Amaury Dreher - Opalescence - The Secret of Pripyat

My last ally in the Zone had evaporated. I found myself alone and helpless. It would be so easy for me to run away, to end this brutal nightmare. But my will prevented me from doing so. A part of me refused fiercely to give up. The Zone had trapped me. I was no longer in control of my decisions. Various emotions were intertwined. It was difficult to appease them. Sadness and anger dominated fear. More particularly, a need for revenge was born in me that I felt right down to my bowels. My face was too tense to cry. I took long breaths thinking that they would help me to think, to mature a decision that would be as wise as possible. I couldn’t help it: Oleksandr had to pay.

I took one last look at the shack and then left. On the way, I thought someone might have followed me. I was thinking about the drone, the phone threats. The Howler’s hideout was probably under surveillance and I may have been tracked by some enemy at this very moment. I had to organise my discretion.

The snow had stopped falling, my steps were no longer masked. I decided to take off my shoes and started walking in order to limit my tracks, simply equipped with socks. My feet were soaked and bruised by the cold. I ignored these feelings. I didn’t want anyone to follow me. I wanted to survive a little longer, to prolong my existence in the Zone. Armed with my only knife, I went up the forest towards Pripyat. He was supposed to be there, he was supposed to be waiting for me. Thinking of Oleksandr, I was clenching my jaw to derail my teeth.

I arrived in Pripyat with an impetuous mind. I walked the roads from one side of the street to the other, looking for my rival. I wandered openly, ostensibly roaming in the middle of the aisles without taking any precautions. Three hours passed. I had criss-crossed most of the city and there was no trace of Oleksandr or anyone else. The night was slowly approaching and I didn’t want to sleep in Pripyat. I no longer trusted its dark buildings, its vacant properties where I had almost lost my life. Contrary to any logic, I decided to spend the night outside, in the Pripyat stadium. The infrastructure was completely overgrown with vegetation, only a few brave stands rose and still overlooked the vacant lot. The wild beasts did not frighten me, the dark night no longer frightened me. I fell asleep serenely, rocked by the caresses of the wind.

In the early morning, I was awakened by countless clicks. I opened my eyes painfully and saw several people in the vicinity. A group of individuals was there. They were tourists accompanied by their guide. Most of them were equipped with cutting-edge cameras and imperial-looking telephoto lenses. They spoke German, Turkish and English. Some of them were staring at me with naive curiosity. Others seemed suspicious and armed with intentions. When I saw them, I suddenly got up, giving hostile looks. I noticed that the guide kept his hand under his jacket, probably ready to draw a gun, in case I turned violent.

As I continued to gauge the small group, a tourist photographed me very closely. He approached me with a rather quiet and natural step, as if at no time did he apprehend my reaction. He took not one, but many shots, using his camera in continuous mode. I was irritated by the deflagrations produced by the device. I imagined my face in the center of his little viewfinder, while he had to work on adjusting the right parameters. His picture had to be sharp. I had remained impassive, although I was boiling with rage. The tourist came towards me with a khaki-coloured gas mask and a red light on top. He had a satisfied smile that made him despicable.

“Could you wear this please?”

When they heard his query, the others laughed. My brain was ankylosed by cold and fear. It took me several seconds to understand his request. Contradictory thoughts attacked me. Should I have agreed to turn into a freak? Should I make a fool of myself in front of all these people, stage myself in this place where so many people had fought and suffered from radiation? Or on the contrary, should I grab the object, which was being held out to me, and propel it into the figure of its owner? Break his nasal artery, beat him up when he was on the ground, until he was begging in agony?

Obviously, the guide understood that I was considering this second option. My face had hardened, my jaw had tightened and my heart was skipping a beat. The guide approached and put his hand on the tourist’s shoulder:

“Enough, we’re going back to the minibus.”

The small group obeyed without protest. One by one, they turned their heels and walked away in a single line. As they turned back, one of them took one last picture of me. He was the one who asked me to pose. He always had the same sarcastic look. I picked up a stone that I hoped would be sharp enough and slowly walked towards the minibus. The guide was young and obviously did not expect this kind of reaction. He urged everyone to get up quickly. The vehicle started in a hurry, leaving me in a cloud of black smoke, still armed with my makeshift projectile. Seeing one of the passengers makes an arm of honour through the window, I threw the stone in his direction, hitting the chassis of the minibus, but without causing much damage. Already, the vehicle was disappearing in the midst of the fog, and I was left alone in the company of my frenzy.

Given the terror I had inspired, I imagined it was unlikely that the incident would end there. Guided tours had to be secure, tourist safety was important for business to continue to flourish. My threatening behaviour and unauthorised presence would be reported. I would probably be hunted down by a gang of Ukrainian soldiers and removed out of the Zone. I would rot in a jail. This time, no bribe would save me. The scene had probably been filmed by other tourists. I would end up on the Internet, the sequence would be edited and feed the different platforms. The video would be shared by thousands of retarded people on social networks, that would go around the world in a few hours. Yes, I was risking a lot.

I imagined a hunt with a team looking for me, dogs barking at me, helicopters spinning in the sky to track my position. I could already hear the sound of the walkie-talkies, the screams of the sirens and the echoes of the shots exchanged. They would catch me and leave me in a cell with a pungent smell and full of excrement. I didn’t deserve much better.

The headache was resurfacing, more vicious, more intense than ever. I could feel my brains imploding. I passed snow on my forehead to try to relieve the pain. It was only getting worse. My breathing was noisy and jerky. I had not forgotten my main enemy. The suffering had not dispelled my hatred. Oleksandr had to pay. He would die tonight.

The night was imminent, darkness would soon fall on the Zone. I arrived at the small church of St-Elias. This place was notorious for having escaped radioactive contamination, it was a miraculous anecdote that the religious liked to spread. Divine authorities would have spared the place with the blessing of the local pope. Thus, in the vicinity of the church, the thresholds of radioactivity were more than three times lower than those in Kiev. But, I had not come to meditate, I had a sinister task to complete.

I had no difficulty in locating it. I knew where he was. I always knew. My steps guided me while my brain ignored the path.

Oleksandr was there, leaning against a palisade. He seemed to have been waiting for me, or at least he had anticipated my coming to this place so much that he didn’t seem surprised to see me. He waved at me to move forward. Did he want to negotiate? Caution was required.

I approached slowly, head held high as if I was trying to measure my opponent. When I got to his height, I kept a distance of a few meters. This guy was mad, so he was unpredictable. I was maintaining some precautions. Nevertheless, I ostensibly had a defiant look on my face. I wanted to show him that I wasn’t afraid of him. I had hardened up. The Zone had made me more experienced.