Chapter 9 - Buildings of Old and Cold

The car is pulled over on the side of the road. August has driven for what seems like an hour to Layla. By that time, the stress has subsided, allowing her to focus more on their current situation.

They are surrounded by a vast expanse of rugged mountains, the fading light casting long shadows that stretch across the landscape. The air is cooler here, the weight of the day's events lingering like a distant storm cloud, but for now, it feels strangely serene.

"I made sure to take out everyone, leaving no survivors. We don't have to worry about our faces being remembered." August says as he reassembles one of his pistols, having taken it apart earlier for maintenance.

Layla's eyes widen slightly, her throat dry. She doesn't know what to say. Instead, she turns away, focusing on the distant mountains, trying to push the image of violence from her mind. The weight of his words hangs in the air, and she feels a chill despite the warm sun streaming through the car window. She closes her eyes, swallowing away the sick feeling in her stomach.

August sets the pistol down, his work finished. Layla hasn't moved much—just staring out the window, arms crossed so tightly her knuckles press white against her sleeves. He can hear her breathing, slow and forced, like she's holding something in.

He's not good at this. He hasn't been for years. But he can't just leave her like this, either.

"You alright?" His voice comes out steady, but there's something careful in the way he asks.

Layla scoffs, shaking her head. Her voice wavers, but she clamps down on it, swallowing hard. "I watched you—" She stops, sucking in a sharp breath through her nose. "I watched you kill them all like it was nothing."

August doesn't react at first. Just studies her, the way her fingers dig into her sleeves, the slight tremor in her jaw.

"It wasn't nothing," he says finally. "It never is."

Layla presses the heel of her hand against her forehead. "Then why act like it is?"

August doesn't answer right away. Instead, he watches the mountains in the distance, the road stretching ahead of them. "I guess I'm trying to convince myself."

Layla exhales sharply, shaking her head. "That's not fair." Her voice is thick, her eyes wet. She wipes at them angrily before any tears can fall. "What does that make me, then?"

August grips the steering wheel, the leather creaking under his hands. "It makes you someone who still cares," he mutters. "And that's not a bad thing.

Layla presses her lips together, trying to steady her breath. When she finally speaks again, her voice is quieter. "It doesn't feel good."

August nods once, still staring at the road. "It's not supposed to.

And for a while, they just sit there. Not talking. Just letting the weight of it settle between them.

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August checks the gas, the gauge glows with an eerie half-tank light, its yellow-green hue flickering in the dim cabin of the vehicle. The tank's capacity is nearly 130 liters, and half of that should be enough for several more hours of driving if they maintain a conservative pace. Not to mention the 60 liters in the three jerrycans he saw in the trunk earlier.

August reaches for his duffel bag in the backseat, a folded map taken from one of its pockets. He unfolds the map fully, spreading it out across the dashboard. His eyes scan the northern section, looking for any landmarks or towns that could provide a temporary refuge. Layla leans in close to get a better look, her breath warm on his cheek. After a few moments of silent contemplation, August finds what he's searching for. His finger traces the route northwards, from Abbas Koshtesh, past the rugged mountains, to a small cluster of buildings nestled in a valley.

His finger finally stops on a faded cluster of buildings, marked only by a vague outline and a single word: "Base 732." The name strikes him immediately, a flash of history class from high school. He remembers researching stories for a class project, relics of the 1980s Cold War, many of them now abandoned and decaying in remote corners of Afghanistan.

Layla follows his gaze, seeing the unknown English word, her mind trying to understand why August is looking at that particular spot on the map. "Is that place important somehow?"

"Long ago, Russia had a fight with a group in this country." August explains gently, his voice androgynous as ever. "Base 732 looks to be in the mountains. Good for us since they wouldn't go up there."

Layla's face tightens as she processes the information. "So it's just... abandoned? No one's using it?" she asks, her words laced with unease. "And you're sure it's not... active or something?"

After a few seconds of rational thought, August makes his decision. "I have clothes in the bag for you. Get dressed, It's gonna get cold."

The car kicks to life as August shifts the gear into drive. Layla glances at him, her eyes filled with a mix of apprehension and trust. 

August nods reassuringly, "It's our best chance. We can rest, regroup, and figure out our next move." He eases the car back onto the highway, the tires crunching on the gravel before finding the smooth tarmac once again. 

Layla grips the seat with one hand, the landscape beginning to change as they drive further north, the arid plains giving way to rugged, snow-capped mountains.

As the car continues to navigate the winding road through the mountain pass, the air starts to thicken with a biting chill. Layla nods, remembering August's suggestion, her breath visible in the cold air. She reaches into the duffle bag, rummaging through the contents until she pulls out a thick, olive-green jacket. She slips it on, the fabric rustling as she zips it up to her neck.

"Does your chest hurt from the wraps?" August's tone is firm yet gentle.

Layla pauses in the midst of fastening her jacket, her hand hovering over the zipper. She takes a deep breath, her eyes closing briefly before she responds. "A little," she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. "But it's manageable. I'll be alright." She finishes zipping up the jacket, pulling the collar up around her neck as if to shield herself from the cold.

"May I?"

Layla hesitates, but then says, "Yeah. I-I don't mind." She leans forward from the back of her seat.

August leans over a little to her as he steadies the steering wheel, his hand moving behind Layla's neck. His fingers find the edges of the bandages and he gently loosens them, allowing for better circulation. Just like before, no lingering touch.

Layla tenses slightly at the contact, but doesn't pull away. "Thank you," she says softly, her voice strained. "It does feel a bit better now."

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The Soviet base looms ahead, a collection of concrete and steel structures half-buried in the snow. The main building, a three-story monstrosity with broken windows and rusted metal, dominates the center of the compound. Several smaller outbuildings surround it, their roofs partially collapsed. The wind howls through the empty structures, carrying with it the echoes of a long-dead conflict.

August carefully maneuvers the stolen car behind one of the squat, windowless barracks buildings and shifts the gear into park. The engine sputters and dies as he kills the ignition, the sudden silence amplified by the wind whipping through the abandoned structures.

Layla tenses beside him, her hand resting in her jacket's pockets. "Do you think anyone's here?" she whispers, her eyes darting around the empty courtyard.

The base appears deserted, with no signs of recent activity or life.