Taken by Berlin. Nicolas Scheerbarth
engine noise... combustion engine... heavy equipment... attention, visual contact... it's the trailer truck!"
"Roger, post 4. Nest to all. Here we go. The truck's coming. Pack 2, are you in position?"
"Yes."
"Nest to all. Absolute radio silence. The order is vulture’s nest. Repeat: order vulture’s nest."
Silence... Klin now lies under the bush with one other guy... his head half raised. Of course, nothing to see, no SA Banner, no pioneers, not the two Woodspeople fighting packs... and they all are lurking.
A humming sound around the bend. The grind of the concrete crumbs. His comrade pushes himself forward. Klin’s face reddens with exertion, his muscles tense under the wafer-thin fabric. For a moment the sound still floats in the distance, almost a natural sound... vibrations penetrate from the endless foundation, behind the last bend... then louder humming, moves towards him, shakes the old interstate... really close now. The grinding and roaring reaches Klin... an ancient giant. A Volga 40 ton tank truck with methanol turbine and armored driver's cab, grey brown-green, dirty, scarred by a thousand deadly liquids, which it was supposed to bring safely through a collapsing world, and which were spilled too often during filling... rolls and grinds deafeningly on mine-proof metal wire tires, molds deep into soft tar stains, too slowly to whirl up any dust... up, to the next turn and around and... a hissing groan. And stops.
Klin lets his head sink forward, forehead, nose, lips, and chin onto a piece of dusty concrete. Quiet shouts, short steps... slowly, noises peel from the stupefaction again... the flat breathing of the man next to him... the sounds of an arduously living nature, rustling, cracking... branches still break often just by themselves... chirping and buzzing of insects, sounds that slowly fuse to peaceful atmosphere, rustling... and humming... becoming ever clearer. Klin shrugs, the comrade's hand is on his arm, grabs and squeezes him. A humming stands out, rises up from the forest, the valley, the plain. From Rinemain, a message from far away hums up with unexpected speed... gently and quickly three shadows pass and...
... howling of brakes. Crunching. Strikes and breaking. The people there are good, very good. The last of the three cars isn't yet standing, when they start shooting from the first one, above, behind the bend, already, although it must be badly damaged. Short, dry single shots, they're not even flustered. Ricochets hit the tank train. From staccato to a symphony. From the third car, clearly in front of Klin, two men dive out and die in flight, chopped up by grenades. The barrels of submachine guns protrude from portholes, shooting randomly into the bushes.
Command calls reach Klin. The radio silence must not be broken. A dull impact, harmless as the falling of a heavy book. A bubbling rolling roar. A black cloud rises over the bend. The gunfire lessens. The three cars have stopped for less than ten seconds now. They don’t stand a chance. From the corner of his eye, Klin spots a trace of flame, a hiss, the impact of the bazooka... the second heavy book falling, superimposed with the drone of the explosion immediately in front of him, which rattles as it shatters all around it... exploding ammunition in the car, followed by the roaring outburst of its fuel aflame. Black smoke rolls over the flames, a burning person staggers monstrously out of the inferno and is torn apart by the explosion of his magazine just before Klin. No more shots fired. Attack pioneers in protective clothing spray foam from large cartridges onto the fires, which move as if deliberately onto the parched forest.
"Pack 2! Catch up carefully!"
That's for Klin. Securing his leeside, he slowly sneaks uphill, observing his regiment coming up from the curve below, ducking along the bushes, guns at the ready.
Behind the curve, the same sight... an armored Lada of the Union police cracked open like a crushed can, three charred corpses and men of the SP with a heavy fire extinguisher. The tank truck is parked across the road above. And in the middle, the second car. Slipped to the left side, its weight crushed the brittle middle plank. As if it wasn't part of all this at all. A few dents in the armor, the paint singed by the heat, no movement behind the black windows. Klin is close enough, looks again and again at the monstrous vehicle, a haunted dinosaur. An astonishing relic of a bygone era, from the fleet of the Council of the Union. Benz 900 SLL 16-cylinder, built in 2037.
SA and Woodspeople are standing around it, some with tears in their eyes. They hate this monster, arrogant symbol of waste... well over 200 kilometers per hour it can go, so they've have heard, even though they really don't believe it. It burns gasoline... oil!... destroys the most precious resource humans know today in its lavish thirst... the tiny, priceless base for the remains of civilization.
Two bushes are pulled aside like stage flats. Four men haul some heavy equipment. They put it on the cracked road next to the limousine. A man wraps a camouflage material package, a bulky projector, thick cables are inserted between projector and box.
"Damn it, hurry up! – Banner-Leader, we're ready."
The Banner-Leader himself is standing at the generator box. He towers above most of the young fighters, a tall, lean man with a silver-grey crew cut, furrowed face, and hard, sinewy muscles. The laser beam is red-hot, it swings playfully along the right front fender of the armored car. Cuts through like butter. The cut it makes is a hair’s breadth wide. Mudguard, wheel, suspension and wheel arch rumble to the side, the car sinks deeper into the bottom of the center strip.
"Go ahead!" – the Banner-Leader restrained to his men.
Again, the laser beam digs into the car slowly... metallic grinding and rubbing... a smooth cut separates the front end and engine from the driver and passenger compartment.
"Pull back!"
Some men have their guns pointed at the windows. Storm pioneers pull the separated vehicle parts away from the front, spray foam onto the cut pipes and leaking oil and petrol.
"The driver!"
The beam eats into the driver's cab, is pulled back and forth... the yelling heard through the armored and insulated walls make some of the young fighters twitch. The driver's door opens at a glacial pace, the weapons of the guards click, a single nervous bullet slams into the gap... which widens as parts of the door are cut off and fall outwards, with bloody lumps of meat, limbs cut lengthwise and crosswise, half a head and a red mass of pulp. Young fighters turn away, cover their eyes in the face of their handiwork.
"The cabin! Come on, get going, you pussies! Time is running out." – a Rott-Leader is unmoved.
The laser gunner concentrates, cuts the car through the middle more slowly than before, behind the partition wall between the driver and passenger compartment.
"Gas ready?" – the Banner-Leader quietly.
"Yes, Führer, all ready. If that bastard complains, he's gonna get a load of it."
"Then hand me the megaphone and open the car now."
"Come on, open the can!" – the Rott-Leader.
They crack the door open. The fighter with the gas cartridge rifle aims at the opening gap.
"Silajev!" – the Banner-Leader through the megaphone. "We're getting you out now. Do not resist! As long as you do as told, nothing will happen to you."
In a hurry, the laser is dismantled. They push the car's rests apart with poles, no longer anticipating resistance. There are just a few men remaining around.
In the rearmost corner of the passenger cabin... a man, silver-grey, short hair, rumpled, a wrinkled, lean face without color... Joschi Silajev...
"Get him out of there! But be careful! Maybe the bastard's got a piece hidden somewhere."
Klin lowers the gun... relaxes and watches the prisoner, a helpless ruler. The opponent, the monster, the bastard, his fear as surreal as the abundance and amount of his power. Some laugh nervously, the sight appears ridiculous, a view into the machine of power brutally cracked open to reveal one of the small cogs, pants soiled with fear, the wet spots are easily recognizable on the light linen trousers. Those who are supposed to get him out walk towards the wreck, others fiddle with their weapons, more satisfied threatening gestures than justified caution. He pushes back in one last, frightened