by Josh Hearon (Autumn~Burn~Death)
Thin tendrils of smoke wafted up through the rain spattered Autumn leaves. A damp silence had settled over the meadow, low rolls of thunder but a memory of the violence visited upon the mountain. Flare, bright, a cool menthol burn in the lungs. He takes another slow drag, letting the nicotine blunt the dull ache in his chest.
All of this over a woman, it is always over a woman. She wasn’t even a particularly good woman. She was sweet, but not overly bright, and obviously, she was quite damaged. Zlata. Her name was Zlata, which translates to gold, obviously her parents had high hopes. He had noticed her, caught her eye, while dicing at a terrible dive of a bar in the Sayan Mountains. The Sayan Mountains, Siberia, Russia... great. Siberia, the Australia for Russian outcasts and thugs. While his Russian was atrocious, he had been sent here to help route a new oil pipeline, and you didn’t need to speak the language if you carried a big enough gun. He had been hired as personal security for a group of plutocrats looking to make a fortune in this oft frozen wasteland. This trip was a security assessment, just a look around...
After countless battlefields and a slew of messy situations, he knew when to mind his own business. Sadly, his rough worn sensibilities still held chivalry in high esteem. It had been half an hour of relentless, drunken, bluster “Loh blyadischa, blyadischa, blyadischa, loh blyadischa...”, it was obvious that he thought she was a whore, and not a particularly bright one. When the thick, hairy armed bruiser took Zlata by the hair in one hand, and a beer bottle in the other, he never expected to be hit in the face by a heavy, sharp edged die. Shock, followed by a hand wiping blood away from his eye, and, inevitably, animal rage. The drunken slob charged, like a bull he was all power and no finesse. One quick sidestep, a slap to the throat, and a knee to the solar plexus, over before it began- or so he thought... Semyon Nekrasov, billion ruble-ionaire, oil baron and criminal scum, in a puddle of his own vomit on the floor.
They had left promptly, he and Zlata, off to his rented dacha on the edge of town. They had shared voda, “little water”, or better known, Vodka, and she had warned him to quickly leave the country. Semyon had many friends. “You arenekulturnyj amerikanec! You are not safe here, you must go! Now!!!” She had said. By morning, it was too late...
Another long slow drag, red cherry crackling audibly in the stillness of the damp morning. Death was here. Bodies amongst the trees. How many had it been? Enough. The heavy skies became more insistent, threatening downpour. “Shit, its raining” he murmured as the cigarette fell from his lips
Thin tendrils of smoke wafted up through the rain spattered Autumn leaves. A damp silence had settled over the meadow, low rolls of thunder but a memory of the violence visited upon the mountain. Flare, bright, a cool menthol burn in the lungs. He takes another slow drag, letting the nicotine blunt the dull ache in his chest.
All of this over a woman, it is always over a woman. She wasn’t even a particularly good woman. She was sweet, but not overly bright, and obviously, she was quite damaged. Zlata. Her name was Zlata, which translates to gold, obviously her parents had high hopes. He had noticed her, caught her eye, while dicing at a terrible dive of a bar in the Sayan Mountains. The Sayan Mountains, Siberia, Russia... great. Siberia, the Australia for Russian outcasts and thugs. While his Russian was atrocious, he had been sent here to help route a new oil pipeline, and you didn’t need to speak the language if you carried a big enough gun. He had been hired as personal security for a group of plutocrats looking to make a fortune in this oft frozen wasteland. This trip was a security assessment, just a look around...
After countless battlefields and a slew of messy situations, he knew when to mind his own business. Sadly, his rough worn sensibilities still held chivalry in high esteem. It had been half an hour of relentless, drunken, bluster “Loh blyadischa, blyadischa, blyadischa, loh blyadischa...”, it was obvious that he thought she was a whore, and not a particularly bright one. When the thick, hairy armed bruiser took Zlata by the hair in one hand, and a beer bottle in the other, he never expected to be hit in the face by a heavy, sharp edged die. Shock, followed by a hand wiping blood away from his eye, and, inevitably, animal rage. The drunken slob charged, like a bull he was all power and no finesse. One quick sidestep, a slap to the throat, and a knee to the solar plexus, over before it began- or so he thought... Semyon Nekrasov, billion ruble-ionaire, oil baron and criminal scum, in a puddle of his own vomit on the floor.
They had left promptly, he and Zlata, off to his rented dacha on the edge of town. They had shared voda, “little water”, or better known, Vodka, and she had warned him to quickly leave the country. Semyon had many friends. “You arenekulturnyj amerikanec! You are not safe here, you must go! Now!!!” She had said. By morning, it was too late...
Another long slow drag, red cherry crackling audibly in the stillness of the damp morning. Death was here. Bodies amongst the trees. How many had it been? Enough. The heavy skies became more insistent, threatening downpour. “Shit, its raining” he murmured as the cigarette fell from his lips