Traitors

Chapter 1

Sergei raised his eyes to the locked door of the preliminary examination office. Then, shifting his gaze to the gloomy face of the sergeant who had escorted him here. He sighed heavily and began to recall how he had sunk to this.

And it all started two weeks after the unrest began in the city. He, Sergei Vladimirovich Starostov, decided to wait out the unstable situation. In a small dacha settlement a kilometer from the city. Where stood the small wooden house with stove heating, inherited from his parents who died in a car accident a year ago.

Sergei managed to stay there for three days, until separatists came to the settlement with the intention of turning it into a training camp for recruits. Sergei didn't know exactly why his father had dug a second cellar under the shed back in the day, but the lid covering it, if camouflaged with all sorts of junk, would be hard to find if you didn't know about the cellar's existence.

After searching the house and not finding the hidden lid, the separatists took out everything of any value. They left for the center of the settlement. Sergei decided to wait for darkness to slip out of the settlement under cover of night, to get away from trouble. That's where he made his first mistake. Waiting for nightfall, he fell asleep. And woke up when it was already about six in the morning, and the area was plunged into pre-dawn twilight.

That's when he made the fatal mistake that now costs him his life. Frightened that it was too late to flee, Sergei decided to wait for the next night and even set an alarm on his phone. And it seemed his plan would work. Until government soldiers burst into the settlement in the evening twilight. They destroyed all the separatists in a matter of minutes, and decided to sweep the settlement one last time for any hiding rebels. That's when they found him, when the alarm, forgotten in the shock of what was happening, attracted the attention of a soldier passing by the shed.

They beat him long and viciously, breaking his jaw and knocking out several teeth. Then, after tying his hands and feet, they threw him into the back of a truck, where the corpses of the separatists already lay. He was interrogated for a month, brutally tortured in the basement of the only undestroyed CLN in the city. Failing to get any results from him, they sentenced him to death, convicting him under the article of collaboration and aiding separatists.

"So, Sergeant Petrov." A harsh male voice pulled Sergei from his memories. Raising his head, Sergei saw a gray-haired man about fifty years old, with the shoulder straps of a junior lieutenant. "Here are more convicted for separatism." He pointed to two somewhat similar-looking girls. "You will escort them to the punishment execution hall after the examination."

"Yes, Comrade Junior Lieutenant." The sergeant snapped to attention, saluting. "To escort the convicted to the punishment execution hall after the doctor's examination."

"And this, Sergeant," lowering his voice, the Junior Lieutenant said, "you be careful with them. I don't like young separatists."

"Yes, Comrade Junior Lieutenant." The sergeant snapped to attention again. "To be careful with the convicted citizens."

The lieutenant left. And Sergei looked carefully at the girls. Both sighed heavily and sat on the bench next to Sergei. Their faces showed bruises and small hematomas. Which indicated that the last few days they, like Sergei, had spent in the torture basement. One of the girls even had her lip sewn up with coarse thread. It seemed the torturers, deciding the girl was beyond caring, didn't bother about her beauty. They simply disinfected the lip torn during torture and hastily sewed it up.

"Interesting," Sergei asked himself. "Who were they with the separatists. And what positions did they hold in their hierarchy." Smiling at the thought of what kind of hierarchy rebels could have, Sergei grinned. For which he immediately received an angry look from the girl sitting closer to him.

"I see." A man about fifty in a white medical coat, under which was a military uniform, approached the door. "We have reinforcements."

"Yes, exactly." The sergeant, snapping to attention as before the lieutenant, saluted the man. "Comrade Senior Warrant Officer, about two minutes ago. Junior Lieutenant Krivosheev delivered them." Then he added, "He said to be careful with them."

"At ease, Sergeant." Returning the salute, the Warrant Officer continued, "Good, I will take note of Junior Lieutenant Krivosheev's wishes."

"But I want to remind you, Sergeant," the Warrant Officer said, tilting his head slightly and looking carefully at the young man, "that I do not share excessive cruelty in dealing with those sentenced to death under the article of aiding and assisting separatists."

"Permission to speak on this matter," asked the Sergeant. "Comrade Senior Warrant Officer."

"Permission granted, Sergeant," replied the Warrant Officer, folding his arms across his chest and looking at the young man with interest.

"I also do not share," began the Sergeant, "the Junior Lieutenant's attitude towards excessive cruelty towards prisoners."

"So, and?" the Warrant Officer drawled, raising an eyebrow.

"But I agree," the Sergeant blurted out in one breath, "that with those convicted under the article of aiding and assisting separatists, one must be careful and keep an eye on them."

"Hmm." The Warrant Officer frowned. "Actually, that's written in the regulations, so you are obliged to do it without additional orders from superiors."

"Yes, exactly, Comrade Warrant Officer," the Sergeant replied loudly, standing at attention again. "I will correct myself."

"I hope so," replied the Warrant Officer. "And remember, Sergeant, free-thinking and tactical thinking are not the same thing, even in the army."

"I obey, Comrade Warrant Officer," replied the Sergeant, then added, "Forgive me, Comrade Warrant Officer, but what exactly did you mean by 'not the same thing'?"

"When you make it to warrant officer," the Warrant Officer said with a sly smile, winking at the sergeant, "then you'll understand."

"So, now." The Warrant Officer stood in front of Sergei and the girls. "You, citizens, are sentenced to death."

"I warn you right away," the Warrant Officer said with a heavy sigh. "I will not tolerate insults or threats directed at me." Shaking his head, he added, "Therefore, for such words, I will have to punish you to the full extent of the relevant articles of the law."

"But!" The Warrant Officer raised an index finger to the ceiling, saying more calmly, "As I already mentioned in conversation with Comrade Sergeant," the man smiled, "I do not intend to apply excessive cruelty towards you because of your affiliation with the separatists."

"Therefore, if you behave," the Warrant Officer continued, opening the door, "calmly and composedly, then the examination will be painless and quick for you."

"And lastly," the Warrant Officer hesitated a little, scratching the back of his head. "Due to the absence of my assistant, medic Stokarev, I will have to conduct the medical examination jointly with your fellow unfortunate." At these words, the Warrant Officer pointed at Sergei. "Therefore, I apologize in advance, girls, for the inconvenience."

"So." The Warrant Officer took large black polyethylene bags, which reminded Sergei of garbage bags. He handed them out to the group, then said, "Put all personal belongings and clothing in them; after the execution, they will be disposed of."

"Permission to address, Comrade Warrant Officer," Sergei said, pulling off his sweater and remembering a nuance about his body, decided to clarify.

"Permission granted," the Warrant Officer grinned, looking into one of the files. "But I think I can answer your question right away, Sergei Vladimirovich." Opening another file, the Warrant Officer just snorted, checking something. "But since the girls in your company are former CLN workers, you're unlikely to surprise them with anything."

"Hmm." Sergei sighed heavily, shook his head, and began pulling off his T-shirt.

"Oh, my goodness," a girl's exclamation came from behind. "How did they do that to him?"

"What's the matter?" Sergei heard the Warrant Officer's irritated voice. Then came the man's heavy sigh. "What are they doing, you're only about eighteen."

"I had my birthday just a month ago," Sergei stated sadly, putting his T-shirt back on. It covered well the word 'SEPARATIST' burned in large letters on his back with a hot iron. "Just managed to celebrate my coming of age before the unrest."

"Alright then," the Warrant Officer said with a heavy sigh. "You can keep your underwear on." Letting out air through his nostrils, he added, "You can call me Anatoly Ivanovich." Raising his head for a moment, the Warrant Officer looked sadly at the girls and Sergei. "And I allow you to ask questions without permission."

"Sorry." Sergei was patted on the shoulder, and he turned to one of the girls, realizing she had a very delicate question but didn't know how to start the conversation. "Did you really turn 18 a month ago?"

"Yes, it's true," Sergei said with a heavy sigh, remembering his older sister Katya, who saved him from the orphanage a year ago when their parents died. "My older sister Katya took custody of me after our parents' death."

"Sorry," the girl said, swallowing. "I didn't know."

"Katya worked as a helper..." Sergei felt a tear run down his cheek. "At the Center for Population Liquidation..."

"Wait," the girl looked at Sergei in shock. "But you were convicted under the article of aiding..."

"Uh-huh," Sergei said with a bitter smile, telling of his adventures a week ago. "Sentenced for being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"But wait," the second girl joined their conversation. "Could your guilt even be proven? And an appeal wouldn't accept such evidence of your guilt."

"It wouldn't," Sergei nodded in agreement. "But in the dungeons, I accidentally found out that my sister was killed with a knife that had my fingerprints on it."

"So it turns out," the first girl sighed heavily, "it coincided that someone, most likely a rebel, killed your sister when you disappeared from the city."

"I left the city precisely on her advice," Sergei sighed sadly.

"Hmm, Liz," the second girl said sadly. "And I thought no one could get it worse than us under the wheels of justice."

"Uh-huh," Liz agreed. "They treated the guy, Kristin, even worse."

"Well, judging who got it worse," Sergei shook his head, pointing to Liz's stomach, purple from beatings, and the whip scars on Kristina's back, "I can't understand until I hear your story, so to speak."

"We," Liz began with a sad sigh, "are former workers of the Center for Liquidation on Zavodskaya Street." Closing her eyes, she continued, "Who miraculously managed to escape from their shift at the center an hour before it was stormed by rebels."

"To whom we were attributed," Kristina snorted angrily, supporting her friend. "When we were caught for desertion."

"And since we," Liz said through clenched teeth, hitting her knees with her fists, "had no proof that we had nothing to do with the raid and accidentally left the center an hour before the rebels broke in, we were sentenced as accomplices of the separatists."

"I understand you were treated unfairly," all three raised their heads and saw Anatoly Ivanovich in the doorway of the examination room, looking at them with pity. "But I'm afraid, due to martial law, I cannot ease your execution in any way."

"Such is the law," Sergei said, lowering his head to his chest. "We understand."

"The laws of wartime," Anatoly Ivanovich said, approaching the guy, squatting down, and putting a hand on his shoulder, "are always cruel to ordinary people."

"Heh..." Sergei gave a bitter laugh. "I already understood that a week ago."

"I'm sorry," Anatoly Ivanovich replied with a heavy sigh. "That you managed to understand this not long before your death." He stood up and looked out the window, where the rays of the autumn sun began their play, creating an intricate pattern on the tiled floor. "It's just that most soldiers in such times understand this even closer to their death than you."

"It's just that I," Sergei said with a cheeky smile, looking at the Warrant Officer, "am a victim of the law, and they are part of it."

"From your point of view," Anatoly Ivanovich said sadly with a heavy sigh, "it seems that way. A soldier, essentially during war, in the eyes of officers is first and foremost expendable material."

"Uh-huh," Sergei agreed, baring his teeth. "And the civilian population is just a hindrance." He thought for a moment and chuckled. "Or more correctly, a shield for the expendable material."

"You don't see the whole picture," suddenly the Warrant Officer's voice, until then conciliatory, became harsh, and his fists clenched. "In general, during war..."

"They are..." The Warrant Officer, taken aback by such pressure, took a step back. "They..."

"Not they," Sergei shouted, grabbing the Warrant Officer by the lapels. "Not THEY, but WE!!!"

"You seem to be overstepping," the Warrant Officer shoved Sergei away with one blow. And drawing a pistol from its holster, aimed it at the guy. "You PUP, seem to have forgotten where you are."

"No, I haven't forgotten," Sergei suddenly said in a calm, insinuating tone, standing up and approaching the Warrant Officer, pressing his forehead right against the pistol's muzzle. "Well, come on, you damn soldier, shoot. I SAID, SHOOT!!!"

But the longer Sergei looked into those eyes, the more it seemed to him that beneath the hatred and anger, resentment, pity, and regret began to show through. The hand firmly aimed at the guy's forehead suddenly trembled once, twice. Then it shook, as if convulsing, and dropped down, hanging limply along the torso. Looking closer, Sergei saw how, on the wrinkled, rough male face covered with gray stubble, large drops began to run one after another. They seemed to be escaping from the corners of the dark green, battle-worn eyes. Before Sergei could remember, an iron grip seized him in the middle of his chest, and rough stubble touched his cheek.

"I understand," said the Warrant Officer. "How we look from the outside." He added with a heavy sigh, "But if we weren't here, there would be anarchy and chaos in the country."

"Isn't it anarchy and chaos now?" Sergei said, pushing Anatoly Ivanovich away and looking at him sadly. "There is still unrest in the city, and civilians are grabbed as rebels at the slightest suspicion."

"Such are the times," Anatoly Ivanovich said heavily, sitting on the couch opposite the girls. "Life sometimes throws things at you that seem to have no way out."

"Only for us," Sergei turned to the girls, "life doesn't even give the illusion of a way out."

"Hmm, the situation," the Warrant Officer said, scratching the back of his head and looking with pity at the trio, who were looking in different directions to avoid meeting his gaze. "Ah, to hell with it," he waved his hand. "To hell with this pension." Approaching Sergei and the girls, the Warrant Officer whispered, "I'll talk to Roman Andreevich; he'll give you a lethal injection in two hours."

"Wait, that's not necessary," suddenly Liz jumped up, saying angrily. "With us, as former Center for Liquidation workers, you don't need to stand on ceremony. But," she pointed at Sergei, "as a civilian caught under