"The Zone is full of men just like you, comrade. Not guilty. Never had a single thought about muzhelostvo in their whole life. Never said a bad word about the State. Never lied to Ministry officers."
He folded his arms, the motion casual, though muscle bulged under the gray wool of his uniform.
Barshov remained silent. Taras thought he saw a frown start to slip across the man's features, quickly suppressed.
"All those men, in the camps, working all day, digging in the frozen snow, breaking rocks. Out there in the cold with muscle cramps and a thin jacket and a hat crawling with lice. One bowl of soup with maggots in it for breakfast. No showers. Maybe every other day some guy goes crazy and jumps another guy, maybe bites off his ear before the guards beat him down. Best meal he's had in months, but both of them have to get right back to work. And that's what happens during the day."
He shrugged.
"Nights are a lot worse."
Taras paused.
It was strange, to talk about the Zone.
He usually didn't think about it, not in so much detail. Over the years, the particulars had faded in his mind, like a book he'd read a long time ago and didn't remember well anymore.
Taras was content with that. He didn't need to remember. Like the Siege, it had been something that happened to him, but it wasn't a problem anymore.
He'd never told Ilarion what it had been like there, and Ilarion had never really asked. Isaev already knew, of course. Given his line of work, there was no way he couldn't.
Barshov was staring at him, tension in the line of his jaw.
Taras just shook his head.
"That person, the one with the vendetta, the one who got all those innocent men thrown in the Zone? He's a real pizd'uk, isn't he? Too bad we can't catch him. Seems like he's the one who should take the trip up North."
"What do you want from me?" Barshov asked, after a moment, voice perfectly even.
no subject
"The Zone is full of men just like you, comrade. Not guilty. Never had a single thought about muzhelostvo in their whole life. Never said a bad word about the State. Never lied to Ministry officers."
He folded his arms, the motion casual, though muscle bulged under the gray wool of his uniform.
Barshov remained silent. Taras thought he saw a frown start to slip across the man's features, quickly suppressed.
"All those men, in the camps, working all day, digging in the frozen snow, breaking rocks. Out there in the cold with muscle cramps and a thin jacket and a hat crawling with lice. One bowl of soup with maggots in it for breakfast. No showers. Maybe every other day some guy goes crazy and jumps another guy, maybe bites off his ear before the guards beat him down. Best meal he's had in months, but both of them have to get right back to work. And that's what happens during the day."
He shrugged.
"Nights are a lot worse."
Taras paused.
It was strange, to talk about the Zone.
He usually didn't think about it, not in so much detail. Over the years, the particulars had faded in his mind, like a book he'd read a long time ago and didn't remember well anymore.
Taras was content with that. He didn't need to remember. Like the Siege, it had been something that happened to him, but it wasn't a problem anymore.
He'd never told Ilarion what it had been like there, and Ilarion had never really asked. Isaev already knew, of course. Given his line of work, there was no way he couldn't.
Barshov was staring at him, tension in the line of his jaw.
Taras just shook his head.
"That person, the one with the vendetta, the one who got all those innocent men thrown in the Zone? He's a real pizd'uk, isn't he? Too bad we can't catch him. Seems like he's the one who should take the trip up North."
"What do you want from me?" Barshov asked, after a moment, voice perfectly even.
That was a good question.
Taras turned to look at Isaev, brows raised.