Struggle: The Path to Power - Владимир Андерсон

Victor nodded and took the horse's bridle from Dima: the prisoner himself had not thought of resisting so far, especially because in addition to the ropes on his arms, he was restrained by a sack on his head, the same acrid yellow color as the inquisitor's clothes.

— Okay… Let's go. — Khmelnitsky nodded and moved first.

Everyone followed him, only Misha and Sergey, noticing the attention in each other's eyes, stayed where they were. A minute passed, and there was no one around.

— Natasha is waiting for you. — Sergey stopped the pause.

— I just don't understand…

The wind blew in from the sides, developing the grass, which only seemed bigger from that, dispersing the clouds, which, at the same time, rather thickened.

— Hurry up and ask and let's go.

— Where the fuck are we going?! Are we fighting people?! With our own people?

— Shh… Shh… I understand… I understand. But you're imagining things. It's true.

— No fucking way! I've seen it. I saw it with my own eyes. The way they covered that prisoner, first by themselves. I've never seen plagues cover anyone like that before. And then I look at those corpses, and I see they weren't plagues at all. They weren't plagues, they were covering a human being too. What the fuck is this?!

— Calm down. — Sergei began to speak in a very serious tone. — I didn't know a lot of things before,

either. And it's really easier…

— Easier? Easier, for fuck's sake?! We're always told there are people who help the plagues. Yes.

There are. But they're only a handful, and they only knock. What's this? A whole squad, armed to the teeth!

And how they fight. They fight like devils! You can't take a single one of them prisoner.

— Of course you can't take them. They know what they'll do in captivity.

— So you knew it all. You knew it and you didn't say anything.

— Everyone is silent, who knows it… We have to keep quiet. — Sergei looked at Misha with a very direct and somewhat sad look. — You have to, Misha.

— And how many are there? How many plagues are there in general, and how many other people are at war with us?

— lot. A lot of people, Mish. Much more than chums… We call them "Hiwi".

— Heavey, fuck… Hooey!

— You want the huevos. No one will obviously mind… But there are a lot more of these hivies than there are chums…..

Koshkina

Pechenezhskoye reservoir. Old Saltov. New camp of detachment 14.

The seventh sanitary department, where Natasha Koshkina served, was located in a nine-story concrete house, situated right by the shore. From the window you could see the whole reservoir and especially well — the moon track that had disappeared five hours ago.

They spent the whole night dealing with some soldier. He was drunk and had broken his leg in some unknown way, and it was an open fracture. He was screaming like he wasn't being treated, he was being tortured. And blood all over the place, and screamed in his ears. And you'd never know how he was in so much pain, being so intoxicated.

Then, of course, the administration came in with a SWAT team. They started yelling at him — they recognized that he was from Ranierov's department. That didn't seem enough: for some reason they summoned Ranierov, not to his room, but directly to the hospital. He, too, turned out to be drunk; though not so much and not with a broken leg. They yelled at him. When that wasn't enough, they sent for help. Dr. Schwarzenberg realized that "all the saints had already been taken out" and chased away the administration, the special forces, and then the "help". No one wanted to question him — such a doctor is always the boss in his place. He treats everyone: vagrants and kings alike.

— Go on, Natash, get some sleep. — said Schwarzenberg when it was almost dawn. — I can manage on my own. How he was able to stand on his feet after a 30-kilometer crossing, a whole day and this night, in which "all aspects of life were covered", remained incomprehensible, but for Schwarzenberg himself it was nothing special.

Outside stood and, instead of dispersing, the nurses, quite young, no older than eighteen, were socializing.

Natasha, smiling slightly, waved at them and walked toward her house. All night, while everyone was arguing around her, she had been thinking about Misha, and now she wanted to come home, sleep, and be awakened by him.

Nothing else was of interest.

But no.

It took these girls to yell all over the street about something they were interested in. The morning after a night of dealing with the drinking episode and where they got it from… And they had the energy to talk about it.

They were discussing guys, of course. But not their qualities, like "doesn't react to this", "cold to that", "doesn't understand this". No, it wasn't that at all, it was who was prettier. Not only that, it was a selection criterion for not just dating, but living together. They didn't really understand what it was like to live together? "Beautiful" — is it good to live together? Or to be together at all? And what's behind it, i.e. most of the time spent together, is somehow not implied. Maybe he'll go out somewhere on the side in his free time, saying at home that he has no free time. Maybe he'll fight about anything that comes up and make her look guilty. Might never be supportive when needed, if not push her off the right path altogether. Does it help in any way that he's "handsome"?

They did not mention these issues at all. And the understanding of love and relationships itself did not slip in. As if the feelings of love, respect and help do not play a role in the relationship between a