Chapter - 7

"Did you let them go, Captain?"

Private Sysoev lifted his mask, wiped the perspiration from his forehead and watched the retreating car en route to the rehabilitation center in Rostov.

"You're taking a risk, Captain. What will we do if a patrol stops them?"

The captain waved a weary hand. He climbed into the UAZ, sat down comfortably in the passenger seat, and after Sysoev lifted the mask. The captain's lush mustache and problematic skin, covered with scars and small scars, caught the eye. The officer adjusted the white bracelet on his arm. A new mark should have been made today. A crucifix, embossed on the skin, appeared from behind the raised sleeve.

"They left before the curfew," he said.

"Probably so," - Sysoev opened the door, froze, thinking about something. "Only they don't have a pass."

"Get in the car, we need to get out of here before it gets dark," said the captain.

"I feel in one place that we will get a reprimand for what happened here," the sergeant climbed into the UAZ after the second private, who was not as verbose as Sysoev.

"Do you think they will hang what happened here on us?" Sysoev asked.

"I think the serum for the "reds" is like a dead poultice. And I also think that we really should get out as soon as possible," said the captain.

"What to do with people?" The sergeant asked.

The captain did not answer. The officer did not know what to do with the people who remained in the distribution center. The bus, which was supposed to make the last flight, was standing at the stop. The mad madman who attacked the "Kalina" of the couple was the driver of a regular bus. Who put behind the wheel of the bus "red" could only guess. Now there were people at the bus stop, abandoned to their fate. No matter how much I wanted to, but it was beyond the capabilities of the group to help them. It remained to pray to God that a red bracelet was worn on their hands.

"Turn on the flashing light?" Sysoev asked.

"To drive a midge on the highway? Who needs it?" - the captain waved away.

The UAZ started up, roared, drove out of the parking lot of a huge shopping center, now a distribution point for provisions and medicines. They left under the gaze of people standing at the bus stop. Tired pairs of eyes stared at the retreating car.

"Sergeant, don't drive like that," the captain put his hand on the steering wheel. - "I didn't fill out the pass."

The sergeant obediently slowed down. The military twitched. The brakes worked perfectly. The captain got into the glove compartment, took out a pile of documents, there were blank forms of passes in it.

"Didn't you write out a pass, Captain?" The sergeant asked.

The captain hesitated. Sysoev noticed from the commander's expression that the question had put him at a dead end. Indeed, he was sure that the ticket had been issued. Such things are not joked about.

"I didn't have time... my head was spinning," - the captain put the form on his knees, took a pen from his bosom, began to fill in the empty fields with a sweeping handwriting. - "Almost everything. Just a second."

Everything means everything. Sysoev looked away, exchanged a couple of empty phrases with other fighters. He did not see how the captain did not put on the form, but put the pen on the panel. There was a deafening bang.

"It will be hard for them..."

The driver-sergeant did not finish. His head burst like a ripe watermelon, splashing a mixture of blood, pus and gray liquid. Blood splattered the interior of the UAZ, glass and military. No one understood what had happened. The sergeant shuddered all over, went limp, let go of the steering wheel and the UAZ drove. The captain tried to straighten the steering wheel, but did not save the car from skidding. The UAZ rolled over on its side at full speed. Shouts and choice abuse of soldiers were heard in the cabin. It worked out. Private Sysoev hit his elbow on the panel and winced in pain. The captain and the second private were unharmed. Sysoev looked with horror at the bloody body of the sergeant. A bullet that flew in from nowhere tore his head off, took half the skull off his shoulders.

Sysoev clung to the blood-stained glass. It was getting dark outside and the glass cracked, nothing could be seen from the outside. It remained to be hoped that the shooter had shot down the sight, because the car was located at the sniper's sight, as in the palm of his hand. Now the private did not pay due attention to the fact that the glass was pierced by a bullet at an unnatural angle. The bullet pierced the glass up, and only one was sprinkled with blood, the left driver's door and with it the glass…

"What was that?" - for the first time on duty today, the second private spoke up.

The guy cut himself with a piece of glass, blood was flowing down his face.

"Can't you see that the sergeant is dead, Fences?" Sysoev whispered with a hysterical note in his voice.

"Everyone calm down if you don't want to be shot like targets in a shooting gallery," the captain barked.

"Captain, do you understand that we're not leaving now?" Sysoev asked.

There was no response. Sysoev fell on his side, checked the machine gun, took it off the safety. It didn't work out the first time. Sysoev was nervous, the machine was shaking in his hands.

"We need to get out," the captain said.

"Don't you think we're going to get our heads shot off before we can get out of the car?" The second private asked.

"If we sit here, he'll shoot into the gas tank and fry our asses," the captain snapped.

"Do not forget about the "reds"." - somehow the private added gloomily. "There's a whole busload of them here."

"So come out, follow me."