... in which Major Zakharchuk commits an official crime, which makes the army and the people united in the face of a common external enemy
Expressing utter incomprehension on his round face, Zakharchuk stared up at the soldier who burst into the squad. To the officer on duty, accustomed to the sight of puny operatives in shabby civilian clothes and well-fed supervisors in tunics that did not fit on their stomachs, the special forces soldier seemed like some kind of giant.
— How is the situation here, Major?— the newcomer suddenly asked in a hoarse voice from under the visor.
— Yes, I think so... Everything is calm. I'm on duty at the assigned one... Zakharchuk began to mumble uncertainly, but suddenly realized that the fighter, although formally, was still brazenly insubordinate.— And who are you?
Meanwhile, the fighter was already in full charge of the department. He pulled a desk out of the nearest office and carefully dragged it to the door.
— Captain Mikhail Fedotov. Rosgvardiya. The call sign is "Bassoon," the special forces soldier hurriedly threw back.— I'm sorry, Major, it's not up to ceremony. Help. We need to block the entrance.
"There are keys.".. Zakharchuk muttered, continuing to observe the actions of the Bassoon.
— So lock it up!— the Russian guardsman barked so that the major jumped up and, obeying, hurriedly locked both front doors. After that, Bassoon finally pushed a massive table towards them. The same thing was done with the service exit.
— That's it. We'll hold our own," Bassoon stated, looking contentedly at the barricades that had been erected."Are you alone here?
—.. One. You can say that," the major replied. The riots are still going on, aren't they?
"You could say that,— the Russian guardsman nodded gloomily.
— Yes, he's sitting alone. The Maydanovite is a minor... Over there," Zakharchuk waved his chubby hand in the direction of a dark, barred corner, from where a disheveled Petrov was looking at the law enforcement officers with interest.
"Let him out, Major,— Bassoon commanded firmly as he reached the cage.
"What do you mean?" Zakharchuk and Petrov asked almost simultaneously, equally amazed.
— Everything will come in handy now. In about 15 minutes, it won't matter who broke what.
The Bassoon's voice was drowned out by noise, screeching and the sound of breaking glass. A diffenbachia with large, dusty leaves flew to the floor from the windowsill. The pot shattered into shards with a crash.
— And I thought you had dispersed everyone...— the major said worriedly, opening the door in front of Petrov.
— You can't disperse zombies.
"Zombies?" Is that what you call the protestants? Isn't God afraid for the nagging things?
— Now we are not talking about your politics, you fool, but about survival, — the Russian guardsman replied. — If you want to survive, you will cooperate.
— I? With the cops?! Petrov was indignant."They're dreaming!" Musog'a posog'G'ossii!
The student wanted to say something else, but he didn't have time, because Bassoon grabbed him by the collar of his biker jacket and forcefully dragged him into the waiting room, from where he could hear the growing noise.
Cold air blew into Petrov's face, rushing into the room from the frozen street. But from what he saw in the next moment, he immediately broke into a sweat. Dozens of hideous faces were writhing in terrible grimaces behind the broken window. Dozens of empty, bleeding eye sockets stared at the student. Dozens of mouths distorted with malice oozed saliva and teeth chattered. Dozens of hands reached inside through the metal bars, grabbing the air with cold fingers a few centimeters from Petrov's face.
Wanting to run out as soon as possible, the student kicked his feet on the linoleum in horror, but the Bassoon held him tightly from behind.
- What? Did you shit yourself?- rosgvardeyets croaked angrily in Petrov's ear.— When your chick gets fucked at a protest, you're outraged... And I saw my friends torn apart alive by such creatures, turned into their own kind!
- Oh my God! Let me go!— the student finally broke free and abruptly recoiled from the window.— Well, do something! Please! You're a g'avoohg'anitel!
"It's useless,— Bassoon said calmly, looking with a kind of doomed longing at the dead who were vainly reaching for him.— Bullets have almost no effect on them. The horn has to be shot off to stop at least one.
— And what should I do? Zakharchuk asked, who had been standing motionless in the doorway of the duty station.
— Let's try to cope with this crowd. If we can, we'll fight our way out.
— How?! Petrov screamed, rushing down the corridor.— They're not running your fire!
— Let's do it. There will be time to prepare before they break down the bars.
"Will they break down the bars?" The major asked doubtfully.
—Absolutely,— Bassoon nodded affirmatively.— They feel that we are here. And they also have plenty of free time. But they burn well. Do you have any fuel and lubricants in your household, Comrade Major?