Part 2.3.
A cold, damp wind was still blowing outside. Sometimes it seemed that it was bringing rare small raindrops. His eyes were watering, his nose was itching, as if not only water had gotten in there, but also some particularly nasty sand.
- That's it, I'm sick of it, - declared Dragovich, entering the house and putting the canister on the table. - What if you drip vodka into your nose?
- A man has lived for thirty years, and he still talks such nonsense, - declared Beloved. - And why? He lived in warm climates!
- What, have you never had a cold or something? - asked Little One.
- I have, but not like this, - answered Dragovich, once again hiding half his face in a white rag, - I've been here for over a year, not the first month. But such wind and dampness have never helped me to completely freak out.
- Take a pill and don't suffer, - advised Beloved.
- Drink, drink, why put it off, - added Beloved.
- Okay, what can I do, - said Dragovich and took a box out of his pocket, opened it, and a whole arsenal of more than a dozen glass and plastic tubes-test tubes with rows of white tablets laid out in them opened up before him. A thin sheet of paper folded several times also flew off the lid, obviously with instructions for use.
- Look, how new it is, - said Flaxenie. - Even the manual is in place. Put everything on the table, now we'll figure out what to drink.
- So we'll figure it out? - Dragovich answered, feigning distrust in his voice.
- There's nothing to figure out, - answered Big Guy. - A glass flask with two stripes or round spots... it doesn't matter. One is white, the other is blue.
- This one? - asked Dragovich, pulling the right test tube out of the holder that gripped it. - Yes, that's right, this one, - answered Undersized and Flaxen in one voice, after they had seen the bottle clutched in their fingers.
- Exactly?
- Yes, exactly, - answered Big Guy.
Seeing such unanimity, Dragovich decided not to read anything in the crunching paper of the manual and moved the plastic stopper.
After about five minutes, the aching in his joints began to recede, and at the same time Dragovich noticed that the irritating sensations in his nose and throat had disappeared.
At this time, the others were fiddling with tea and the canned food they had brought with them.
Dragovich stood up and walked back and forth.
- It really did help, - he announced. - And the runny nose went away. Well done!
- The blood vessels probably expanded, - Undersized suggested, - Or, on the contrary, they narrowed.
- Or it's not the blood vessels at all, - Flaxenie continued, feigning seriousness, having made it a norm to tease the imperturbable Undersized.
Everyone burst out laughing.
Nevertheless, some minor side effects did manifest themselves. However, it was hard to judge whether these were side effects, or whether the problem was the infection that had not gone away. After a couple of shots, Dragovich felt that the smoky air of the room was having a disgusting and nauseating effect on him. And in general, the room was too stuffy and stinking even without any tobacco smoke.
- Ah, that's the kind of crap that happens, - declared the Small One. - It might also seem too hot or too cold. It'll pass.
- I feel like I'm really drunk, not drunk.
- You won't be drunk, - answered the White-haired One. - You haven't really had a drink. Maybe it feels like you've been poisoned?
- Exactly.
- Then go out and get some air, - suggested the Big One. - Just don't unbutton your pants. Just breathe in some fresh air slowly. You might puke, although you shouldn't. Just sit quietly or walk around. You'll be done in five minutes.
Dragovich put on his rubber flip-flops, even though they were summer ones, but they were dry, and headed for the exit.
"You'll feel fine, but you might puke," he mentally and irritably replayed the key moments of the conversation. It really did feel better outside, and not just better, but good, considering the cold he had been feeling all day. It felt like it wouldn't hurt to unbutton his jacket or even take it off and stretch, but Dragovich wasn't even thinking about doing anything like that - there were no such emotional outbursts, unlike those caused by a consciousness intoxicated by the appropriate amount of alcohol.
Apparently, the devilish drug that had ruined an entire army of workers over the years really didn't affect his clarity of mind. That's right, it shouldn't have interfered with his work. And now Dragovich was just experiencing the feeling that he had just gotten up to meet a very comfortable summer morning, having had a good night's sleep. This, of course, lifted his spirits, but no more than dry shoes and clothes instead of cold and wet ones.
Dragovich had imagined any kind of "nonsense" quite differently. However, in its purpose it was not "dope" as such, but just a pharmaceutical. Considering what kind of stuff was allowed for free sale during the war years, the drug was not worth a separate conversation.
After standing in the fresh air for a few minutes, Dragovich headed back. Returning to his friends, he discovered to his disappointment that the disgust for the previously familiar tobacco smell had not disappeared. The sight of a glass filled with vodka also caused a feeling of nausea rising in his throat.
- It's strange, - he declared, - I feel fine outside, even 100%, but here I can't breathe and it makes me sick to look at the glass. Did these pills also wean people off drinking and smoking?
- I don't think so, - Flaxenie answered puzzledly, - If they did, they would be valued for that, but I haven't heard of that.
The others hadn't heard of such a property of the scandalous pharmaceutical either.
- Finish your drink without me, - said Dragovich. - I'll still go outside, but I'll put on better shit-shoes, - he crawled under a wooden bench, where, among other things, there were torn, but at least dry boots.
- Are you sure you won't drink? - Flaxenie asked.
- One hundred percent sure. Finish your drink. What's the concern? Did they report anything clarifying?
No one had received any messages, although there was no need to ask. Dragovich himself had a phone with him. The connection here worked perfectly, thanks to which, on the way, all four of them received their air and nuclear warnings almost simultaneously.
It was nice outside again. At first, Dragovich thought that his sense of smell had become more acute, but no - the smell of an autumn night, grass and foliage was still barely perceptible. Dragovich walked around the group of houses, and his gaze fell upon a site dug with deep pits - about five meters deep at the shallowest point. Two- or even three-level shelters were being built there from railway containers, stacked in galleries. An antenna mast about thirty meters high towered above the site, which in this case was used as a light pole.
- What kind of shit will happen if the invasion forces do move here? - he began to think. - For ordinary motorized riflemen, this is certain death, and they cannot help but know about it. Without serious aviation, no way. But Lebedev can't just give a damn about the security of the Bloc's facilities, the security of the rocket launch site, the shuttles, and use heavy aviation instead of attack aircraft. Or can he?
- In general, Oppenheimer will personally tear Lebedev's mouth, and then his ass, for his beloved shuttles... It would be good if he did this in advance. National forces, like the armies of other countries, are tightly integrated into a single system, such a rear UCE, and this will not allow Lebedev to do whatever he wants - his sick political will will break against the military mechanism. It seems that this has already prevented serious bloodshed in the rear, in Ireland and even in South America.
- There is still a possibility that Lebedev's men will fire cruise missiles. Maybe regular ones, or maybe heavy ones, which hide enough submunitions for a whole bomber's arsenal. And where does it make sense to fire missiles? At the cities with their factories? No, at the first stage it makes no sense - the crazy speaker probably expects that everyone will surrender. Besides, this is too much even for Lebedev.
- Then where? Maybe here? Plow the entire field and other fortified areas and remove the threat to the motorized riflemen? And they will then move to the cities and towns? - After all, the numerous towns are mostly defenseless.
Dragovich exhaled. There was no visible steam from his breath - the dampness was damp, but by the standards of the time of year it was warm.
- It is unknown what the republic's command is thinking about, - he continued to think. - But ordinary people brush aside the discussion of such an option, believing that it would be too daring for the Lebedevites - there would be retaliatory actions from the Big Command of the Block. And yet, why are we sure that the Lebedevites will definitely limit themselves to a ground invasion and light attack aircraft, which we know how to counter?
Dragovich stood for a moment, thoughtfully looking at the galleries disappearing under the freshly poured soil and headed back.
On the opposite side, the one where the door of the utility room opened out, there was a clearing and a ravine smoothly descending downwards, overgrown with low trees, like willows and maples. Usually in such lowlands there are impassable thickets, if not swamps, but a clearly marked path led into the lowland. Less than a kilometer away, the grove ended and another field began, where work was also underway under lights hung on masts. It was still quite annoying - a little over a year ago, Dragovich managed to get here to the Super Federation by roundabout routes, including through Kazakhstan, which was partially occupied by the Asian Bloc. No mobilization for a big war threatened anyone here. Russia, with its demarche, which it declared after the catastrophe of 2114, still handed over deserters and draft dodgers, but the SSSF did not. And now war, maybe not that Big War, but still war, albeit in a different form, is once again nipping at his heels. What a beast it is...
Dragovich stopped at the beginning of the slope and began to peer into the darkness of the grove lying below.
- What a beast this war is. What does it want? Ancient people invented what a god of war is - a powerful and pumped-up man with a tough character and in shining armor. They didn't understand a damn thing, those idiots who wrapped themselves in sheets. He wasn't supposed to look like that. He looked like the poster of an SFS officer. A drawing he'd seen many times surfaced in Dragovich's memory, depicting a Right Bank military man - a fat, pig-faced blockhead with a protruding fat nape and pig eyes peeking out from under the peak of a cap from either the Soviet or subsequent, equally reviled "old" army. The Sturdy's feet, covered in green, slightly piss-stained trousers with an unzipped zipper, were trampling a pile of ruins and bones, and in the background, the blackened skeletons of destroyed buildings engulfed in flames. Overall, it looked funny and flashy, like most of the local propaganda, but for some reason Dragovich wasn't having fun right now.
- This is how the god of war should look, - Dragovich reasoned with growing irritation. - And yet, if these fortifications are going to be ironed out, then wouldn't it be reasonable to take cover in that grove?
He knew perfectly well that the overwhelming majority of missile munitions and submunitions are guided - No one had been wasteful for a long time, throwing metal, chips, mechanisms and explosives wherever they could, when every successfully sent kilogram is a minus for a dugout, soldier or enemy vehicle. Therefore, no one will bomb this flown-over greenery - the Lebedevites are greatly hampered by the fortifications, and not by theoretical partisans in the greenery. How much time will it take to go a hundred meters deeper into the thicket?
Of course, Dragovich was not going to run a hundred meters across rough terrain, but here's a path... Why not evaluate its quality and "add" such an evacuation route to your map? And walk along it at the same time. Besides, it wouldn't hurt to tell the rest of my friends about my thoughts.
The path turned out to be much better than expected. It was understandable, cars didn't drive along it and didn't knead the mud. Dragovich looked back. Behind, on the hill, the silhouettes of houses darkened, above which towered a mast with a lighting "sausage" attached to it. That was the name of the thick fabric pipe-sleeve blown with air from the inside, with LED strips stretched inside. Such a thing shone brightly, but at the same time did not blind.
Dragovich turned and headed further. Suddenly, at the very edge of the grove, some movement appeared, it would be more correct to say someone's presence.