With Love and Radiations - A Finish the Story Tale

original image by @f3nix

      The still sky of February was a dirty white brick above the town of Chernihivs'ka, an hour and a half east from the Chernobyl nuclear power plant. That morning was so cold that even breathing was hurting.

      The old Lada Samara advanced through the Desnyans'kyi district, directed to the Hollywood Mall like an uncertain icebreaker in spring along the Bering Strait. "Hollywood Mall, what a dumb fucking name", thought Hennadiy, driving his lada- icebreaker, crusted with old mud and ice. There was nothing further from Hollywood than that human agglomeration. Especially on a cold winter morning, at the end of a grueling nightshift, spent by checking warehouses, placing stupid "Dozor Security" cards under doors or windows.

      At the intersection between Rokossovs'koho and Travnia Street, a bright coloured billboard caught his attention: a flourishing freckled girl was ecstatically savouring a spoonful of instant soup antychni smaky.

      "Lyubov is more beautiful than you", Hennadiy thought instinctively, and a lump in his throat suddenly formed.

      Yes, Lyubov, with your high cheekbones and the blue eyes made of ancient permafrost. You were so beautiful that it was hurting me and when I stared at you, my lost gaze, you used to burst out laughing, throw me a fist, then we made love. You were a fierce, indomitable creature, never aware of how much your beauty could set those around you in awe. We were many things before your light began to fade and your colours faded away too, like the sad fences I now watch from the fucking Hollywood mall. Until this nightshift will be over. Until you too will be finished, distant from me, in the hands of another lover named heroin.

      If I think that everything had started as a foolish game, with that Nazar "the Spaniard", his feigned friendship and his pearls of wisdom like "After three times you have to stop otherwise you'll get the monkey". I was so foolish in trusting him, an old childhood friend returned after so many years. Needing to feel at home once again. I couldn’t see, through those appearances, the wolf behind the lamb. All our dreams went to hell, Lyuba, I let you do that, I let you slip away slowly together with our future. I watched you wearing a collar and tightening it around your neck till you could not stop your hands anymore.

      Hennadyi finished the cigarette and with trembling fingers threw the stump, which extinguished well before touching the icy puddle.

      Enveloped in his thoughts, a memory suddenly surfaced bringing a glimmer of hope.

      He remembered of that night when he finally faced Nazar and beat him hard, his face swollen by his fists after the fight: "If you really care to make a change in your life, why don't you follow me in the zone? I could have an interesting job for you. After that, you can buy all the smack you want for your Lyuba".

      Hennadyi was seven years old when, in 1986, the reactor exploded, interrupting for more than a year his games in the yard and distorting the life of his whole family. His father, a surveyor, had worked on the almost impossible rehabilitation of the nuclear power plant, right in the area of ​​reactor n.4. The coffin. They were called "liquidators" and it was thanks to their heroic and, unfortunately, unconscious work that the radiation was contained within the areas subsequently called "alienation zone".

      The worst areas, with radioactivity exceeding 40 curies per square km of cesium 137, had been completely confiscated and closed. That exclusion was in force till today. For security reasons, at least this was the official version.

      It was Wednesday, Hennadyi promised himself that in the evening he would go to the old canteen, the Dining Chernobyl n. 19, to meet that son of a bitch of Nazar and see if life would have forgotten to be ruthless, at least for once.

      The sky had opened up at nightfall, pouring buckets of dirty rinse water down onto Hennadyi as he arrived at the meeting point. He made a show of stamping his feet and shaking the wet from his coat while surveying the canteen. There were three cooks behind the line, a handful of people shuffling along with trays laden with bowls of borscht, biscuits and catfish. His stomach rumbled at the whiff of sautéed catfish, protesting that there was food that wouldn’t be heading its way.

      In the back of the room, second table from the end of the row, was Nazar. He was smiling, though not as broadly as before thanks to the swelling in his face, Hennadyi thought with satisfaction, and chatting animatedly with a table of elderly ladies across from him. Behind him, two hornless bulls sat, disguised as humans wearing ugly sweaters while eating pickles.

      Hennadyi made his way towards the charismatic bastard. Suddenly, "the Spaniard’s" hands slapped hard onto the table as he leaned to his audience and proclaimed theatrically: “So I told him that THAT’S how we DO IT in Spain!” The ladies tittered, perfectly charmed by his joke. Nazar sat back, his smug look while he took a sip of his whiskey making Hennadyi want to paint the man’s face with his fists again.

      Dark eyes met his as Nazar feigned surprise at having a guest. “Ah! There’s my sparring partner!”, he stood and walked over, grabbing the disgusted guard into a friendly hug. Swinging back around to the women, Nazar said: “Ladies, I’m afraid that I have to discuss a few things with my comrade here. Would you mind?”

      The women happily rose from the table, gathering their purses and umbrellas and stopping to thank the bastard for both their meal and the lovely story. As they left, one, a tiny little granny in a canary yellow coat, stabbed her finger into Hennadyi’s chest and told him sternly that he should be ashamed of himself for getting carried away during a spar. Point made, she marched out of the canteen with her little group in tow.

      Nazar, the charm now vanished from his voice, reclaimed the security guard’s attention. “Sit. We’ll have ourselves a little chat. I’ll tell you how to save your sweet Lyubov, you’ll do it, and we’ll both get more from tonight than this cheap excuse for whiskey.” The remnants of the cup’s contents were splashed onto the floor.

      Ignoring the command to be seated while eyeing the bulls behind “the Spaniard”, Hennadyi countered: “I haven’t agreed to anything yet.” Brown Sweatered Bull made to stand but eased back into his chair with a raised finger from his boss.

      Head tilting, Nazar dug something from his pocket. “What did your father tell you about his work in the coffin?” With a small clatter, he dropped an item onto the table top. A tiny blue and black rocking horse figurine. The sight of it here, years away from his childhood, froze the breath in Hennadyi’s chest. His expression must have shown, as Nazar smirked in triumph: “Memories, eh? I must say that after I came back, after all those years, meeting your weak willed love was a blessing of fortune. I’ve a few clients with interests in items that can only be procured within the “alienation zone” and you, my friend, will use your father’s keys and maps to get them for me”.

      “Oh chuk, chuky-chuk, Nalovyv did shchuk, Baba navaryla, Dida nakormyla”. Nazar was now improvising an unlikely tip-tap, singing a limerick for babies to him, giggling, making fun of his face that, at that moment, must have resembled that of a dumb child.

      He stopped suddenly: “I had to do it, Lyubov. She was..useful.. for my and our purpose but I didn’t know what you became in all these years, my old friend. I felt that you needed additional ..motivation.. for doing this”.

      Still confused by the figurine, and by admission of Nazar that Lyubov’s addiction was planned, Hennadyi asked, his voice broken for the boiling rage: “Trinkets? You did all of this for trinkets to sell to Cherynobyl collectors?”

      The Spaniard laughed. “No mere trinkets. We want the ‘lings. The little ones hidden in the nurseries in the zone.” His hand reached out, pulling down on the rocking horse and setting it into motion, “Those sweet, unaging children who seem fascinated by these little toys.” He looked deep past Hennadyi to the newest entries in the canteen. “Rare and special young ones who have shown aptitudes and appetites beyond that of normal kiddies. And let me tell you, rare always fetches a lovely price.”

      “You’ve been listening to too many conspiracy theorists.” Hennadyi spluttered. “And what the hell makes you think that there’s anything alive in the zone? My father never said anything through all of his years as a liquidator.”

      “Don’t be rude.” Nazar said calmly. “My contacts are reliable and you will get me what I want. After all, what type of man would turn down the chance to save his love?” He gestured to someone behind the security guard. “Or their dear old Dad?”

      Alarmed, Hennadyi spun to see his father, wet and beaten. His limp body held upright by two more goons. “Father…” he breathed out, the realization of how deeply involved he was closing in on him.

      From behind, Nazar’s voice, full again of charm simply said, “Relax, my friend! He’ll recover, eventually. Cheer up and let’s enjoy one more of these burning lava shots before we set to our night’s work. Arriba, abajo, al centro, pa’ dentro! That’s how we do it in Spain!”

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      This story was written in collaboration with @f3nix for his weekly contest, Finish the Tale. In it, he posts a first part of a story and asks that those who want to puts an ending in the comments. He rewards three of his favorite endings with shares in the Steem Basic Income program and splits the SBD payout with the honorable mentions. Last week, F3nix encouraged those participating to post their endings on their blogs with his part attached. Thank you, F3nix, for your friendship and for the tale!

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art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics

Thank you @omra-sky for this GIF! 😻

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Thank YOU for reading!