A Prayer to Saint Strelok: A Tale From the Exclusion Zone

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The tourists were whining again.

Not even fifteen kilometers in and the eggheads are complaining: they are out of breath — their feet hurt — the packs are heavy — when is the next stop so we can rest?

Hadn't he, Yuri Bonyev, always the thoughtful guide, urged them to purchase good boots? Hadn’t he already stopped to let them rest twice?

Here he was humping two extra canteens, two first-aid kits, and a box of those nasty chewy food bars, on top of his usual load-out. What the hell do they have to groan about? The three of them only had backpacks, water bottles, and those shitty little pistols Vanya had pawned off on them. Fucking things could barely kill a dog, but the scientists had acted like Spetsnaz strapping them on their thighs. Three hard men ready for the mission, yes?

No.

And here Yuri thought this would be over before supper.

There he went, thinking again. It got him in trouble every time.

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