Chapter LXI: Hollow Victory

 In the darkness, a light erupted. Faster than eye could see, it took over a tunnel, barreling an object in front of it as the flames and gases vented outwards. To light, to the bright sky, it went, reaching freedom at the end of the tunnel. But the object kept going, travelling at such high speeds it broke the sound barrier, producing an audible crack. In mere moments, the object crashed into a brownish yellow wall, burrowing into it and piercing its way inside. There it ruptured its target, the heart of a Monolith Preacher.

A sermon of the Wish Granter came to an end as the Preacher collapsed down, his fervent voice turned into a final growl. The men around him snapped out of their trance and assumed battle formations. The fanatics worked as well-oiled pieces of a machine, some of them falling as the stalwart defenders of the Barrier managed to penetrate their armour. Yet when one fell, another took his place, and nothing would, nothing could stop the Holy Warriors of Monolith. Or so they thought.

From the bushes to their left, a massive Freedom fighter emerged, clad in Nosorog armour modified with a riot helmet and wielding a M60 machine gun. The "Pig", as the black gun had been called during the Vietnam war, started its staccato solo as it cut down the zealots, utterly surprised by the ambush. Before the crusaders could respond, the infidel had retreated. But it was not the end of their troubles.

Freedomers sprayed their ranks with uncannily accurate fire, killing fanatics left and right. A stalker in NBC-exoskeleton meanwhile fired projectile after another from a hilltop position into Monolith officers and squadleaders, decreasing their morale with each shot. It was as if the will of the stalker itself guided his shots to targets. Yet the fierce push continued. The Barrier would fall to please the Monolith. It had to fall.

Boris observed these recent developments while reloading his RPD. Dima and Anton were right beside him, firing their large-calibre guns at any enemies brave or foolish enough to push ahead of the main force. Hip was mounting the defences of the western hill, firing her shotgun with deadly precision as well. However, the fanatic firepower was considerable, and Freedomers were being slain in large quantities as well. Boris decided it would be time to utilize the good old "attack is the best defence" tactic.

• Dima, Anton, cover me, I'm going in, he said to his companions.

• This shit again? Boris, I know you like taking a beating but that can't be healthy, and besides, Polymer will hang you if you bring that armour to him bent to hell again, Dima protested, but Boris was already going over the top.

He charged behind an UAZ jeep in the middle of the road, unnoticed by the Monolithians. Ahead was maybe a squads worth of heavily armoured and armed brainwashed. Boris rose from cover, his large frame made even bulkier by the Nosorog, and opened fire. Dumping a magazine with an RPD is not the optimal operation, at least according to Red Army, but Boris had other things to worry about. The heavy barking of the machine gun was soon joined by the screams of the dying fanatics, saying their final prayers as they left this world for another. All Boris could see was the smoke rising from his weapon, the air rippling over the barrel and the corpses of his enemies.

On the flanks, a struggle was going on between the Nosorog-clad Freedomer and a squad of Monolith grunts. Despite the almost berserker-like rage of his enemies, the Freedomer kept his calm, the belt of his machine gun shortening in length by the second. Two Freedomers came to his aid, and together they pushed the squad back. But on the floor, at the hands of a downed Monolith fighter, he saw movement.

• Grenade!, Boris screamed at the top of his lungs, targeting the Monolith with his weapon, producing only a pitiful click. He cursed, it was too late. A massive thermal explosion created a veil on top of the Freedomers, scorching them to crisp in mere seconds. Only one of them could make it out in time, horribly scarred by the flames and crying in agony. Gatekeeper came up to him quickly as the man collapsed, and they shared a look. In a swift movement, he sunk a dagger in the man's heart. There was nothing they could have done to save him, his skin was charred black as night.

Boris roared in anger, his voice raising over the battlefield. He got up, loaded another magazine and, despite the fire pouring into his armour, started yet another concert of death. His bullets pierced steel and flesh alike, killing warriors in white. Dima and Anton appeared beside him, and they marched on, through the smoky and corpse-filled road, letting loose all they had. A Monolith warrior ran down one of the large cliffsides, and Boris could see he had a rocket launcher with him. He fired a burst, but despite grievous wounds the worshipper got a rocket off.

Another booming explosion shook the valley, ending yet another Freedom fireteam. Their bodies disintegrated in the high explosive blastwave, and as their final cries faded into nothingness, the Monolith warrior collapsed to his wounds, blissful expression on his face. The final Monolith squad received the full fury of Boris, his RPD singing with malicious intent as bullets shattered and ricocheted off his armour.

As the final warrior crumbled, three large holes in his chest, Boris finally lowered his machine gun. It was glowing red, spent cartridges laying around him, spat out from the old war horse. Boris took off his helmet, revealing a large wound going from his forehead to the neck. It was not  dangerous, only a scratch, but it was a testament to how close death had been today. He moved amongst the bodies of the zealots, and as he came across dying ones, his pistol gave them the extreme unction.

He came up to the last one, raising his pistol to the defiant face of the warrior. Then a cramp of pain overtook the face of the wounded man, and suddenly it seemed as his gaze became clearer. He looked at Boris, as if shaken off his control. In a weak voice, he said:

• Stalker, I do not know who you are, but can I ask you for a final favour?

• Yes, bratan. What is it?, Boris replied, confused at the clarity in the voice of his enemy. It did not have the mechanical tinge of a brainwashed warrior.

• Please, hear me out. I have news, and now that the voices no longer control me, I need you to tell the world of them. We have been working with some strange cult, I think they call themselves Sin or something. They are weak now, but they have a fire in them many of my former brothers lack. I may die now, finally a free man, and I want you to ensure that those maniacs don't cause more people to suffer my fate. I know little, but I heard them talk of Duga and Limansk, the mortally wounded man explained, coughing up blood as he finished. His eyes became glassy, and another series of cramping shook his body.

• I thank you for this. May you rest well in the afterlife, Boris muttered.

Thoughts raced through his head as the last gasp of the warrior left his lips. Boris holstered his pistol almost instinctively, focusing more on the million different questions and scenarios that appeared in his head. The adrenaline from the fight had already left his system, but his mind was no more at ease as it was before. So much was happening so quickly, and each battle seemed more close than the one before. They had held the Barrier, but almost ten Freedom warriors lay dead and close to the same number wounded.

A chirp of his PDA stopped his thoughts for a second. Dushman had sent him a message. It read:

"Since the Barrier is now safe, come to Dead City with haste. I've got a new contract, just insane enough for you"

• Fuck, Boris sighed. No rest for the wicked indeed.