Blood of My Monster: Chapter 9

The fucking fucker.

I swear to everything that’s unholy, I’m going to murder the fuck out of him if he’s alive.

It takes me more time than I have to spare to reach the slimy bastard. First, I had to eliminate the sniper who seemed to have a personal grudge against him—probably because he killed one of his friends or some fucking shit.

The way he was aiming at Lipovsky was an act of pure vengeance. He wouldn’t have stopped until he deemed that he’d paid.

Then I had to kill the three insurgents who came rushing for his life while he was slumbering under the tree like some sort of Sleeping Beauty.

The truth remains, Lipovsky is injured due to either sheer stupidity or a grandiose sense of bravery. I can’t tell which, but I digress. Only slightly.

I should leave the fucker to die, for all I care, but then again, he did expose himself because he knew that was the surest way to allow me to shoot the sniper right between his fucking eyes.

Crouching, I remove his helmet and the balaclava. His sweaty brown hair sticks to his forehead. It’s obviously dyed, because sometimes he goes longer between dye jobs and his lighter roots start growing.

The rifle’s sling, which has been strangling him since he was in the tree, has created stripes of red on the pale skin of his throat.

I start to pull it away, but I’m met with resistance.

His eyes are shut, and his lips are blue, which is a bad fucking sign, but the little shit actually tightens his fingers on his weapon.

Losing my weapon is no different from losing my life.

I yank the rifle out of his hold and strap it on my shoulder. Then I mechanically pull him against me. Once again, I’m struck by the sheer softness of the fucker, especially when he’s not being rigid and going through all the motions to appear tougher than he actually is.

I don’t have to search long for the wound. The ugly hole isn’t big, but it’s soaking his entire back with blood. The bullet must’ve hit an artery, considering the hemorrhage, and the hole with no exit on the flesh, right beside the protective vest.

It’s not near any vital organs, but the blue lips aren’t a good sign.

We need to get him out of here now.

Just when I’m about to lift him, a prickling sensation stabs me in the back of my neck, and I grab my rifle before I abruptly turn around.

No one is in sight, but I feel them lurking in the surrounding area. I remain in place, unmoving, then I slowly focus on Lipovsky.

The moment they do attack, I’m ready for them. I shoot the first in the heart, but when I turn to the other, he’s already jumping on me and punches me in the side of my head.

My ears ring, but I grab my knife and stab him in the eye. He howls, trying to jump back, but it’s already too late.

I shoot him with Lipovsky’s rifle and he falls to the ground.

Motherfucker. My ear still rings from the blow, despite the helmet.

I click on my earpiece. “Alpha One to Wolf One. We have a man down, over.”

Nothing comes through, not even static.

Fucking fuck.

I remove it from my ear, and sure enough, it’s all crumpled.

So I switch to my portable one. “Alpha One to Wolf One, we have a man down. I repeat, one man down. Over.”

This time, there’s static, but no reply. Seeing how the operation was fucked sideways, I wouldn’t be surprised if our communication was messed with.

I barely managed to have a small info exchange with Viktor earlier. At least he’s alive. Which can’t be said about everyone else.

We lost our snipers and our medic.

The helicopter isn’t here yet, and there are no more sounds of gunfire. I don’t know where the rest of my team fucked off to, and I can’t afford to stay here any longer, or this little shit is as good as dead.

“Alpha One to base. I’m taking the man down to safety, over.” Then I click again. “Wolf One, you better bring your team back alive, over.”

If Viktor also loses men like Rulan did—

I promptly remove that idea from my head and start to lift Lipovsky on my back. He’s so light, it’s easy to carry him. But since he’s unconscious, he starts tilting to the side, so I use the sling of his rifle to attach his hands to my neck.

He moans when I put pressure against his wound.

No fucking kidding, he actually moans. The sound is soft, too, like…

I narrow my eyes on his unconscious face, but I let it go.

After making sure the path is clear, I use the trees as camouflage and inch closer to the pickup location. I expect to find the others there since it’s almost time for the helicopter to pick us up, but there’s no sign of anyone.

I recheck my watch while I remain hidden by the trees.

The sound of a helicopter approaching reaches my ears, but I still don’t leave my spot. Something’s fishy about the whole operation, and since Viktor is more suspicious than me, he also won’t trust the pickup.

The helicopter slowly makes its careful descent, as if the pilot himself feels the gloom the mission has cast on the premises.

I don’t start toward it, waiting for it to hit the snow first. Then just when it’s close enough to touch down—boom.

I throw Lipovsky on the ground and cover him with my body as fire eats the helicopter and whoever was in it.

Fuck. Fuck!

Some shards hit my back and leg. The first lodges itself into my vest, but the second one cuts my flesh.

I groan, but I don’t wait. My wound is minor and I can walk without a problem.

I practically drag Lipovsky, then carry him on my back and run the length of the snowy forest.

Viktor will find a way out for himself and the others. That’s what he does best, and I trust him to bring the rest of my men back alive.

No matter what happens, it’s a survival game for all of us. And while I prefer to lead my team to safety myself, the circumstances don’t allow it.

In order to save the team, I’d have to leave a man behind, and that’s simply not the way I do things.

After twenty minutes of running, I’m far enough from the operation site to stop and think about a possible plan.

My options are few, considering that I have no transportation, the intercom still doesn’t work, despite my numerous attempts, and the nearest hospital is no less than a nonstop eight-hour run. Lipovsky won’t be able to hold on that long. Hell, even these twenty minutes on top of the time he’s been unconscious are a stretch.

He’s getting hotter, his lips are bluer, and he needs emergency care soon.

In our initial scouting of the area, we found a few villages near the warehouse that the insurgents have used for their supplies. It’s how we managed to locate them in the first place.

Thirty minutes by car equals an hour-and-a-half walk. Or an hour run. Considering I’m carrying extra weight and moving through heavy snow, it could be more.

An hour is too long for him, but I have no other choice. Either that or I leave him to die.

I put him on the ground and remove my vest, then his and bury them in the snow. Not the safest choice, but it’s the smartest. If we’re lighter, I can run faster.

It takes me exactly one hour and three minutes to see signs of a village. I had to turn off my and Lipovsky’s GPS to avoid being tracked by whoever sabotaged my mission.

Now, the trickiest part is entering a somewhat peaceful village full of old people while carrying a wounded soldier.

They’ll never let us through or help us. Village people, in general, are wary of any military forces, especially those who demand their help.

So I remove my helmet and balaclava, then place Lipovsky under a tree on the outskirts. It’s freezing, but his skin is hot to the touch. Sweat covers it, and his lips have turned a pale blue.

“I’ll be right back.” I push his hair away from his face, and he grumbles some gibberish.

I leave his rifle in his hand, which he surprisingly tightens his hold around, though it’s a weak grip.

Then I bury my weapon in the snow.

It’s early morning, so there aren’t a lot of people around. However, I’ll likely draw attention. Despite getting rid of my helmet and weapon, I still look like a soldier.

I sneak around a few houses before I finally choose one that has a vast yard and a shed in which clothes are hanging.

After studying my surroundings, I jump over the wall and sneak to the shed. I steal two changes of clothes and even find a pair of fur-lined winter boots.

I roll them all into the oversized coat, attach them to my back, and leave the house right as the front door opens.

A small shriek sounds, but I’m already out of there.

I’ll repay you for these one day, lady.

I rush back to where I left Lipovsky.

He’s curled beneath the tree, his face pasty white and his rifle in his hand.

This is bad. He’s at his physical limits at this point.

In no time, I remove my clothes and lay them on the snow, then put on the pants and cardigan I stole, plus the coat.

After I’m done, I lay Lipovsky down. He moans again, the sound weaker and barely audible.

I hesitate, but only for a second before I rip off his shirt, exposing his—or should I say her pale skin to the cold.

As I suspected, her chest is bound with a bandage, and she has the figure of a woman.

Now, I don’t know why she goes by a male name or why she went through all the trouble to join the military, but I do know it’s important enough that she sacrificed her gender identity for it.

Or maybe she wants to be a he, which does make sense, considering how much she loathes being weak.

At any rate, she’s more comfortable being addressed as a he, but she really needs to be a she right now. The only way these villagers will help is if we approach them as ordinary people.

I remove the bandages, stopping when her breasts bounce free. They’re neither big nor small. They’re just the right size to grab onto while—

Focus.

I put the dress on her, then make a hole where her wound is and soak it with blood. After I’m satisfied with the way it looks, I remove her pants, cover her with the coat, and slip the boots on her feet. They’re a size too big, but they’ll do. Mine will stay since they fit the clothes I got for me.

Once I’m finished, I pause, staring at her. It’s weird that a mere change of clothes can make such a difference in the way she looks.

After I bury our belongings, including her rifle, in the snow, I carry her bridal style and start toward the village.

She’s light, barely noticeable in my arms. Her head leans against my chest and she has a limp, bloodied arm around my neck.

“Lipovsky,” I call in an attempt to keep her conscious.

“Aleksandra…” she whispers, her voice low and brittle.

So that’s her real name.

Aleksandra.

I’ve got to say, I’m disappointed in the lack of effort in picking a male name.

A man who’s pushing a carriage full of vegetables stops upon seeing me, his old face creasing in surprise.

“What is this…what is going on?” He speaks in a very regional dialect that I barely understand.

“My wife…” I soften my voice and inject it with sorrow, acting the part to perfection. “She was shot by a soldier. Please help us.”