Static from a TV crackled in the ramshackle building. Rain fell through the large holes in the ceiling and dripped down into the dark room below, landing in the strategically placed buckets with tepid filthy water that had most likely been standing there for decades. The buckets were almost completely overtaken by rust. Outside the ruined building, an old generator thrummed with the fuel that had recently been siphoned from the numerous abandoned cars outside. The only source of light in the dark room was the static of the old TV and two dim lamps in the corners that revealed the paint that was peeling off the walls.

  Dust periodically fell from the ceiling as suppressed thuds echoed in the background. A tired man stood and adjusted the parabola through the hole in the wall behind the TV.

  A crackle switched the static to a news show introduction screen before revealing the news presenter, a black woman who sat in a chair with her arms folded. Her loud voice suppressed the sound of everything else in the background. The man picked up his cheap whisky filled glass from the floor and carefully rounded around the TV as it blasted out its news report.

  “This just in, there has been a concerning rise in Islamophobia in the UK following the thermonuclear detonation on the London bridge last year. The increase in recorded islamophobia has been unprecedented, even higher than after the Twenty-Forty Six sarin nerve gas attack in Brussels and after the Twenty-Forty Eight detonation of the Eiffel Tower, two sets of fig-” crackled through the old dust covered TV as the man changed the channel.

  He sank down into the ripped leather couch that had long since given up its springiness in favor of a more deflated natural state. The man’s face scrunched up in annoyance and grabbed the remote. He pushed the button and the TV sparked as another channel came up.

  “The Canadian based company Celurion which spawned lawsuits by several major arms dealers last week, pleaded guilty to criminal wrongdoing and was told to pay threebillion in penalties for giving arms dealers misleading safety reports on the installation of its fist-sized fusion cell components. After the installation of their devices into Mark Two Railguns were linked to unintended explosions leading to deaths and injuries amidst their middle eastern trading partners. The-”

  The man raised the remote, coughed and changed the channel once more.

  “-this Tuesday morning, an area in west central Sweden that the Swedish government has refused to name out of respect for the grieving families, was cordoned off by the military due to a catastrophic failure that led to a sudden drop in water levels of the local lake. Recently, high traces of radiation were discovered-”

  “Tovarishch! Vodko! get in here. Blyat, it’s one of those stories you’re into,” the man looked down at his pint of whiskey. The clear surface showed the man’s haggard face.

  Vodko nudged the door open with his shoulder as he wiped off his bloody hands on an old white towel and threw it next to him on the floor.

  “Da, Vladimir, Is done. I was told to make him talk. He said stop. Stop is talking. So I done,”

  Vodko’s footsteps echoed thanks to the structure of the old building. He walked past Vladimir and sat down on the couch, leaning on the armrest while using his leg to suppress the coach’s springs from digging into him when Vladimir unmuted the video.

  “..the military has started to evacuate the locals in the surrounding area. Experts are currently investigating its connection to the disappearance of a local man and the multiple fatalities. The man in question, who reportedly disappeared, Christofer–"

  Static interrupted the broadcast again. The Russian man muttered angrily, hitting the TV. The screen cleared to show the news anchor, looking slightly frazzled.

  "--about possible connections to the incident. Authorities stress that there is no cause for public alarm. The area remains under tight security to prevent unauthorized access and ensure public safety. Further details will be provided as they become available.”

  “Hm”, Vodko uttered unconsciously as he was curious about the news report.

  Vladimir glanced at Vodko’s expression and realized what he wanted. He grabbed a t-shirt from the pile on the table and threw it at the parabola behind it, which turned the TV back into a mere light source with static, which gratefully was at least silent. With the silence back in the room once more, the sobs from the other room were now clearly heard again since the door had been left open. Vladimir pushed a few more t-shirts to the side, which fell to the floor. He holstered the gun that lay under them and finally dug out a newspaper buried beneath it all.

  “Today’s newspaper. Blyat, tovarish, story should of be there. These are hard to come by, Poland are one of few places that still printings news in paper. So I suggest you’ve brushed up on your polish,” he said.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Zayebis, debil, you force me extra work, blyat!” Vodko exclaimed, “Ah, forgot money for job!”

  Vodko extended his hand.

  “Pohui … here,” Vladimir extended some bills clutched in his fist.

  “Do svidaniya,” Vodko said as he gestured a goodbye with a hand and stepped out of what remained of the front door.

  With his rifle dangling on his back, he continued walking confidently down the road, turned a corner and kept on walking down the road of cracked concrete that ended at a washed-out bridge. Past it, the moonlight lit the barricades, the ruins of the bridge dangling over the muddy water below. Sporadic gunfire echoed throughout the night, and bursts of bright color regularly lit up the lawless streets, reflecting shards of light from the broken glass of abandoned buildings. He tuned it out until the only sound he could hear was his own footfalls. Nothing was changing, yet he still walked.

  Gopniks were squatting on the streets around burning barrels with a bottle in hand in front of towering old buildings. Nearer towards the inner city, it was common to see junkies looking to roll a cabbie that would occasionally have to travel through the lawless yellow zone area. An older man in a weathered brown coat shuffled towards Vodko as he walked on the sidewalk.

  “Please sir, money.” The man cupped his hands and attempted to look as pitiful as possible.

  “Ah, izvini, I not have money, blyat,” Vodko answered.

  “I have a knife,” the man responded with an ugly grimace as if he was trying to build up his courage to do something.

  “Njet, I not need knife,” Vodko said dismissively as he kept on walking.

  The inner city and its inhabitants exuded energy in all its forms, including; perverts living out their fantasy, hedonists reveling in self-satisfaction, the working class struggling-to make ends meet, the greedy accumulating-yet never enough, youths in search of mates, towering edifices reconditioning their environment and ablaze with lights, gourmands on route to a new restaurant in hopes of a truly great meal, steam spewing from the mechanized exhaust vents gratings-as if the city itself was cooking.

  Vodko approached a smaller building, as he pushed in and turned the key, lights went on in the middle of the screen to the right of the door. Glistening pieces of electronics with dozens of buttons, dials, and readouts. Amber and green lights flickered across the device. The displays showed figures that were letters and numbers. Vodko leisurely solved the puzzle as he had done so many times before. A mechanism clicked; the door swung open, and he stepped inside.

  “Ah! blin, home sweet home,” he said as he adjusted the tinfoil hat under his brown vintage aviator hat that was made out of genuine fake leather.

  Vodko kicked off his shoes which flew into the wall with a thud, then walked into the middle of the building. The walls to the right were covered with weapons of various kinds. Rifles, guns, knives. Even a box with a rocket launcher sat on the floor. He walked to an empty spot and unslung the rifle from his back, hanging it up.

  “There we go, Sasha,” he said as he placed the rifle in the empty spot, clapped his hands together and turned around.

  The wall in front of him showed a large cork board that was securely fastened to the wall. Numerous papers were pinned to it. Pictures of people littered the surface as red pins with red thread connected them into a complex spider net array of connecting events and personal connections. Connections to the people around a large piece of paper with a question mark. He knew these events and people were connected, but he couldn’t yet figure out what it was connected to. He needed more information and more time. The government wouldn’t say, ‘but then again, men in black would probably come in and take his stuff away if they found out that he was looking into something they’ve covered up’

  Vodko moved a sofa to a nearby table, placed the newspaper in front of him and took up a knife from a holster on his leg and placed it on the table. Then, to be able to sit down comfortably, he removed another seven guns, and three knives and placed them next to the newspaper before he sat down and started flipping through the newspaper, looking for the face he memorized in the news report earlier that day. Something slid out from within the newspaper’s pages and fell down on the floor.. 'Hm? What’s this?' Vodko thought as he crouched down.

  He picked up a large envelope from the floor, flicked it up with the knife and emptied out its contents on the table. His face lit up. He picked up a large note and turned it around.

  ‘Ah… Another assignment…’

  He swiped the contents of the envelope that was on the table off to the side, crumpled it into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket, before slapping down the note on the table next to the newspaper and the knife. He dusted off a duffel bag and carried it next to the table. He then paced back and forth around his armory as he pondered on what could be useful this time. He picked up one item and turned it around. He put it back and instead lit the light bulb of a room and stepped inside. He picked a piece off the wall and weighed it in his hands.

  ‘This’ll do.’ he thought.

  He then walked back, unzipped the duffel bag and stuffed it inside. He picked off a classic close to him that hung on the wall, changed the magazine just to be sure and shoved that into the duffel bag as well. He paused for a moment and went over to the armory and pulled a heavy box out. He threw open the lid and picked out some more useful supplementary equipment and added that to the duffel bag before sealing it up. He lifted up the duffel bag by its strap and maintained his balance with it while standing on one leg.

  ‘This shouldn’t weigh too much. This is good.’

  He set it down, picked up the guns from the table and carefully holstered each one by one until only the knife, note and the newspaper was left on the table.