Barren

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The day could only be described as lovely. The sky was a pale blue with only a few wispy clouds lazily sailing through it at high altitudes. A gentle breeze slithered through the frozen land and flowed around the complex of red brick buildings, weathered steel buildings. And a metal shack. The clock was hitting half past thirteen hundred hours in Zebricy on a picturesque bright, chilly January the first of the year two thousand and eighteen. The previous night had seen a dump of a not insignificant amount of snow, and it was still wholly untracked. The scene looked like something out of one of those Hearthswarming cards so popular in Equestria.

The scene was perfectly still. No birds chirped. No animals moved. Nothing green grew. Only a few brown and desiccated dead plants remained. They were undisturbed in their faux regal repose. Not even termites came to nibble away at their carcasses.

I am Farn Baumrinde, and I have a most interesting job. What is my job? Wait and find out; I doubt you’ll guess it, but you’re welcome to try. I wake up all alone in a rather uncomfortable cot. I get out and go over to a wooden desk, on which is a Koran, some red wine, water, vodka, vitamin pills, and an MRE. I read a Surah, pray, and meditate to start the day and clear my head. In my line of work, one should always be at peace with their creator. I scarf these down before I begin. A quick word about me is that I love to go on tangents, so please bear with me.

I brace myself as I prepare to go outside. I start nude, save for my very warm and red-stripped telnyashka, think tank top but with alternating horizontal centimeter thick bands color. One band is always white, and there can be some variety in them. Mine is a few sizes too large that hangs to my thighs. It is a source of pride and a symbol of my masculinity that I have fought hard to win. To those who understand, it communicates that I am not a man to be trifled with. I put on underwear and socks. I slide on my tan-colored winter afghneighnka, coat and pants. I wear no patches. I then put on my black leather boots with the warm fabric valenki inserts that prevent frostbite. It is true that in chechneyan Zebricy, boots break in you. Next is my warm, black, balaclava, which had only a single hole for my eyes. Over my head and onto my shoulders drops my 6B4 bronezhilet, or armored vest.

It is with great care that I put on my GP-5 gas mask. This single small thing is absolutely the most important to my survival. In here, in the airtight shack, I can breathe easy. However, out there…. There is a reason why this place is surrounded by acres of virgin snow. The white latex easily fits over my short hair. I uncap the top of the green filter on the table. I Fumble a bit as I fight to meet the threads. At last, I feel it in place, so I rotate it left to tighten it. I don’t know why gas masks screw things in counter to how everything else does. I personally think that it’s to stop people from accidentally removing filters. I exhale, and feel the breath on my hand, indicating that the exhale valve works properly. I try to inhale, but my lungs receive nothing and the mask sucks in around my face. I know that it’s sealed properly. My fingers find the tab on the black rubber pug at the bottom of the gas mask. They tug it out with a bit of difficulty, but I can now breathe, although with some added difficulty. The valves make their noises as I inhale and exhale. The small glass eye pieces fog up slightly when I exhale, but defog when I suck in air. The smell is unique. It’s not exactly pleasant or comforting, but it somehow makes me feel safe.

It is followed quickly my SSh-40 steel helmet, still painted its original green, with the red star on the front. I smirk every time I see it, the irony not lost on me. I pull on two warm but nimble gloves with hard knuckles. I place a radiation counter on my chest and pick up my slightly heavy rucksack laden with supplies. My outfit complete, I turn to my spartan cot. It is but one of eighteen.

On it lays my PM md. 65 assault rifle. Produced in a faraway land and chambered for 7.62x39, It looks like your typical AKM or AK-47, but with a forward-pointing wooden grip under the handguards, and an underfolding metal stock, now stowed against the underside of the gun. I call it my avtomat, or sometimes, Dushka – dear. The bayonet is attached as always, and there is a forty round steel magazine in the well. Of course, I keep an extra cartridge in the chamber; I made sure of it last night, just like I always do every night. I brush my hand across my chest, feeling the hard heft of four reserve magazines, holding each thirty rounds, occupying the pouches integrated on my bronezhilet. I pick it up. The wood and steel construction is a little heavy, but it’s strong. While it weighs merely seven pounds unloaded, the bayonet adds a pound towards the muzzle. On its own, it’s a damn good weapon in the hand on end of a rifle, and with its scabbard, it’s a fine utility knife. The loaded forty rounder adds another solid two pounds. I rotate my magazine out, pushing forwards while hitting the tab on the trigger guard. I rotate it in, hooking the lug on the top front of the magazine with the forward lug on the well, and bringing it up and back. I repeat this a few times just for the practice. I’m pretty quick. The selector switch is currently at the top position, meaning that the gun is safe. Below it is the fully automatic position. At the bottom is the semiautomatic position. I fiddle with it a few times, clacking it metallically between positions, careful to keep my fingers away from the trigger. It is a loaded gun, after all. It’s always loaded for a reason.

I sling Dushka across my back, the simple two point sling catching nicely on my 6B4’s shoulder projections to trap it; I shalln’t have to worry about dropping it. I look at myself in the mirror. Surely enough, not even a trace of my skin is visible. The black of my boots and the tan of my uniform make me look like a soldier photographed Afghneighnistan or in The Zone. My GP-5 peaks out from under my helmet. It looks particularly skull-like, the small, circular, glass windows seemingly staring out at nothing, and the green NBC filter hanging down from the front giving me only the faintest, uncanny resemblance to something that might have once been a zebra. It is the perfect mask, separating not only me from the toxins, but its wearer from their conscience. This is all intimidation, just another thing to make my job easier. I am far from the first line of defense, but should one come prepared, then I am the last.

I unsling my rifle and set it to fully automatic before ensuring that the chamber is loaded. Then I put over my shoulder again. With a deep final breath, I step outside into the snow. The day is beautiful, even in this ruined industrial complex that poisons the land. Here, almost at the top of the world, there is silence except for me and my boots fighting through the snow and my breathing through the gas mask are the only sounds. There is no wind.

How do I explain what it’s like to be here? I honestly can’t. It’s just that it’s all so unnaturally quiet – the kind of silence that is so quiet that it is loud. It gave the sense that it was a place tainted by sin and death. Got that image in your mind? Good. Now add a thick layer of snow to the ground and you’ll know what it’s like here.

I make my way around just inside the perimeter of buildings, darting from wall to wall, shadow to shadow. I stick my head out to scan my surroundings carefully before I make any moves. I’m constantly watching every direction like a cat with its tail caught in a ceiling fan. My avtomat stays on my back because having a gun visible but not in hand firstly sends a strong warning message without giving the impression that you’d much rather shoot than talk, and secondly, it’s a bitch to constantly have to hold your rifle in your arms for hours on end, especially when you’re prone to needing your hands for other things.

The complex isn’t exactly huge, at least on the surface. However, it’s still a handful for just one guy. Why am I the only one be here? Well, at first, there were eighteen of us at the start of winter. Things haven’t gone well. Between the cold, the radiation, the combat, sickness, idiocy, and things that just don’t make sense, our numbers have been whittled down.

Things had been going well until an errant lightning strike fried our radio, cutting us off from the outside world. We used the landline after that. A few nights later, there was a massive aurora that lit up the sky like a second sun, an ethereal, wavy, multicolored sun, and it lasted for several days. It was beautiful, but I couldn’t help but get a sinking feeling as it kept going and going. Since then, none of our communications have worked. You get weird shit whenever you’re dealing with a place like this, scourged by radiation, death, and magic. The things I’ve seen and done… I don’t want to talk about it. Best not to let it linger on your mind, lest you gradually go insane.

Ultimately, three of us were elected to try and find help while the other five guys, including me, opted to stay behind to continue guarding. Now, ordinarily, we guards are more or less a feel-good measure. People often stay away from here for many reasons. One: We’re smack dab in the middle of nowhere in the foothills of the west Kavkazian mountians, Chechneya. Ponies are scarce here. Two: There are lots of signs that form a huge radius around the complex advertising that trespassing is illegal, the area is being watched, the place is dangerous, and that there’s lots of radiation. All true to some extent. I’ve been on the perimeter vehicle patrols. It’s not every day, but you’ll see the occasional backcountry rambler, most of whom just give the signs a quick glance and turn back. People always make tracks in a hurry when they see us coming. Three: There are no roads to this place; we have no address on the tundra. It’s damn hard to find this place. Four: It looks like nothing is here. Would you be willing to risk imprisonment or death just to look into a small and unusually desolate patch of wilderness? Five: We are scary. Need I say more? And after all that, there’s the fact that you’re trying to break into a place designed to last for millennia; even the passive security measures are strong.

All this security naturally brings to mind what could possibly be so important. You can stop guessing about my job now. I am a guard at a spent nuclear material dump site. WMD’s come here to die. Bet you didn’t see that coming, now? My job isn’t actually so much about stopping people who are after specific things for nefarious purposes, but rather, it’s to stop anyone from ever discovering that there’s even anything here. The official line is that we’re a subarctic training site with a weather station. That’s close enough to the truth, but the weather station is a good dozen miles away. And how do they explain the radiation? This area was a nuke testing only a few decades ago, so it’s still radioactive, but the really nasty killer radiation comes from the epicenter in a circle a mile wide, which is what we here all call the Cemetery. Guess where we patrol.

The Cemetary is so toxic, because even though everything is buried and sealed underground, the weight of all the construction, coupled with the annual thaws, allows bad stuff to get out through weaknesses in the soil. There are already many radioisotopes in the soil. The Cemetary is situated right over the shafts leading down to the caverns; we’re sitting right on top of the world’s most power and worst planned nuclear waste dump constructed way back in the day when they didn’t really give a damn…

Why did I take this job? Are you seriously telling me that you honestly would rather sit around at home during your school breaks, doing some crappy, boring, menial, minimum wage job, or some lame unpaid internship, instead of getting to go on cool, fun, exciting adventures and get paid damn well to do it!? Why bitch and yearn for more when you could have the real thing? While you’re at Wal-Mart bagging toys, we’re here, serving our country under contract. Apart from the odd attack from bandits, militias, and their ilk, the work is not too tough or dangerous if you keep your wits about you.

You’re probably wondering why I use an AK. Well, you aren’t the first to ask me that. After all, this is Zebricy, land of the battle rifle – aka the FAL and the G3.. When I originally applied for this job, I had nothing in terms of gear or weaponry. I am, and I have always been a total tactical nut, and I have always harboured a soft spot for Griffon stuff. You may call me obsessed. I’d like to think that I’m a zebra who takes his work seriously and knows his tools. When I was hired, I was informed that I had to get my own gear, but the company could handle weaponry. I didn’t have much money, but I had enough to be properly equipped; some others spent four times what I did for the same basic pieces.

When I went in for training, they had a bunch of rifles for new recruits to grab. The selection wasn’t spectacular, with a pedestrian mix of mostly M16’s, M4’s, M14’s, a couple AK’s, some FAL’s, and a few other guns. I couldn’t resist getting something I’d wanted since I was a kid. I got some flack for it, but I don’t regret my decision at all. My teammates all have M4’s, M16’s, HK-416’s, and SCAR’s. So you say that my Kalashnikov is inaccurate. I remember engaging a bandit four hundred meters distant. He definitely never got that memo. So my rifle is unergonomic? Rubbish! It’s dead simple. So Dushka’s round is ineffective? Care to let me give you a burst? You say that my avtomat is too heavy? Stop being such a wimp. You claim that my weapon is difficult to customize? I can add an optic in seconds on the side rail, and up front, I can clip on a bayonet or grenade launcher. And what about you? Can you honestly tell me that your assault rifle has gone through the same trials as mine and suffered not a single malfunction? My teammates can’t. Dushka’s always gotten the job done. I’m waiting for my paperwork to go through so I can have her all to myself when I go home.

That’s enough ranting from me; I really ought to just stop thinking and pay attention. Oh, what’s that? I crouch in the snow and sidle behind a tall red brick building. I see several moving shapes in the distance, emerging from the trees. They have black projections in front of them – rifles! They don’t appear to have spotted me. My pulse begins to quicken. I inhale, clearing the fog from my mask. I don’t exhale, lest I give myself away with that white puff. I can’t make out anything in detail, but certainly are hostile. Allah, help me.

I unsling my PM md. 65, remove the magazine, and press the stiff button on the left hinge by the rear trunnion. I grunt slightly as the cold metal squeaks, the stock slinging out into position. I replace the magazine, with the thing locking in with a most reassuring click. I check my rear sight. It’s set to 200M. I look again around the corner, knowing full well that they could see me. They are closer now. I could engage them; they’re only three hundred meters away at most, and it’s all open ground. No, I shouldn’t. If I fire, whether or not I even hit one, they’ll know that I’m here. They might just run away, but I wouldn’t bank on it. Either they’ll rush me, or they’ll dump all their lead at me, or they’ll try to counter me with precision fire. It’s eight on one. At least the sun is behind me.

I slip into the dilapidated building and shut the door behind me. I stealthily climb up the musty staircase to the second story, where previous battles have scarred the walls. I peer through a bullet hole. The ponies and zebras slowly approach with guns held at low ready, splitting into two teams of a three, and a single pair. Dangerous unpredictable amateurs! They just had to split up, meaning that I can’t wipe them all out with one good mag dump. I focus on the pair, which, given that its members both had glinting scopes and longer guns, has to be some sort of a sniper or marksman team that will provide overwatch. Allah ackbar, they haven’t the sense to hang back prior to moving in. I smirk. Sometimes, I like the unpredictability of amateurs. They are easily visible, and their choice of camouflage is not helpful. Silly tacticlols, multicam is an arid pattern.

I can only wait while they approach. They have the swagger of those who believe their victory assured. They are armed with the latest high dollar tactical rifles and accessories, in great contrast to my own extremely understated presentation. They’re chatting among themselves. My body feels like a mad itch is boiling inside it. I want to open fire; I want to kill! But, I also know that I absolutely can’t reveal myself yet, because the only way I’m going to survive this is if I use my wits to counteract their numerical advantage. Also, the only thing greater than the desire to greet them with fire is the rush of being so close to danger. It’s like being a foal on Christmas morning all over again, but tinged with knowing the grim consequences.

My foes are still blissfully blind when they come too close to my building for me to see them. I grab Dushka and tiptoe over to the corner, where I crouch behind an old counter. Maybe this place was once a café? I hear the door creep open. My hairs stand on end. Two voices whisper.

“You think anyone’s in here?”

“Nah, ah would’da seen ‘em if they was.”

Two pairs of heavy-booted footsteps come up the stairs. Creak. Clomp. Crrrn. Clop. “Set up overwatch.”

“Charlie Foxtrot Three to Charlie Foxtrot One – overwatch established, over.”

I hear a static-laced voice come in by the radio. “Charlie Foxtrot One copies, out.” Silence returns, save for the noises of zebras, ponies, and guns moving around on the floor in front of the windows.

I look at my bayonet. Soon… I peek around the counter. They aren’t bothering to watch their six. I could strike now, but I have to worry about being overheard or observed through the windows. I wait a few more agonizing minutes, praying that something grabs their attention. Surely enough, something does.

“Yo, man, what that?” One of them points.

“What? Where?”

“At yo one o’clock.”

The other growls, “I don’t see anything.”

“Look in the window.”

“Which window, sir?” The first one gets behind him to point it out to the sniper. NOW! The moment that the spotter begins talking, I almost noiselessly line myself up with him. I wrap one hand around the top of my hand guards with the other on the pistol grip. I carefully put the gun on safe. Then, I pointed my bayonet at him and charge without a word.

CLATUNK! My boots thunder against the wood. My first victim turns round, startled. His pupils dilate, his skin goes pale, and he freezes, a look of absolute terror on his face. I draw a breath, raise my weapon, and then lunge. My bayonet darts downward, pierces his eye, and crashes into his skull as I bowl over the sniper. The spotter goes limp without a scream and I pull out.

The sniper tries to get a weapon, but it’s over before he can reach one. On his back on the floor, he throws up his hands, even as I throw my shoulder into my next thrust, crashing through his ribcage. I stamp on his throat, blocking the scream as his life’s blood pours out in spurts to mingle with the growing pool of red from his friend.

Flushed with victory, I twist the knife viciously before withdrawing and setting my avtomat to full auto. Now the real fun can begin. A full quarter of their team is dead. I see one of their teams of three blunder right into the main square. I click the selector down to semiauto, go prone, and look down the open sights. My magazine acts as a monopod and I adjust my sight range to 100M. I aim for the rear man, because he’s the least likely to be seen, and also because he’s the closest to cover.

My sights come to rest on the side of his head. I scan to be sure that no other enemies will spot my muzzle blast. All clear. My finger goes through the trigger guard for the first time today. I go through the familiar motions, gently squeezing the trigger. I apply more and more pressure. I feel a sort of resistance -- any more and it’ll fire! I have you now. BANG! Two ponies and one scarlet mess on the snow.

“Fuck!” One of them grabs and then shouts into his radio, “Charlie Foxtrot Three, check your fire; danger close, out!” The other punches his arm, running for cover.

“CONTACT!” He yells. “Take cover!” Good luck with that. They’re looking at me. I go for the chest shot on the lead man.

I pull the trigger. The rifle roars and round impacts the clothing on his shoulder. “AAAAHHH!” He screams, dropping his weapon and kneeling. I fire again, hitting his upper right torso. He’s keeling over, his friend fires back at me with his M16 using three round bursts. Bur-bur-burt! The red tracers come close, but I am not some coward. I adjust my aim over to the defiant bastard and squeeze off another round with a fierce crack. The green tracer round hits chest like an invisible punch. Mortally wounded, he goes down, falling on his side, looking up helplessly at his dying friend. He extends up an arm weakly, but it drops in seconds.

His friend is reaching for his dropped weapon. I can’t have that, now, can I? I take my time to line up the shot and squeeze the trigger. The 123 grain bullet rips through his throat. Blood stains the snow red.

Putting my gun in automatic mode again, I fly down the stairs and displace to another position. I slice around every corner, working around them with my Kalash’s barrel acting like the fulcrum.

I spy two around the corner. One’s in the window, the other in the doorway. He fires. Fwip! I duck back into cover, the bullets from his M4 flying harmlessly past me. I slice around the corner and fire a burst from my gun. It impacts around him, but misses, forcing him to retreat into the plywood and drywall trailer. I spray a burst around the door frame, letting off a dozen rounds. My strong arms wrestle with the recoil, with the forward grip doing wonders for it. I stop and snap my aim upwards, firing a burst at the window to force the second guy to keep his head down. He ducks, but blindfires with his SCAR. I let fly another flurry of bursts at both window and door.

Click. My magazine runs dry. I sprint across before they can recover. I rotate out my spent magazine and throw it in my coat pocket before drawing a fresh thirty rounder from my bronezhilet. I rock it in, pull back on the charging handle with my right hand, and let it fly with a satisfying, metallic, clack-slap.

Weapon reloaded, I flank around towards where my enemies were last, seizing the initiative to close from a new direction. I jog, aiming down the barrel but not the sights; it wouldn’t make a difference at these ranges. I read the corner just before their last known position. I am so tense, full of simultaneously elation and dread. I slice around the corner and see one standing in the doorway with his HK-416 pointed right at me!

We fire at the exact same moment, me with a burst and him with a single shot. Impact! Pain. Something slams into my chest. I see my shots land all across his torso, and he stumbles backwards before going down in a bloody heap. I duck into cover and check myself. My 6B4 has a hole in the fabric, and my chest feels like somebody whacked it with a brick, but I’m okay; the armor plate stopped the bullet. I grin.

Slicing the corner one last time, I snap my aim back and forth between the window and the door. I press myself against the shot-up brick wall for protection against fire from the upper level. There can be only one more to go. Let’s end this! I reload to give me a full fresh forty rounds. Then, I concentrate only on the doorway. I lunge around the corner and see one guy dead and the other barely conscious on the floor. He looks me in the eyes. I would feel sorry for him, but such is the way of these things. I can’t help but feel slightly bad, though. I really don’t like killing people; I just happen to be good at it because it’s a job requirement, and I don’t want to die. I guess in that way, I’m just like these guys. They’ve all fought as hard as they can, bravely, and in the face of death. I respect them. May Allah help fools like us.

I burst through one last doorway. Tink tink! I see something bounce down the stairs. My heart leaps. Grenade! I leap away, and when I land on the floor, curl up with my helmet and vest facing the bomb. BOOM! A mighty wave of pressure surges over me. My ears ring. Some fragment hit my head and torso, but don’t go through my helmet or vest. I keep still. I hear my last foe running down the stairs, so cocksure in his triumph. He appears, gun raised, but not looking at me; he’s looking at the doorway.

I fire off one last burst. Impacts rip up his back. He falls over and moves no more. I check on the guy who’d been wounded. It’s nasty; the grenade literally tore him to shreds. Great, now I really need booze. Anyway, that’s eight for eight. A surge of relief rips through me, only slightly tempered by the fact that I’m going to have to dispose of these bodies before they attract attention from people or animals.

And despite everything, the day is still lovely. I pray to God, thanking him for survival, and thanking him to have mercy on the ponies and zebras just slain here. With that complete, I set to work cleaning up.

Author's Note:

This is the first story in a trillogy. I originally wrote them for a writing class at university, but I wanted to ponify them and post them here. You have a lot more to see from this new zebra. Thanks to MrSing for being my editor. Any and all feedback is welcome.

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