Chapter Seven
Boris and I were left bewildered. After examining his belt-fed machine gun, he said, "I'm almost out of ammo."
"What about your smoke grenades?"
"How can I use them if I don't know where he is?"
"Please, use them... Come here... I don't want to die alone."
"Are you serious? What the hell?!"
"Do you have a better plan?"
Boris moved behind the car and seemed to open the door on his side, probably searching for a smoke grenade or something. But so far, Boris hadn't noticed Razil, who was just a few meters away.
"I found it!" Boris shouted as he tossed the grenade. It exploded, and white smoke gradually filled the air. Once the path was hazy enough, Boris ran towards me. In that moment, I looked away, fearing he might die in front of me like the last one did. He slid across the dirt beside me, and we pressed our backs against the rock.
"What now? Are we just going to sit here like rats in a trap?" Boris said, breathing heavily. I stared at his bloodied face, which only made his gaunt features look even more terrifying to me.
"Why are you looking at me like that? I'm not going to kiss you!"
"Mercy, please."
My mind was still unsettled, and I was beginning to wonder if I was still trapped in a nightmare. If it weren't for the pain in my head, ears, hand, chest, and shoulder, I might've pinched myself or asked Boris to do it. Even Boris seemed confused, his focus scattered.
"I've got it!" Boris exclaimed. He pointed to the steep cliff in front of us and said, "There's a slope we can climb."
I looked at it. It seemed climbable, but I said, "Doesn't that mean we'll risk being exposed?"
Boris glanced at it again and replied, "No, I bet you it's hidden from his line of sight. I'll bet fifty Domonias on it!"
A new wave of anxiety stirred inside me. Boris was clearly disoriented, and it might be affecting his judgment. Could a grenade have rattled his mind? Would I have to kill him?
Wait, how could I even allow myself to think that?!
"Why is your face covered in blood?"
"This isn't the time to ask that."
I continued to stare at him in silence. Finally, he added, "Fine, someone fell with a hand grenade... this is his blood."
"Alright... let's do it."
"Let's go."
We stood up quickly and found a part of the slope that formed a hollow, leading inward. It took us about five minutes to climb, given how steep it was. Dirt filled my mouth and eyes as I followed Boris upwards. Finally, we reached the top of the cliff. We cautiously stood, scanning the area for the unseen sniper. I admit what we did was reckless, but we were completely confused.
We advanced a little toward where some of the others had taken cover from the side. Three scattered bodies lay there, and it seemed that whoever escaped had taken the weapons with them. On the opposite hill, where the machine gun was stationed, three more bodies were sprawled. It appeared that they too managed to flee with the gun. We also saw the fifth corpse, the one killed by his own grenade when he tried to throw it at Boris. I hadn't yet told Boris that I was the one who killed them.
A helicopter hovered high above. It must have been what drove them to flee, but by then, it was too late for us.
Boris and I sat on the edge of the cliff, catching our breath. My heart was pounding, and the thirst was unbearable. I rubbed my eyes—not because of the dust or the headache, but to try to forget what I had just witnessed. From up there, we could see the convoy where the first two vehicles had burned.
We climbed back down the slope. Every tire was punctured, and all the cars were riddled with holes, shattered glass littering the ground.
"Go to the third vehicle and try to call for help if the radio still works," Boris said.
"Alright."
I headed to the car Boris had taken cover behind. When I approached the dead driver, whose blood had splattered across the bullet-riddled windshield, I was hit by the stench of blood and vomited. I focused on the radio, but it had been hit multiple times. The receiver was hanging by its cord, emitting a garbled, distorted sound. It seemed the driver had called for help, but it was too late. The faint voice coming from the radio said:
"N... n command... hold... o-..."
Just as I was about to turn and report to Boris, I heard coughing from the back seat of the car. It was a wounded soldier, still alive. I rushed to him, opened the door, and pulled him out by his armpits. He groaned in pain.
"Don't say anything. They're coming to rescue us," I told him.
He was hit in the upper right part of his chest, maybe even his lung. I rushed back to Boris to tell him. He was standing silently over Razil's body. I wasn't sure if I should say or do something.
"Boris?" I called.
He didn't respond. His rifle slipped from his hands, and he collapsed to his knees. For the first time, I saw Boris cry. His tears mixed with the blood and dirt on his face.
"I need some time alone," he said when I tried to sit beside him and offer comfort. But he refused, so I sat next to the dying soldier, my heart aching with sorrow. But my mind suffered the most agony.
My hands—are they making the same mistake again?
Was it even a mistake?
Was it another crime committed by my hands?
I was terrified of thinking about it. I didn't want to become a murderer.
Later, when reinforcements arrived, Sobak was leading them. He was furious, seething at what had happened.