As soon as he asked the question a small and timid voice whispered, “No.” Turning slowly, 8436 gazed down upon a child, a child that like the ghosts shimmered in and out of reality and focus. The lone man was surely sick, surely insane, yet the child’s image was so familiar, almost comforting. As if to quiet his unspoken thoughts, the child raised a tender hand and took 8436’s.

Leading him through the ruins, the child did not speak. Instead he stopped before an abandoned and quiet derelict ruin. A few shanties were constructed around and inside of it, but the occupants were either out, asleep, or dead. Utter silence crashed in on 8436, utter silence in the midst of the largest and most chaotic slum in all of Abruzi if not the world. Pulling him onwards after a moment’s reflection, the Child pushed aside a mighty pile of junk to reveal a narrow staircase. 8436 ascended of his own accord, the child now following him. It was so familiar! Echoes of the past quietly reminding him that this was not the first time he had been here. He finally came out into a small room, molded papers and a rotting desk sat against a cracked window. Not quiet understanding, 8436 walked over to the desk slowly and sat in a chair that squeaked suggestively. The squeak, it was as familiar as the room! Surrendering to muscle memory, he reached into the recesses of the desk’s slide out drawer and pulled out an old intercom.

Why was he here?! What did this mean? Raising it to his lips, his hands trembling, 8436 went to say something into it, something that he felt would shatter and reform him, and yet he was stopped by his face. The fucking mask, the fucking rubberized mask had robbed him of his speech! Throwing the microphone down, 8436 turned to regard the immaterial child but instead saw only a skeleton. Displayed prominently behind the previously unnoticed remains was a sign that read,

“Хорошая работа рада Товарищи работы завода Силовики Мемориал золамер 032453!”
Good work is happy work Comrades of the Siloviki Memorial Factory No. 032453!

Siloviki Memorial Factory No. 032453.…was that here? Did it mean something? 8463 did not know. He did not know anything anymore. Was he real? Was this place real? Was he dead in the woods outside of Ochagi? He began to question his sanity, then the child returned and quieted his fear. Like an aurora of benevolence he silenced the dissenting voices in the man’s head. Taking his hand again, 8463 was led out of the factory and back into the ruins. Heading east, he passed Gas Mask and Kalash men again, silently fearing their ominous looking clubs or hideouts.

The child was silent, 8463 could not speak, together they passed through the waves of insanity and depression that it seemed only the pair could detect. They came off of those around them, washing over them like the waves of the surely corrupted oceans. The silent pair marched onwards. Yet within seconds of 8463 resigning himself to not asking questions they stopped. Before them stood a building that was pockmarked by warfare but recognizable as an apartment complex. Towering over the left side of the street, it seemed to shout to 8463, “Here is your end.”

Once again he surrendered to the ghosts of the past that flickered all around, allowing the ghost bus to nearly clip him as he jogged across the ruin covered street. He stood before the doorway and for some reason cracked a smile beneath his thrice cursed Gas Mask. Turning his head to make sure the ghosts of the Ministry of Contentment men who were surely watching could see that he was happy and content, he reached into the breast pocket of his fatigues and drew out a set of shimmering keys. Hunting for the right one, he turned it slowly in the door that was laying shattered upon the ground and quietly deposited his jacket on a hook that did not exist. Before his eyes however another man came upon him and took it, muttering some nonsense about smoking together after his shift at the factory that was now in ruins.

His mind in a haze, 8463 wearily walked into the remains of what once must have been a kitchen and felt a rush of warmth race to his heart. Before him stood a battered stove and a dented pot that for some reason he was sure once contained a thin potato soup. He tried to see into it, but his lenses, the fucking lenses were reflecting just so that the shadows were impenetrable. Suddenly, a thought popped unbidden into his mind,

"Я должен обеспечить внутренний паспорт движения, чтобы увидеть Храм революции на следующей неделе."
“I must secure an internal movement passport to see the Shrine of the Revolution next week.”

What did that mean? Why did that occur to him just after he looked at the pot?! Where was he? Almost as soon as he asked the final question the child returned to softly whisper in his ear,

"Квартира 000023424."
“Apartment 000023424.”

Again the ghosts of the past came flooding in, unknown people chatting with him. Compelled upwards he paused to glance in on a recreation room that was now a molding ruin. A broken telescreen dominated the far wall, an image of a masculine youth forever muttering that it was 4:00 in the afternoon. A shattered table and a deck of cards thrown upon the ground pulled at things just beyond 8463’s consciousness. Why was he here? The child reappeared to softly say,

“Старый товарищ Пролетарская работа по дому для нее Братский Братьев"
“Old Comrade Proletarian doing housework for her Fraternal Brothers”

Was this a game? In that second he knew that it was a game, a game he played a lot of. Or at least he thought he played a lot of it. Moving to sit, he suddenly turned slowly and continued up to what once must’ve been a bunk room. An unknown force compelled him to sit heavily upon the bead, which he did with a soft sigh. He reached below, motivated by the unknown force as much as by some inner force; his fingers grasping a bit of yellowed paper. With a slight shiver he raised it to his head and tried to make out what it said. The words were unreadable save the final phrase,

"Я люблю тебя".
“I love you.”

Shuddering, 8463 fought, he fought harder than he had in the retreat from Unity, harder than the forced march through the nuclear marshes, he fought not foreigners or anarchists, but his own mind. He was so close, so close to freedom, if only he could take off this mask! This fucking mask! This mask that symbolized not only the domination of his mind but his very soul. He hoped that the child would come, he always quieted the rising insanity, but as soon as he hoped he knew it would not be. Instead of a child, there was a simple feeling, a magnetic pull or urge that forced his mask covered head to turn to the left. Against that wall sat an age blackened skeletal figure. Sheltered from the elements and the looters, the body displayed a bit of name tape that read,

"Ivana 2734”

2734.…it was her. Why was she important…wh-….he remembered. 8463 remembered the days at the factory, the playing of cards with his friends Illium and Yuri. He remembered the thin potato soup and the trip to the Center for Comrades. He remembered his lost lover who it seemed had returned to find him then finally he remembered his lost son, given over to the system that had placed the fucking mask upon his head. The child, that was his son the day before they had sent him to the State, to the schools that would supposedly teach him and raise him. That was the final piece of the family he had lost. As if called the child returned and quietly said,

"Отец, добро пожаловать в ваш новый дом."
“Father, welcome to your new home."

8463 slowly pulled out his Kalashnikov’s bayonet and painfully thrust it up through the melt-scars. Dragging it across his face he suffered unimaginable agony but in the end finally managed to cut off his mask. The battered thing fell to the floor with a soft bump that was the voice of destiny. Slowly, ever so slowly 8463 drew his Revolver, smiling at the final round. Placing an arm around the skeletal remains of his lover Ivana, he smiled to the ghostly image of his son and said,

"Это всегда было моим домом."
“This was always my home.”

Outside of some blasted Apartment ruin, former Ministry of Contentment Penal Division Liaison Uvech 101197 was startled out of his uneasy sleep by a lone gunshot. With it came a dread sense that finally, a lost soul had gone home.