The Darkness

It was early and Marko Blavic was lying face up, his hands intertwined, bored of staring at the tent’s ceiling. He looked at his watch, but it was still five minutes before the time which he had resolved he would get outside at, and he tried his best to never change his plans. The control over his own acts was one of the few certainties he had yet remaining on this ever so strange world, which was going down the drain.

He turned his head left and studied the slender figure of the young girl that laid next to him, her eyes closed and her mind far away from there. He noticed that she looked prettier and younger when she was sleeping without worries. Her face offered a sweet and almost childish look, without her usual gesture of concern and anxiety. Her arms rested placidly on her chest, free of the nervous tic that sometimes made her play with her hands. Her breathing was slow and regular instead of the typical hyperventilation. He reflected on the curious father-and-daughter relationship that had been established between them throughout the previous days, a peculiar bond held by mutual need. She could not travel alone without somebody to protect and take care of her, and he had to complete his business as usual. And although he had tried not to become fond of Lyudmila, it was impossible not to: she was so innocent as to be adorable. There was not an iota of evil in her.

At the precise time he sat up, took his legs out of the sleeping bag, grabbed his boots and also the assault rifle that had been sitting well close, to his right. In those places, going outside without a weapon was like forgetting your car keys at home: you would get much further and faster with it. He unzipped the tent and stepped outside, breathing in the fresh, humid air of that September morning. After putting his boots on, he stretched his legs while surreptitiously inspecting the environment. He saw nothing to alarm him, so he closed the tent, he hung the rifle on his back and walked till he reached the main street of the encampment, which could barely be called that, as it was just a dirt road. Leaving the girl alone worried him the least; he was confident they would respect her. It was barely two days earlier they had buried—thrown into the river, more the like—the last unfortunate idiot that had showed too much interest in her. This may not have been the Balkans, but there were refugees of many nationalities and half of Eurasia knew Blavic and his fame all too well. The day they had arrived, as they were wandering around looking for a spot where to settle, an elderly Kazakh woman had urinated on herself after recognizing him. He could clearly see the dark stain spreading across her old-fashioned polka dot skirt.

He walked at a calm pace, almost reluctantly dragging his six foot four through the puddles, his gaze fixed on the ground just a few steps in front of him. All around the camp seemed to awaken and begin its activity too. The sky was clearing and the day threatened to be a hot one, which would encourage the people to get out to the already packed streets. He focused his mind on distant and idyllic places he had only seen through a screen. He wondered how it would feel to get out of bed and find his only worry to be what to have for breakfast and what clothes to put on. He had known nothing but misery and devastation.

After a while he arrived at the Russian’s store. Hanging outside the entrance were the usual items and trinkets: the really valuable merchandise would be inside. Marko disliked Valery. He abhorred his nature, cowardly in a direct confrontation but daring in his ruses, his cunning eyes constantly looking for a dishonorable advantage, his haggling to scrimp on the littlest triviality, and above all, his appearance of a greasy pig. In that neck of the woods, only the strongest or the sliest ones could afford not to starve, and Marko knew very well what category Valery belonged to.

And he was angelic next to his wife.

Vera Mineyeva was twice as sharp as her husband, but not half as subtle. To be liked or not was indifferent to her, she turned her nose up at anything that was not a clear profit and turned a deaf ear to the pleas of those in need. She was a true hag, but Marko could not really judge her, and he even understood her. In this world there were two kinds of people: strong and weak, predators and victims. The latter were destined to take a passive role and plainly survive, with no other aspiration than to be the puppets of the former’s whims. Marko loathed the weak. He despised them because he himself had been one of them, and it was only with much resolve and after struggling for years with an iron will that he had managed to stop being one. Why could not others do the same?

He entered the store and submitted to the couple’s inquisitive eyes. She frowned, foreshadowing trouble. He began to perspire, fearful. He did not even bother to greet, as he disliked beating around the bush. With his face, he did not require it.

“You said you needed two days to secure a crossing. That was three days ago.”

“So I said, Blavic, but please understand,” he whined, “all is chaos and nothing’s working anymore as it used to, and I haven’t been able to get in touch with my pal from the SVU… I swear I’ve been trying ever since.”

“This place’s a boiling pot and it’s about to burst. I can’t keep waiting any longer, today we’re gonna have to leave.”

“Lea…? But Blavic, you can’t abandon me like this! And my fee? All this has a cost, there are many people to bribe, many middlemen each wanting a piece of the cake, and…”

Behind him, Vera witnessed the exchange with her robust arms crossed and a grimace. It was actually she who wore the pants, but in order to protect the business’ good image it was preferable to let her husband be the only one to speak. She was dying to say something, but she could not, and Marko knew this and rejoiced internally.

“Without results, there’s nothing to pay, Valery. If there’s no merchandise, there’s no money. Understood?”

“How terrible! After all I’ve done for you, and you want to leave me in the lurch! And my expenses? And all the people who depend on me? What am I to do if everybody follows your example? Poor, poor Valery!” he cried out, while hitting his chest.

Marko was terribly annoyed that the other spoke about himself in third person, with that typically Russian theatrical overacting. He gesticulated a lot, as if his words did not have enough strength to convey what he wanted to say.

“How’s that, Valery, you’re not even gonna ask for half of what was agreed upon? You’re gonna let him go just like that?” Vera said finally, unable to endure any longer without replying.

Like many women, Vera loved to employ the “not even that” technique to boss her husband around. It made any vicious request look moderate, as if it were the reasonable minimum that could be demanded, so he would feel guilty and comply. But with Marko, the Russian might as well have been talking to a wall.

“I’ll give you until tomorrow at the latest, and that’s conditional on how things evolve. If I see that it gets ugly, I break camp and leave.”

“Marko, I swear today I’ll hear from my contact. It was only yesterday they confirmed me he had received my message, I promise, but they must be very busy with a mobilization or something… You know how things are.”

The man with whom Valery had colluded served in the Ukrainian army and had a certain power in that area. He could mean the ticket out of there for Marko and Lyudmila now that they were so close to the border. The zone was under military jurisdiction and the movements of civilians were very restricted without a justified cause or a bag full of money.

“I’ll come back tomorrow at the same time, if nothing happens.”

And without waiting for a reply he made for the exit. He had barely crossed the threshold when he managed to hear Vera’s cutting voice:

“Ah, so you’re not even going to ask him for an advance?”

***

He took a lungful of air, already very fouled by the bonfires. The sun’s rays were beginning to fall upon the crowns of the tallest trees. The camp was surrounded by a coniferous forest, and the beautiful environment brought back memories of his native Serbia. Unfortunately, the reigning chaos, the refugees and their looks full of fear brought back other less pleasant ones. He headed to their tent, and on the way there a woman carrying a baby in her arms offered him her services in exchange for taking her under his protection, or at least giving her some money or food. The child was having breakfast at that moment, and when he turned his head away, he revealed a modest breast from which a few drops of milk dripped. Internally devastated but feigning indifference, he handed over some change to the woman while declining the offer. He continued walking remembering his mother and sister. The strong and the weak…

When he was almost there, he ran into Yuri and another man who was accompanying him and that seemed to be a trapper, too. With a big beard, firm shoulders and solid eyes, Yuri was one of the few people alive with even more experience than Marko in treading those places. His gray hairs were silent witnesses to his experiences. However, he had always tried not to harm anyone, he remained neutral and his attitude towards life was that of passive indifference.

“Marko! A sight for sore eyes. How are you?” he greeted effusively.

“Better with you near, Yuri. You are a pleasant find among so much misery.”

“Still business as usual, even when the world’s ending? You’re as tenacious as a force of nature.”

“It’s the only thing I know. What else? And you?”

“Little earnings now around here, most of the game seems to be on the run from the phenomenon too. Will have to migrate west. Not that there is much of an alternative…”

“I’ll leave as soon as possible too. I’m waiting for Valery to get me a safe-conduct out of here.”

“I was sure I had seen you enter his store! Don’t trust that stingy fatso. He’s not a bad guy, but he wouldn’t stick his neck out for his own shadow. Anyway, what’s that about a safe-conduct? You don’t need one, everybody’s free to go, in fact they’re in the process of beginning to evacuate the area.”

“That’s the problem,” answered Marko, “it’s the border where I wanna go.”

Yuri opened his mouth, dumbfounded, before replying. His companion looked at him puzzled, too.

“To the border? You’re out of your mind! That’s going straight into the lion’s den. That thing is advancing from the east, and not even you can move that fast.”

“I’ll find a vehicle if need arises. The roads aren’t yet jammed, or at least in the outward direction. Like you said, nobody would consider it.”

The hunter moved his head, as worried as if he was talking to someone who was planning to throw himself into a rough sea.

“Marko, I advise you to reconsider. You still have time. In any case, you may not have a choice either. This morning the military issued the order not to let anyone cross to the other side of the river. I told you already they’re gonna evacuate the area. Nobody can pass. For security, they say.”

This time Marko was the surprised one.

“They’ve got no authority to do that! We’re all free to choose our fate. Let us save ourselves or kick the bucket our own way, what’s it matter to them?”

“Right now, the only authority remaining here’s that one,” Yuri said, pointing to the weapon the other had hanging, “and they’ve got many more than you do. I’m sorry, my friend. But if you truly value your health, you’ll be wise to see that in the west things look so much better.”

Marko refused that to himself. He was too old to believe that they paved the streets with gold anywhere.

“I’m even sorrier. Well, I’ve got to get going. Take care, Yuri, I really mean it.”

“Practice what you preach, comrade. This old-timer’s in no rush to get down there,” he said, his finger towards the ground, winking.

With a gesture, Marko went on his way. The other man, who had remained silent until then, approached Yuri and said softly:

“He’s crazy. Totally nuts.”

“No,” Yuri jested, shaking his head, “but he’s got some very big ones indeed.”

***

He had been disturbed by the recent news, so he opted to take a detour to get near the sector where the small military detachment had established their headquarters, if that name could apply to a couple of tents placed end-to-end next to a power generator and a radio antenna. Already in the vicinity he observed a commotion and knew he was going in the right direction. It seemed that the reports of the forced evacuation had not been welcomed by many civilians who, having settled for a while in the camp, had begun to earn a living on a regular basis and wanted not to leave their routines behind and plunge again in the uncertainty.

A few men chosen spontaneously as representatives of the refugees talked heatedly with a middle-aged officer, his patrol cap impeccably pulled down according to ordinance. His hands joined at his back, he listened patiently to the others, only to deny with his head immediately afterwards, unmovable.

“Those are the orders we have,” he repeated like a broken record.

Marko made his way through the crowd. An upset refugee turned around, ready to confront the rude stranger who pushed him aside, but he lost color when he saw whom it was.

“No one may stay in this area past noon. You have until then to pack your things up and get going. We can provide transport for the sick and the disabled, but not for everyone else, I’m afraid.”

“And the ones who want to cross the border?” the Serbian asked.

“Out of the question. The access is closed, and nobody can cross the river anyway.”

“I’ve got in mind to do it. Are you gonna stop me?”

“My men are stationed there, and we have orders to shoot anyone who disobeys the orders, endangering the evacuation,” the officer blurted out, reciting from memory a passage from the teletype he had gotten that morning, without actually reflecting on what he was saying.

Marko knew there were two impossible things in this life: making it rain upwards, and reasoning with the military. He turned around to everybody’s relief, and set out towards his tent while muttering about the many stupid people that populated the earth. He had never failed to fulfill an assignment, but this one threatened to be the first. He felt like a stone being pushed down the hill that could do nothing but keep going, or like an actor playing a role he had no control over. Not having a choice drove him to despair, just as it did when he had been in the army.

As he entered the main street, once he was done grumbling, some movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn his head to see a skinny-legged terrier, sitting in front of a tent and tied to it by a rope. The dog looked at him with sad eyes while wagging its tail. He instantly looked away, but it was late already.

The memory of his own dog rushed to his mind.

***

It all had happened during the war. Back then Marko was just a taciturn young man who lived in the family house within a town with a population of no more than five thousand. Adolescence had caught him by surprise and he negotiated such a difficult life period as best as he could, without answers for many of the questions that showed up in his head.

His environment was not of much help. His mother, passive and submissive, threw herself into the care of his newborn sister, while his father, a miserable vermin that seemed to hate the world almost as much as his own life, used him to vent off all the tension he accumulated. He insulted and reprimanded him without respite, for things he had actually done as well as the ones that were not his fault, even making them up if there were none: it was all the same to him. He got angry when he talked back, he got angry when he stood silent, he got angry when he went left, when he went right, he got angry because he was angry, in a constant never-ending loop, like a pig wallowing in shit. Behind closed doors he smacked him leaving marks, while in front of strangers he preferred to ridicule him cruelly, which he found worse as bruises healed fast, yet taunts hounded him for a long time. Every now and then, he thought about killing him, but he dared not.

The only being with which he found solace in those moments—and one could say, his only friend—was Bojan, a Serbian bloodhound with a character that was the polar opposite of his father’s: harmless as a lamb, unwilling to chase even a sparrow, trusting and affectionate, he never felt petted enough and suffered greatly if Marko was away for only ten minutes. He stood motionless, his eyes closed as if concentrating, while he rubbed behind his drooping ears for quite a while. He had never known such a loyal animal.

After one of those interminable summer days, he was trying to get to sleep when he had heard a noise outside. The dog had noticed it too, as he woke up and raised his head. Seconds after, he left the room with the intent to investigate. Marko heard him go down the stairs and soon glimpsed his dark outline walking around the back garden—they always left the door open because of the heat—sniffing. That did not strike him as odd, as it was probably some rodent which had been attracted to the food they stored in the hut. He laid his head on the pillow and closed his eyes.

He was awakened early in the morning by knocks on the door and loud voices behind it. He got up frightened and looked out the door of his room to see his father already downstairs, hastily putting on some clothes and going to open. When he did, the members of the entourage on the other side looked at him harshly as one of them spoke.

“Well, Radoslav! I hope we haven’t disturbed your sleep. For a moment there I thought you didn’t want to open us up.”

His father blinked several times trying to clear both his vision and his thoughts. He soon recognized the other person.

“What the fuck’s up, Jovica? What’s all this?”

Jovica Starčević was the administrator in charge of that area. He was not the mayor, but he amassed power and influence due largely to his real estate and the good relations he maintained with the militia. He was a man that instilled even more respect in Marko that his own father did: his was a more surreptitious menace.

“Well, nothing, we were just making our rounds around the town. We’re worried about everyone’s safety, as you know. And it turns out that we’ve stumbled upon a little surprise in your garden… Unless you’ve got a guest and have somehow failed to notify us.”

His tone was halfway between mocking and offensive. He was not armed, but next to him Marko could see several men that were carrying, and none sported an amicable face.

“But what are you saying? I understand nothing. It’s us four in the house, no one else.”

“That’s what I thought, and so I was saying to these gentlemen… I’m afraid then, Radoslav, that you’ve got a trespasser.”

“Who? Where?”

Jovica gestured for him to follow after. More intrigued than fearful, Marko followed them outside too, still in his boxers and white undershirt. They were a motley armed group; some were soldiers from the recently established VRS, others belonged to the dreaded Scorpions, paramilitary, and wore black balaclavas or had their heads clean shaven. Finally, some civilians accompanied them too in that search party with their private hunting weapons. They boded nothing but trouble.

They circled the house and reached the backyard. Those in the lead stepped aside to let the rest see, before standing still with looks of silent satisfaction, as if exhibiting a bagged catch. There, next to the hut, a man on his knees and with his hands tied behind his back looked around with sad puppy eyes. Beads of sweat fell down his face. Marko realized right away that he was not a native: he was a bošnjak, a Bosnian Muslim. He was probably a fugitive whom the conflict had caught in the wrong place. And by the cruel looks of his captors, he did not envy him at all: he knew very well the luck that awaited him.

“Our friend Ekrem here had decided to spend the night in your pantry, or so it seems. I don’t think he’s got any hunger left, that’s for sure.”

One of the soldiers spat at the prisoner, missing the target by a few inches.

“Jovica, I swear to you, I knew nothing,” his father babbled, feeling in a predicament, “I don’t understand how the dog hasn’t warned us…”

As if on purpose, Bojan came out from inside the hut just then. Before the astonished gaze of his father he approached the prisoner and, after sniffing him, rubbed his head against him like longing for caresses. With his tongue out and a jovial look he stared at the rest, waiting.

“Well, there’s your answer, Radoslav. I think you’re gonna have to find yourself a new dog. This one’s gone over to the enemy!” Jovica said with a sardonic face.

The comment caused those present to burst into laughter, except for the Bosnian who turned even more pale. Marko felt nauseated and tried to gulp, but his mouth was as dry as a rag. His father was in no danger of having his loyalty questioned, but he had been humiliated, and he knew it. For him, honor and shame were more important concepts than affection for a child or civic duty. Behind him, he noticed how his ears reddened and it was not difficult to picture his face at that moment. Somebody would pay for that, and in all likelihood it would be him.

The party carried away the unfortunate guy—who had probably already given up hope of getting out alive—towards a truck parked on the street outside. Afterwards, after saying goodbye, they continued with their unrelenting search for victims to quench a thirst for blood that had been growing for decades. His father maintained his composure as best he could, but Marko knew he was seething inside. Once inside the house, he said with a normal tone:

“This stupid dog is totally worthless.”

And proceeded to ask his mother to make breakfast. That was all for that day, but Marko sensed that something bad was brewing. During the rest of the week he ate without appetite and had his nerves on edge, the sword of Damocles hanging over his head, wondering when it would fall. At last, the next week, his father called him from the living room.

“Marko, come here.”

Obediently, he approached and waited, focusing on controlling his breathing so that it would not be noticeable that he was trembling.

“Your dog is absolutely useless. It’s no good for hunting, nor as a guardian. I’ve allowed you to keep it because I knew you liked it, but all that is over. You’re fourteen, you’re a man already. I want you to cut all that kid bullshit and behave like one, do you understand?”

He nodded, knowing that if he tried to speak his voice would fail and that would only make things worse.

“I was gonna sacrifice it myself, but I’ve decided that it’s best that you do it. That way you’ll show me it’s not too late yet and that you can redeem yourself. I don’t want to hear any protests from you.”

It looked like he had been rehearsing his address and was reciting it with pride.

“You’re gonna kill the dog, have you heard?”

“But dad, can’t I…?”

Before he could finish the sentence, his father knocked him down with a slap. He looked at him angrily.

“I said I don’t want to hear you! I don’t want my son to grow up to be a disgusting faggot. You’re gonna put down the fucking dog, like it or not, because I’ve had enough already.”

From the floor, Marko cried in silence, not daring to look at his face.

“Quit your whimpering. Your mother will arrive soon and I don’t want her to see you like that. You’re gonna grab the dog right now and you will take him far away, to the forest. There, you’ll kill it with your own hands. I’m not gonna give you any weapons. Stone it if you have to. Understood?”

He lifted him by the shoulders and pushed him to the door, where Bojan waited wagging his tail, oblivious to the drama.

“If you’re not able to do it, don’t bother coming back. I don’t want weaklings in this house,” he stated, conclusive, before closing the door in his face. He kept hearing him grumble for a long time yet, the time he stood there not knowing what to do, while the dog, upright, insistently placed his front paws on his side to get his attention.

Indecisive, he started walking towards the forest, more to get away and gain time to think than anything else. The loyal animal followed him, sometimes crossing between his legs and causing Marko to almost trip in order not to step on him. He was excited with the anticipation of what would probably be a play session, or a stroll through the countryside, as they had done together so many times before. Minute after minute the sunny afternoon passed, and soon they found themselves alone in the wilderness with Marko still unable to assimilate everything that had happened to him. He felt the most unfortunate young man ever, but then he remembered the Bosnian, whose bones were surely already lying, charred, in a mass grave. It certainly was not a world for the weak.

They ventured into the thick woods. He tried to stretch time as much as possible but knew he had no alternative. He did not feel capable of leaving his home and making a living alone, let alone confronting his father. But every time he thought about what he had to do, a knot formed in his stomach. He did not want to kill his dog, but he would follow him forever, immune to discouragement, and he could not go home with him. He recalled the beatings he had already received in the past. It’s just a dog, he thought. I’m already a man.

He searched the ground and picked up a stone. He held it in his hand, looking into the cheerful eyes of Bojan, who continued to paw at him, nervously, to encourage him to play. He continued like this for a while, unable to gather the necessary valor to proceed. Then he thought that maybe he could just abandon the dog there. If he did not kill him, he might have a chance to survive in freedom. He knew there were wild dogs in the area. But he was only deceiving himself.

“Bojan, I’m really sorry, I really am.”

He crouched down and hugged the dog, who merely licked his ear. He petted him while trying to excuse himself, as if he could understand him, even though the sobs barely let him speak.

“You have to stay here, okay? You can’t come back with me. Stay here. Okay?”

The animal, obedient, sat down and waited. Marko turned around and began to walk away. He barely made it twenty yards before he felt his touch on his back.

“Bojan, you can’t come with me. Stay!”

But it was useless, he would not leave him. He regretted not having remembered to bring the leash, with which he could have tied him to a tree. He did not know how to make the dog understand that he did not want him anymore. For Bojan, Marko was his whole world and he could not conceive of life without him.

He returned to where he had left the stone and picked it up. Maybe he could scare the dog away by hurting him. He brandished it threateningly, but Bojan understood that he wanted to play fetch and moved a few yards away, turning around to show that he was ready. Marko threw it, reluctantly, and it fell quite far. While looking for another, the dog, puzzled that it was not a ball or a stick, sniffed it. He tried his luck again. He also failed, but the dog, naive, tried to catch it in the air, hitting his snout. He whimpered a little, pitifully, believing that it had been his clumsiness and never thinking that his owner, whom he had on a pedestal and loved madly, had intended to harm him. That would have never occurred to him.

This broke Marko’s heart, and he turned around and ran towards the town. At regular intervals, he stopped and threw another stone, or anything he could find, but Bojan continued to follow him insistently, although already looking somewhat puzzled by his behavior and convinced that the boy was angry with him for something bad he had done. When he had almost given up, he had an idea: the river.

There was a small reservoir a little beyond the forest, quite far from the town. It was a frequent swimming area in summer, with many families coming to spend the day loaded with baskets of food. But the river that flowed into it passed, winding, through many areas of dense vegetation and some very steep banks. Bojan was terrified of water and was unable to swim, he could not even stand the sight of a full bathtub. If he could get him there and cross, the dog would not be able to follow him.

So he did. After a good walk trying as best as he could to ignore the animal that plaintively followed in his footsteps, he reached the area and barely crossed the barrier of bushes, scratching his arms. He took off his sneakers, tied the laces together, and hung them around his neck before swimming across. The water was very cold and the current was treacherous had he lost his footing. Once on the other side, he put his shoes back on and looked up to see the dog, confused, approaching the shore with difficulty, extending a paw towards the water with hesitation before quickly withdrawing it. He stayed there, looking at him with compassion, not understanding.

Marko cried for a long time, sitting on the shore, until he ran out of tears. He cried for himself, for his miserable childhood, for his docile mother, for his poor prematurely born sister who probably would not live long enough to learn to walk. He cried for the human garbage that was his father, for all the cruel men like Jovica who inhabited his country while tearing it to shreds, for the dead Bosnian, for all those who would be keeping him company in his grave, and those who would come. And above all he cried for his dog, who he knew would never be able to return to the village on his own or survive without his help, as useless and harmless as he was. He cried to see that the dog was also crying, seeing his master suffer, but unable to go and console him by licking his face as he always did. He wished to die right there, lost in the middle of that forest, without anyone ever finding his body or remembering him, rather than having to continue enduring all that meanness. He trembled with cold and rage.

When he could no longer bear the sight of the distressed animal, he got up and ran aimlessly, trying to get out of that disgusting forest. Bojan cried out in desperation, pleading, and his howls echoed off the tree trunks creating an infernal cacophony impossible to bear. He kept running, stumbling several times, and the sound became more and more muffled until it disappeared. Already on the edge of the forest, out of breath, he leaned on the ground and vomited out of sheer disgust at realizing what he had just done, and understanding that he had crossed a line from which there would be no turning back. He hated himself, wondering what he had become.

He walked back to the village, where he arrived when it had already darkened. He tried not to think about anything, because he was afraid of going crazy. He entered the house and, in response to his worried mother’s questioning, replied that he had felt sick and did not want to eat dinner. His father was silent, sitting in the armchair, pretending to read but listening with interest. He went up to his room, closed the door, and fell on the bed without even undressing; then lied on his back and staring at the ceiling for several hours. He wished to fall asleep and wake up the next day to find that all this had been nothing more than a horrific nightmare, and that his dog would be there, curled up to fit by his side in a bed too small for the two of them, like every morning.

His father, inquisitive, showed doubts about whether he had really killed the animal. But, seeing the scratches on his limbs, and checking that the days passed without Bojan returning home, he was convinced. Inside he questioned whether he had been too hard on the boy, but he said nothing.

Marko was never the same again.

***

That memory had left him feeling bad as all the previous times, but knowing he was being watched, he adopted an expression of hardness to maintain his image. He arrived at his tent without his mood having improved. Lyudmila was already outside, sitting on a mat and a folded tarp, cheerfully preparing breakfast. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and the lively eyes of the young woman cheered him up a bit.

“Take this,” she said, handing him a steaming cup with her hands wrapped in mitten gloves. The blonde bangs fell over one eye, and she blew to push them aside.

“Thank you, Bratislava,” he replied, eagerly inhaling the aroma and taking a cautious sip. He had purposely called her by her middle name, which she hated because she thought it sounded “horrible.” She retorted to the taunt by sticking out her tongue while closing her eyes.

“I’ve already packed up my sleeping bag, and yours too. I’ve also started preparing the backpacks in case we leave today. Oh, and I asked Mrs. Voloshina if she had cherries, and she gave me a whole bag!” she reported proudly, counting on her fingers to make sure she did not forget anything.

“It seems I won’t have to abandon you in the forest after all.”

He immediately regretted making that comment.

“You’re silly.”

They ate breakfast with appetite, enjoying a few moments of calm. The girl was talkative, speaking and asking questions about various topics, and he went along trying to get all the bad things out of his head. When they finished, they started packing up while Marko announced the change of plans.

“We’re going to have to leave in a few hours. I want to try to cross the border today. This camp doesn’t have much time left.”

She nodded obediently, oblivious to the gravity of the situation. At thirteen, things were still evaluated from a more innocent perspective. So much the better. Just as he was about to add something else, he heard a distant but increasingly loud commotion that seemed to be approaching. They appeared to be shouts, and a horn. His skin prickled as he stood up to look around. Even standing on a stump, he could not see anything, so he grabbed his weapon with one hand while pointing with the other to Lyudmila, who was already moving away to wash the dishes.

“I’m going to find out what’s happening, start preparing everything in case we need to leave quickly.”

She nodded again without changing her expression. Marko moved quickly towards the origin of the noise, finding only progressively greater chaos. People were hastily dismantling their tents, and those who did not have one were already running with everything they could carry. A few hundred yards away, he saw a vehicle coming with several soldiers on board, honking insistently while shouting at anyone who crossed their path.

“The darkness is approaching, it’s almost here! It’s moving faster than we thought! Abandon the camp and head west for safety! I repeat, evacuate the camp NOW!”

As if to give strength to their arguments, in the face of the refugees who stood still like indecisive fools, they began to fire individual shots into the air. This extended the initial panic, and soon the camp turned into a whirlwind of agitated souls who, after urgently gathering the belongings they could, began to run in sometimes opposite directions. Marko, trying not to be run over in the midst of all this, tried to instill some common sense, without success. They stared at him like idiots, with eyes filled with terror, and after murmuring some incoherence—when they did not directly ignore him and push him aside—they continued their flight. This reminded him of scenes from a documentary he had seen in his childhood, with a herd of buffalo fleeing from a fire in the savannah. That was what human behavior was reduced to in crisis situations: becoming an animal again.

Marko returned to where he had left the girl using characteristic points of the terrain to orient himself, as the camp was already unrecognizable. He found her dismantling the small tent, folding a bunch of rods.

“Leave it, there’s no time! We have to leave now!”

“But Marko, we can’t leave it here, it’s our tent!”

“It doesn’t matter! Our lives are more important,” he replied, as he picked up his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. But the girl ignored him and, after putting on hers, tried to collect the rest and make a bundle with it. Marko, exasperated, secured everything inside the tent bag and hooked it by the buckles to her front bands. Then, he shoved her so she would start running.

“Let’s go, to the bridge!”

He trusted that the reigning chaos would allow them to sneak across the border without being hindered. And indeed, the few soldiers present were struggling to control a crowd that no longer obeyed any order other than those dictated by their survival instinct. Completely overwhelmed by the situation, now they were the ones who stood immobile, wavering and powerless to stop a human wave that overflowed on any side which lacked resistance.

They moved along the river bank using the vegetation as cover, and arrived at the lower part of the structure, where a gridded floor suspended over the stony bed joined the pillars and allowed to cross to the other side without hardly getting wet. This area used to be patrolled, but with the urgency of the situation the militia now had other things to think about.

“Come on, don’t stop!”

The backpack that Lyudmila was carrying was little more than half of what Marko had, but the slender young woman was panting from the effort of the race. Fortunately, there was not much left. They slowly climbed up the steep slope on the other side of the river. The Serbian guide inspected the surroundings and saw an opportunity to reach the forest, the only remaining obstacle between the border and them. Taking the young girl by the hand, they crossed the clearing in stages, jumping from cover to cover, and found themselves there without incident. Shots could still be heard in the distance. They slowed down.

“Now be careful, lest you wanna twist your ankle or…”

He fell silent. He had spotted something among the trees, some blurry figures. After several seconds he understood that they were men in camouflage clothing. He put his hand on the girl’s head and pushed down for her to lie down, doing the same himself. They got closer and cursing he took the safety off his rifle, sticking his face to the ground to reduce his silhouette. But his unease turned into relief when he saw that those who were approaching were not carrying weapons. They ran anarchically, disregarding the orders that someone was shouting behind them. They had deserted.

Free of all threat, they set off again. They had not yet traveled a hundred yards when they ran into him suddenly. The camp officer.

He had lost his cap. He had a gun in his hand, and he was wandering around with watery, confused eyes. They stood still and he, after noticing their presence and slowly lifting his head as if it weighed a ton, looked at them strangely. He kept like this for a few moments that seemed eternal to the Serbian, completely ignorant of what the other was going to do. Then, the man smiled sadly and put the gun to his temple, and Marko just had time to cover the girl’s eyes before he pulled the trigger.

***

Lyudmila was humming something that seemed like a children’s song, while with great skill she was finishing the last touches on the pendant she had been making, and was sunbathing despite Marko’s warnings, who did not want to attract too much attention. Next to her, the backpacks and other bundles were covered by a poncho of woodland camouflage fabric, with a few branches on top to finish off the disguise. This would make it difficult to locate them from the air in case the Russians were controlling the area. Several paces in front of her, the burly guide was inspecting the horizon with binoculars, happy not to discover border patrols or any other kind of human activity. If things did not go wrong, he might be able to make it in time for his appointment with Sokolov’s men, who would take care of the girl.

“Why do you think the man did that?”

The question took him by surprise, and he frowned for a few seconds, thinking. How to explain to someone so innocent the reasons that could lead a person to take his own life in that way?

“I guess he lost hope. He saw no way out. It happens to a lot of people.”

“They’re fools. If you’re alive, there’s always hope.” He lowered the binoculars and turned around, astonished by that display of reasoning and common sense. It was not the first time, either.

“Even if you lose everything, you always have yourself. Dying definitely has no solution.”

She continued talking without taking her eyes off her pendant, as if not paying attention to what she was saying, completely casually. Sometimes, children are the ones who tell the biggest truths, Marko thought.

“There are times when it can be very difficult. When they’ve taken away what you loved the most.”

“If you really loved it, then you would have done what you could to not lose it.”

He felt a pressure in his throat. That girl completely disarmed him, she was not like the others. She was the personification of carefreeness. Looking at his calloused hands, stained with metaphorical (and sometimes literal) blood, he compared her to himself, seeing how much he could have learned from her if he had known her before. If only they had grown up together.

“Is there much left to get to where we’re going?” she added, completely changing the subject as if it meant nothing.

“Yes, quite a bit. I hope we can get a vehicle, marching there is unfeasible. Especially with you.”

“You’re an idiot. I’m as strong as any boy, and you know it!” she pronounced the “you-know” in two times, emphasizing it, and looking at her guardian angel while laughing.

“Don’t be so conceited. Your backpack weighs much less.”

“That’s because I’ve lived less than you, and I have fewer things.”

And fewer painful memories too, Marko thought.

“I’m looking forward to seeing my family again. Do you know them?”

Something stirred in his guts. He wondered again if he was doing the right thing.

“No. I don’t know them.”

“We separated because of all this,” she made a vague gesture, pointing around in general, “but these gentlemen have been very kind to us so we can get back together. I hope my parents are okay. They must be suffering a lot for me. They are very nice.”

He tried to divert the conversation to other topics, but she would not have it.

“Do you have a family, Marko?”

His family. He put a hand on the ground and sat down, crossing his legs. He had changed his last name a long time ago.

It had been many years since the last time he had seen them. Since that one night…

***

It had been a while since the incident with the dog. Marko was around seventeen. He had not finished growing yet, but he was already taller than his father, and with each day, he was becoming stronger, almost without realizing it. The other boys had noticed, and they had given up months ago on fighting him. It never ended well for them.

His character had hardened, going from simply shy and reserved to stoic and circumspect. He spoke very little and preferred to solve problems with a threatening look. His former patience had been replaced by a sometimes violent and inflexible severity. He no longer had tolerance for the stupidity of others, nor did he grant any leeway. All that had been left behind.

His father had noticed the changes and was increasingly controlling himself, hesitant. He had gone quite some time without laying a hand on him, restraining his impulses. His mother, on the other hand, attributed all this to the phase of entering maturity that all young people go through at that age, and she continued to love him as usual on the rare occasions when Marko allowed it. Her belly was beginning to show a slight bulge: after overcoming the trauma of losing her sister, they had decided to try again, even though they were no longer young, with the conviction that God could not be so cruel a second time.

On a weekend in March close to spring, Marko was home alone reading The Death of Ivan Ilyich, which he had discovered by chance on the shelf. It was raining heavily and he had not been able to go out to train, and he was somewhat restless. He was spending more and more time away from home, regularly in bad company, and he had been planning for weeks to run away and live on his own, tired of the hostile environment, the war and its ravages, and how small the town was becoming for him. He had already earned some money doing simple tasks, and he was enjoying outdoor life more and more, even spending entire days sleeping in the forest. Acquaintances who had served in the army had taught him a few things, and his list of contacts was slowly growing as he discovered who really controlled the world: the people who had the money. And he had sworn to himself that he would never be at the bottom of the pyramid, with all those who are trampled on. No one would ever impose their rules on him.

He heard the door and his father’s footsteps, as well as his murmurs. They had been alone for almost a week, as his mother was attending the invitation of a university friend who had offered her to spend a few days on her farm. They ignored each other as best they could, and most of the day they did not even speak to each other, each looking after their own needs without asking for the other’s help. Otherwise, he was still a constant pest.

“What a fucking disgusting day.”

Marko knew that tone very well. Nor was the sound of the slamming door new to him. They were the typical signs that he had arrived in the mood for a fight.

“And here is the young master, so comfortable.”

He continued reading without flinching. The best thing in those occasions was to ignore him.

“Look at me when I talk to you.”

Marko put the book aside and fixed his eyes on him, without altering his face. Inside, a spark ignited, and something began to accumulate.

“After everything I’ve done for you, the least you could do is be grateful instead of acting like a selfish brat.”

He wasn’t talking, he was almost spitting. He was slurring his words a bit. Marko assumed he had been with his friends at the bar. He stank of tobacco.

“Obren has told me that you hardly show up for class, and that you get shitty grades. Not like his son, of course, who’s one of the top students. So I’m paying for you to be a truant, right?”

He was getting closer and closer. He was soaked and drops were falling from his hair. His eyes were slightly reddened.

“And on top of that, having to endure him telling me this in front of everyone, and I didn’t know what to say, because that was news to me. What a fool I’ve made of myself.”

That was the worst part for him, Marko thought. He surely would not have minded hearing that his son was a drug addict, as long as they told him in private. Being embarrassed mortified him.

“But you don’t give a damn, right? And besides, a troublemaker, scratching a classmate’s bike, just for fun.”

That was not true. Marko never messed with anyone if they left him alone. The culprit was a boy from another class, but he did not bother to correct his father. He did not deserve it. Besides, maybe that way he would die sooner. He had read in the newspaper that people with bad tempers could have a heart attack. However, he himself was starting to feel worked up, and he realized that he was clenching his jaw and fists.

“This is what happens when I try to treat you like a person. I’ve been too good to you. It’s been a long time since I’ve given you a correction, and it’s gone to your head. But don’t worry, all that’s over.”

He took off his coat and threw it on the floor with force. The posture he adopted when he got angry reminded him of an ape, and it seemed pathetic to him.

“Stand up! I’m going to give you what you deserve.”

Marko obeyed. He remained impassive, but he could feel his temples throbbing. His vision began to turn red.

His father advanced towards him and slapped him hard. He did it clumsily, and for the young man it was nothing more than a soft slap. But something inside him shot out like a spring, and there was no turning back. Without thinking, he closed his hand and threw a punch in a sort of circular motion that hit his father’s eyebrow squarely. He fell to the ground face down as if he had been struck by lightning, touching the painful area in disbelief, with his mouth open. He looked at him perplexed. On Marko’s face he saw something very dark.

“Son!”

He did not listen. As soon as his father had gotten up, he hit him again, harder this time. He fell backwards onto the sofa, flailing his arms in the air. He tried to get up, and another punch sent him back to the ground.

“Please!”

He knelt next to him and continued to unleash a rain of blows. His father tried to protect his head as best he could, without much success. His face began to show the marks of the brutal beating. He started to whimper, in vain. Marko unleashed the rage and fury that had been building up for years, as if he had been saving them for that specific moment.

“SON, PLEASE NO!”

When his fists began to hurt, he got up and continued with kicks. He gave them almost with momentum, putting all his weight on one leg, and they sounded horrifying. It was like hitting a fallen boxing bag. If he could have seen his face at that moment, he would have observed the devil in person. A few moments later he began to tire and hit softer and less frequently, until he stopped. It was not enough yet. He wanted to kill him, he wanted to grab a stick and crack his head open, splatter his brains all over the house.

His father got on all fours. His face was swollen and full of bruises. A thin stream of blood and drool fell from his mouth, to a crimson puddle on the floor where a solitary tooth stood out. He cried inconsolably. Marko had never seen his father cry before. That sight saddened him inside, and made him feel miserable.

“You’re not my father.”

He looked around, and headed to the kitchen in search of a knife. But on the way, he saw the photo of his mother on the small table next to the lamp, and he stopped for a few moments. He made a decision and ran up to his room. There he grabbed his backpack, which was always ready, put it on the bed and busied himself rummaging through the drawers and the closet for things that might be useful. He took all the money he had saved. Money was the most important thing to survive in this world. Then he looked up and noticed his stuffed animals from when he was a child, the comics that had provided him with so many hours of escapism. His sports posters. His dog’s favorite ball. Bojan…

From the floor below, the sobs continued to come, a bit weaker now. He could not take it anymore. He finished packing what he needed, closed his backpack tightly, and slung it over his shoulder. He began to feel his eyes moisten. He looked around, saying goodbye to everything that had been his childhood and youth. He looked at himself in the mirror and did not recognize himself. He was now a man. He had to leave all that behind.

He descended the stairs slowly, remembering the few happy moments he had lived in that house. His father looked at him, shattered. He was still on the floor.

“Son, please, don’t go.”

He did not stop. He thought about his mother, and how much she would suffer when she heard the news. She did not deserve it, but there was no other alternative. His mask of indifference, not so well trained back then, cracked and he began to cry silently too.

“Son, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I apologize to you.”

He reached the ground floor and walked towards the door. His father, limping, tried to stop him. More than Marko’s blows, he looked like a man who life had repeatedly beaten down without giving him a chance to rise. He was completely broken.

“Son, I love you!”

Marko pushed him away half-heartedly and he fell backwards. His father was now sobbing and screaming inconsolably, barely able to speak, realizing it was already too late. He had done something irreparable.

“PLEASE, FORGIVE ME!”

He went out into the street and the rain hit his head, but he did not flinch. His father tried to grab his leg, but tripped and missed. The distance between the two gradually increased.

“SON, FORGIVE ME! I BEG YOU! I’M SORRY, REALLY!”

Lights appeared in some windows. Several neighbors, alarmed by the commotion, were peeking out to find out what was happening. Marko kept moving forward, feeling dead inside. He remembered his dog’s howls and wished to start running to stop hearing everything as soon as possible. His father did not give up, and limping, crossed the garden after him.

“I LOVE YOU, SON!”

He reached the end of the village, soaked to the bone, and hid behind a hedge. There he cried heartily for a while, until he had enough. When he was finished, he straightened up and made a promise to himself never to cry again. He went back out onto the road, took the shoulder, and disappeared into time and distance.

***

The girl approached him and touched his shoulder. He had been quiet, silent, looking ahead for a long time. He had not noticed.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

She extended her hand and brushed his cheek, where a solitary tear was falling. He had not noticed that either. This crisis was completely disrupting everything. Things had changed, and they had dragged him along.

Without saying anything, she sat next to him and hugged him tightly, to comfort him. They stayed like that for a while, with the world stopped around them. Her warmth rivaled the sun’s rays.

“If you don’t have one, I can be your family, Marko,” she said without opening her eyes.

I would only bring you misery, he thought. And then he swore, that he would not fulfill that contract.

***

There was something strange in the atmosphere, and until then he had not been very clear about what. It was the silence. Normally, nature was always noisy, the forests were full of bird singing, branches creaking, signs of life. All that had disappeared and there was absolutely no sound, only a sepulchral silence. It was unnerving.

“Something’s not right.”

He climbed a small hill. Far away, there was still no evident movement, but the details did not match. It seemed like a storm was approaching, but there were hardly any clouds and the star had barely begun its descent. His instinct warned him to run. The animals seemed to have already done so.

“On your feet. We’ve been standing too long.”

“Are we being followed?”

“Yes, but I’m not exactly sure by what.”

They picked everything up and he stowed the poncho, folding it hastily and poorly. He remembered Yuri’s words. It’s coming from the east, he had warned. Not even you can move that fast. He had a feeling it might be too late.

“Let’s go!”

The terrain was moderately flat, and they made good progress. Marko carried the map in a transparent cover hanging from his neck, as well as the compass, but he had a very clear notion of where to go. He frequently turned around and walked a few steps backward while checking the horizon. And each time he did, he liked it less than the previous one. He could not see very far due to the thickness, but in the distance, he had the feeling that something was swallowing the forest.

“Lyudmila, you need to try to speed up a bit.”

She panted. She was not used to keeping up that pace, which the Serbian could afford with his strides. But she would avoid complaining as much as possible so that he would take her seriously.

Almost an hour passed without them barely opening their mouths. Even she, usually talkative, seemed to be understanding that the situation was grave. There was a strange air, an ominous perception in the atmosphere, of fatality. He did not want to listen to her sixth sense, but it hinted to him that it was doubtful he would live to see another dawn.

“Marko, are we going to stop to rest later?”

“Yes, in five minutes.”

“It’s not necessary, we can continue if you want, for me.”

He smiled. She also had her pride.

“It’s okay. You’re doing well.”

He had been a while without taking a look. He turned around, and stopped dead, astounded. He had never seen anything even remotely similar, and he had seen many things. Now he understood why they had called it “the darkness.” It was not at all like a fog: wherever it advanced, everything disappeared enveloped in a suffocating darkness, nothing more. It would seem that the universe and existence ended right there, at a very sharp and delimited limit, beyond which light could not pass or even exist. He had never faced something so terrifying.

“Lyudmila, run!”

Scared, she turned around, and when she glanced at that, she screamed and ran like a fawn that has seen the wolf’s ears. It was too much even for her innate optimism: that darkness was the end. Several hundred yards later they began to slow down. Marko was panting like a horse, and when he looked over his shoulder it seemed to him that they were not gaining ground, but quite the opposite.

“Drop the backpack! Drop it!”

She obeyed immediately, with relief. The guide did the same and his shoulders and legs stopped screaming, grateful. If needed, he knew how to live off nature, but it might not be necessary if that caught them. They trotted like crazy for an eternity before slowing down again. It was catching up to them.

“Keep going, don’t stop!”

He stopped and unslung the rifle, bringing it to his face. He took off the safety. He was not going to surrender without a fight. He did not aim at any specific place, because there was not one: it was all unrealistically uniform. He fired one, two, three loose shots, to no effect. He did not even see the impacts appear. It simply swallowed the bullets without a complaint. The girl, hearing it, also turned around and stopped, waiting for him.

“Marko, no!”

“Keep going! Don’t stop!”

She hesitated, reluctant to leave him there.

“I don’t want to leave you!”

“Go! Save yourself!”

He switched the selector to automatic and finished emptying the magazine, with the same result. He pulled out another full one from the pouch.

“Lyudmila, run! SAVE YOURSELF!”

She finally obeyed him, with annoyance. She kept looking back at him from time to time, but Marko did not see it: he had more pressing problems. He soon ran out of ammunition. He took off the strap and dropped the weapon, useless. The darkness was almost next to him and it appeared gigantic like a tsunami. He ran a little more, until he was out of breath. The girl was still going, luckily. At least, let her save herself, he thought. Desolate, he turned around.

He recalled much of his life, meditating that this was not the end he had imagined. The wall was so close that he could soon touch it. For the first time in a long time, he was afraid. He covered his face.

The darkness swallowed him.

***

What came next was very confusing.

Marko had always assumed that, after dying, he would wake up surrounded by fire and sulfur, or earth, or would simply not wake up. That was not what happened. When he regained consciousness he could feel the fatigue, touch the ground, smell a cold and sterile environment, and hear sounds that he could not quite place. It was as if his senses were still functioning in the afterlife. He thought he would float, or be incorporeal, but he touched his limbs, and when he stood up he did so heavily, and gravity was the same. Just like on earth.

He spun on his heels, trying to get a clue about his location, and was puzzled to see that the confusing shapes and colors he saw, and the sounds he heard, seemed to move around him independently of what he did. It was like wearing a helmet, but he put his hands to his head and found nothing. He got dizzy and was about to have to sit down.

After a while, the images and sounds stabilized and everything became still. A figure materialized in front of him (if one could say so, because when he moved his neck he still saw it) and he heard a voice, very out of sync and artificial, in his head.

“Marko Jelenić, welcome.”

No, he had not heard it exactly. It had been more of a thought, an idea, almost an image. No one had produced that murmur, but somehow the phrase was concretized in his head, as if an invisible interlocutor had shared with him a notion jumping all physical barriers. All of this was completely overwhelming to him.

“Where am I? Who are you?”

He was soothed to hear his own voice normally.

“Calm down. Everything has already passed. You are safe.”

Am I dead? Is this heaven? No, they would never admit me there…

“But where are we?”

“You are in the anteroom, where the preselection is made. This is where it is decided whether you are fit or not.”

Preselection? Am I going to be judged? Am I talking to Saint Peter?

“Fit for what? Am I still alive? I don’t understand anything!”

“Your confusion is understandable, but you should not be alarmed. You are still alive. This is where your suitability as a member of an advanced and just society is evaluated. It is too late to change anything, what is done, is done.”

His answers were like those of a robot. Whatever it was, Marko was certain that it was omnipotent. It was not his friend, nor his enemy, it was far above him.

“Am I going to face a jury? Will I be able to defend myself?”

“It is not necessary for you to declare anything. We can instantly see everything you have done in your life.”

The figure imprinted on his retina transmuted, increasing in size while fading until it disappeared. It was replaced by images of Marko at various moments in his life, strangely vivid and material. Few were happy. Something unpleasant in his belly reminded him that his body was still there. All his life… He bowed his head.

“You can read my mind? If so, I’m already lost… Anyway, I was going to tell you, I have nothing to hide. I deserve whatever happens to me.”

“We cannot read your mind, Marko Jelenić, but it is unnecessary. We have been observing your species for a long time. We have witnessed everything you have done. Everything has been recorded.”

My species? But then…

“Ain’t you human?”

“No. We decided to intervene before it was too late. Your species was doomed to extinction, as has happened to many before. You had perfected the use of technology, before doing the same with your ethics. You did not dominate your weapons and possessions, but it was the other way around.”

This time he saw images that were also very familiar to him. It was a summary of the most important events of humanity as any documentary could have offered. There were not many positive ones, wars occupied most of it. He felt disgusted to be part of it. But the idea of being in the presence of an extraterrestrial intelligence was complete madness. He covered his head with his hands, although this did not stop him from seeing the images, trying to assimilate it. When he spoke again, more than a minute had passed.

“If you know everything I’ve done, there’s no need to say more… You can do with me what you want.”

He remembered his sad childhood and youth, which was followed by a hard life marked by crime. He knew very well that he could be considered evil. He had hurt many people, always seeking survival, benefit, to prevail over others in a world where losers often ended up dead and forgotten. He had been tenacious and ruthless, but it was just a facade, and now he saw it clearly. Deep down he was still an insecure and scared child, who hid behind a mask of ruthlessness and behind the brutality of his acts as a defense mechanism, so that others would not mess with him. He envied all those people he had known who, even having lived hardships equal to or greater than his own, had somehow managed to turn it all into something constructive. They had faced problems head on and worked hard to keep going, without resorting to the same easy atrocities they were surrounded by, and that had much more merit. Marko had always dreamed of being like that, but he had never achieved it and this tormented him. He had never been able to be really strong, just pretend to be.

He had stolen, he had killed, always closing his heart so as not to have to think about the consequences. He had trafficked with human beings, with refugees and civilians who were promised a better future, when they were not directly taken from the arms of their loved ones. He had secretly crossed thousands of borders moving this human merchandise, leading them in the grasp of people like Sokolov, whose mafias used them as currency.

And Lyudmila, the tender and innocent Lyudmila. He had escorted her for weeks, pretending to protect her, and allowing her to form an intimate affinity with him, oblivious to the fate that awaited her, believing that he was taking her to reunite with her family. They had traveled half of Eastern Europe dodging that strange phenomenon. And it was only because of it, when the pillars of his existence were knocked down, that he understood that in life there were things more important than power and money. He had never felt so disgusted with himself. He would have cut his veins if he had something to do it with.

“I have not been a good person. I am not worthy.”

Finally, the moment had come. Finally, he would pay for his crimes and stop being a burden on society. Finally, he would stop living like a wretch. Having said these words, he felt a weight lifted off him.

“You are not a bad person, Marko Jelenić.”

He looked up, confused.

“What? Yes, I’ve been!”

“You have not been given a choice. You have always done what you have been forced to do by circumstances, seeking to survive. You have caused harm, yes, but almost always in self-defense, and nothing that was not already irreparable. Deep down you have always been a scared animal, and you have felt compassion for the weakest even though you tried to hide it, because you too are weak.”

“But… I’ve done horrible things!”

“Never on your own initiative, and always feeling guilty. You have always been surrounded by truly evil people who have dragged you like a ship adrift. Your perception of your own actions is somewhat inaccurate.”

The images changed, focusing this time on moments he had already forgotten. Sharing the little food he had with a homeless man. Helping a family of refugees get out of a mined area. Making an emergency tourniquet for a civilian hit by a sniper. Good memories, which he had kept secret for fear that word would get out that Marko Blavic was soft. He could not afford such a reputation…

He visualized the girl once more. Carrying her on his shoulders, loaded like a mule, when she could not walk because of the blisters on her feet. Preventing her from being kidnapped by rival mafias. Watching over her while she slept, to make sure she was okay. Asking her to run to safety when the darkness was chasing them.

“Lyudmila…”

“Your companion is fine. Her process ended very quickly. She asked for you insistently.”

Hearing that only made him feel more despicable.

“She… She trusted me, and I was going to sell her out.”

“You would never have handed her over, Marko Jelenić, and you know it. You would not let anything bad happen to her. You have a very strong bond with her, stronger than any material benefit.”

More images. This time, of his mother. Teaching him to read, combing his unruly hair, taking him by the hand to see his grandparents, who died in a car accident when he was still a child. His grandfather, from whom Marko had inherited the name. He had always seemed tall as a tower.

“Mother… Is she…?”

“Jadranka Jelenić is fine and is awaiting process.”

Calmness overcame him. If there was someone on his planet who could be considered worthy, that was his mother.

Then, he visualized his dog. Playing with him, taking care of him in his convalescence when he lacerated a paw with a barbed wire, napping together. His heart shrank. He stretched out his arm, trying to touch him, pet him one more time, but it was just an illusion.

“Bojan!”

“Your pet did not die in that forest. He was found and adopted by another family shortly after. He ended his life cycle happily, although he missed you until the last day.”

He fell to the ground, hurting his knees and elbows but not caring. He cried as he had done that day almost twenty years ago, but this time it was not out of bitterness, but out of relief. It was all he could ask of the universe. The three beings who had mattered most to him in his entire life had not suffered any terrible end. They were already safe, where nothing and no one could touch them. He curled up on the ground, and for a few moments he was again that carefree child who enjoyed playing, reading, walking with his parents, visiting his family, long before discovering the evil that ruled the world.

“I… I’ve never really been able to be good. I’ve failed.”

“Marko Jelenić, it is not just about being a good person. It is also about trying. Ethics and repentance are something that not all members of your species possess.”

Minutes passed, and he felt something he had not known in years: peace.

“There are so many questions… So many things I’d like to know.”

“We have all the time in the world.”

***

At times he still thought that all this was just a dream. But if that was the case, it was a good dream, and he did not mind. He was happy.

He stopped at the threshold. The architecture around him was unusual, and he would not have been able to describe it using only words. Both time and space seemed to flow in an unusual way. He would have to acclimate and flow with them. A new life awaited him.

Now safe, he thought of all those who had died for no reason. Many of them, trying to escape from that darkness. He remembered the refugees from the camp, that officer who had blown his brains out. If only they had known how close they were to salvation, instead of killing themselves trying to flee from it. It was absurd.

He felt unworthy again, and noticed kind of a reluctance to enter. Could he leave all his past behind? Could he really count on a new opportunity? Well, there was only one way to find out. Cautiously, he ventured into what logic told him was an impossibly large room.

There were thousands of people there. Thousands.

Some were alone, brooding. Others formed couples or groups, speaking in a rushed manner, still unable to process the recent changes in their lives. But no one seemed worried, at most, sad. He walked hesitantly, unsure of how to conduct himself in this unique future he was embarking on, although he had been promised that his basic needs would be met.

Most were strangers, but he recognized some faces. They were refugees from the camp. Perhaps the “chosen ones” had been grouped by geographical proximity, or perhaps based on the order in which they had been “processed.” Astonished, a few yards further (although distances were difficult to detail) he thought he saw Valery Mineyev wandering around dazed. Old Yuri had not been wrong in his verdict of him, then. He was glad not to see any trace of Vera. No, not that. He should not think ill. Now he was different, a new man, good. But was that true? Could a person really change? And if so, to what extent?

Almost everyone remained motionless, except for a few who were looking for old compatriots. That was why it was easy for him to see the slender figure heading towards him with determination. He had no trouble identifying her blond hair, her keen eyes, and her sincere smile.

Lyudmila came up to him, and on her face he could read an expectation a hundred times greater than he would have assumed. Smiling, she waited for him to hug her, but she just looked at him with complicit eyes and held out a receptive hand.

“Gimme,” she said, taking his.

She led him through that calm human sea, under the watchful gaze of some and the polite indifference of others. He saw more familiar faces, and many more that were not. Some smiled at him and made a slight nod, others tilted their heads towards a colleague and whispered a few words in his ear. No one seemed to find him out of place there.

Without stopping, the girl walked past everyone, deftly dodging individuals and groups, and continued a certain distance, to where his now gray-haired father was waiting to beg him for his forgiveness.