Max and Fera E-Book

Judith Flemming

• Herausgeber: novum pro Verlag
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 416

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Max, plagued by back pain and painful memories of his dead girlfriend, roams a dreary new world as a border patrol agent, confined only to the mainland of Europe after a natural disaster. Enclosed by an artificial atmosphere - the Dome - the remaining people live off the remains of the old civilization. But supplies are running low. When Max learns of a gap in the Dome, he sets out. On his mission, he meets Fera - the girl from the hostile East who is on the run from her power-hungry adoptive father. During their grueling journey, the two become closer and closer, and Max is finally faced with the question of how far he is willing to go to reach his goal.

Leseprobe

Max and Fera

Chapter 1 - MAX

"Fuck," he groaned as he tried to bend down to tie his Skechers together. Skechers with orthopedic outsoles and memory foam insoles. Once they were turquoise blue with mint green laces. "Totally girly," Marilyn had said when he'd arrived with them, "now all you need is the matching neon Lycra leggings to go with them and then you can join my women's aerobics group right away." Marilyn ... "Don't start losing yourself in any daydreams again. This is not the time," he admonished himself, "you better get those damn shoes tied and get on with it!"

Slowly he arched his back, waiting for the familiar pain in his lumbar region, gritting his teeth and trying to reach his feet. A sharp pain shot through his hip and made him stop moving. Nothing worked anymore. He couldn't straighten up or bend all the way down. "Breathe," he said in his mind, "tighten your abdominal muscles. Take the pressure off your back." It didn't always work, but today fate was being lenient with him. "Okay then, let's do it this way," he said aloud, hoisting his right leg onto a nearby tree stump. At this elevated angle, he was finally able to reach and tie his shoelaces. They hadn't been mint green for a long time, more of a camouflage mud brown - a wonder they held up at all, as they were covered all over in tiny holes and scratches. But they were the only shoes in which he could walk longer distances reasonably well - and he had to walk here ... walk, walk ... and keep a lookout for anything that might pose a threat to the Western Union, but above all, of course, for scouts of the "power of the East".

Today, however, he had planned a small detour on his round. Carefully he made his way through the dense branches. Although it was not winter cold, the trees and bushes had no leaves. They wouldn't get them again either. The dome didn't do a very good job of simulating seasons and the accompanying temperature changes. Nature was stuck in a perpetual state of spring, but without making plants bloom or stimulating them to grow, which regularly drove Caspar and his team of pseudoscientists crazy. Max had no understanding of biological contexts. He had never been interested in science or even mathematics. Before "Eternal Sunset," he worked in a glorified corner store and studied musicology and literature. A combination of subjects that even then gave him little chance of professional success. Certainly not in a world where musical instruments and books were relics of distant times. What helped him to his current position was rather his tenacity and, of course, the fact that he was one of the few "old guys". If someone approaching the age of 40 could be classed as old. Well, by today's standards, sure. Old were all those who still knew the old world.

A rustling sound startled Max out of his thoughts. Cautiously, he sca his surroundings with his eyes for the source of the sound. He couldn't make out anything, just the familiar tree skeletons that stood out ghostly against the night-black sky, and the equally familiar dark brown, muddy ground beneath his feet. But up there in one of the treetops, he saw something. It had wings and the size of a squirrel, although of course those no longer existed, nor did birds or bats. But before he could make out exactly what it was, it had already disappeared. He made a mental note to tell the Colonel about it. Perhaps a new invention of the "power of the East"?

Undeterred, he continued to make his way until he finally spotted the familiar log cabin behind a small hill. Quietly, he knocked on the door. No one opened, but Max knew from experience that the door would not be locked. The Doc had an unswerving faith in the good in people. A belief that Max did not share at all.

"Are you awake, Anselm? It's Max, can I come in?" Max was reluctant to enter just like that, despite the unclosed door. He found it difficult to discard the acquired manners of a long-outdated form of society.

But when he got no answer even after calling again, he entered the small hut, which consisted only of two rooms and a large fireplace.

Concerned, he looked around for the old Anselm. If Max was already considered "old," then the doc probably had to be called "ancient". He probably didn't even know his real age himself anymore. Not surprising, considering everything he had seen. People tended to forget unimportant things, and for Anselm, age was just a number. However, considering his loopy white hair, which usually stuck out in all directions, and his matching white ruffled beard, Max assumed that Anselm would have already been retired for many years if such a thing still existed.

Although everyone just called him "the Doc," he had by no means had any medical training in the true sense of the word. No, his old profession had been something that made him much more valuable in this day and age - he had been a pharmacist. Foresighted as he had been, he had already begun, in the years of unrest before the "Eternal Sunset," to build up a well-stocked store of private medicines, which now occupied almost the entire second room of his log cabin. Surely Max would find him there.

Walking quickly, he passed the empty bed and the fireplace and entered Anselm's medicine room. Here he found the old man bent low over a steaming pot. His head was almost completely covered with a towel, which explained why the old man had not heard him. "Anselm, you shouldn't put yourself in such a vulnerable position with the door unlocked. You might as well put a neon sign on your door with the words '"Rob me blind'!"

Doc slowly raised his head and looked at Max from a deep red face and with veiled eyes. "Ah, Max, my boy," the old man greeted him, visibly pleased, "what brings you to me? Is your back aching again, is it? Come, come, sit down, I'll be with you in a moment."

Anselm pointed to a stool of questionable stability in the corner. While Max moved toward it and tried to assess whether he would be able to rise from it again with his own power, his gaze fell on a tube next to the still steaming pot. "Anusol" was written on it. "Hemorrhoid ointment? Really? Are you sure you got the directions right?" laughed Max. "In my opinion, you shouldn't inhale that ..."

"I have indeed not read the package insert, my dear Max, because it is written in English, and as you know, I have only a rudimentary knowledge of English. Basically, however, all ointments consist to a large extent of glycerin, and that represents, at least to some extent, an alternative to conventional cigarettes, which, as you know, are even more difficult to come by these days than your beloved ibuprofen." Anselm unceremoniously sat down on the stool himself, now looking much fresher again and examining Max with attentive eyes.

Max liked the old man's quick wit, but couldn't help taking another side swipe. "A doctor who smokes ... tz, tz, tz ..."

"Oh Max, as you also know, I am by no means a doctor. We're all just human beings and have to try to find one or two positives in this miserable life."

Max found it difficult to find anything positive in his existence. "And yes, I'm here for the ibuprofen," he therefore only said and let the previous topic rest.

"You know I like you, youngster, you have character and resilience, I like that in people, but what you need is not ibuprofen. You need an alternative, a hope, a ... a ... as you Anglo-Saxons always say ... an escape ... Yeah, that's what you need."

"And what's that supposed to be, Doc? Did you invent a time machine that can catapult me 50 years into the past so I can live my life the way I planned?"

Anselm looked at Max from shining eyes, exuding the aura of a cult leader. "No, something much better, I can give you a future. A few weeks ago, a young girl came to me from the northern border. Period complaints, nothing tragic. But she told me about her brother, who patrols the northwest frontier for Colonel Burns, and he supposedly saw two men leave the Dome ..."

"But that's impossible, Doc, and even if they did, they'd die instantly," Max interrupted him.

"Let me finish, laddie, did you leave your manners at the door?" exclaimed Anselm. "Said brother met said men again two days later, alive and kicking, at dinner. So it is possible to survive outside the Dome, and not only that. There are rumors that there is a whole new civilization there. Or maybe the old one didn't perish at all. Do you know what that means? Doctors, medicine ... they could cure your back. Because you don't think that what you have in your back is just tension. You just have to find a way to get to the northwest border."

Max didn't know what to say to that. He knew that the Doc was a sucker for such old wives' tales, always the optimist, the dreamer. "If it's all so dreamily simple, why are you still here, Doc?" he therefore simply asked.

"But boy, I have everything I need right here," Anselm said, pointing to his arsenal of medicines. "Besides, I can't find what I'm really lacking in shall we say a more appealing civilization either."

Max knew what the doc was alluding to. It was obvious, his hut was full of yellowed photos of his wife Theodora. Max by now knew Anselm and Theodora's entire life story, including her death five years ago in that very cabin. And that's where the difference between Max and Anselm lay. He had had a life. A life with his wife, a profession, a fulfillment. And he had been able to say goodbye. Farewell to the love of his life. Max had had nothing like that. His life was snatched away from him before it had really taken shape. What remained were memories and daydreams. Marilyn. He hadn't even told the doc about her. He wondered if he would feel better if he did. No. No, Marilyn was his "escape." Something he would not share. Something that would make him seem vulnerable. And it was bad enough that the Doc knew the true extent of his back problems.

"All right, Anselm, I'll see if I can find out something," Max concluded. He didn't want to destroy the old man's faith in a better world, but he also didn't feel like giving in to false hopes. "Now please, please, see that you give me the ibuprofen," he added with a wry smile.

Max had decided to spend the rest of the night with the old pharmacist. On the one hand, because he liked him and wanted to make sure that he was not exposed to any danger from marauding scumbags, and on the other hand, because Anselm had an extremely comfortable bed with a well-kept mattress that he himself hardly used - "too many memories, boy ...," the Doc used to say - but which was a real boon for Max's back. This and the effect of the overdosed ibuprofen - "Go ahead and take the double dose, after all they've been out of date for a few years and we don't want the effect to be diminished," Anselm had instructed him with a twitch of the corners of his mouth - meant that Max slept more deeply than he had in a long time.

He knew he was dreaming because Marilyn was with him. They were driving in her car. She hadn't had her driver's license very long, as could be seen from her reckless passing maneuvers. A blues band with folk rock elements was playing on the radio - one of her favourite bands. "And if you never let me go, I will never let you down," she sang along loudly and wryly to the lyrics. "Why do we always have to listen to these Irish twats when we go somewhere?" he commented with a pained expression on his face, trying to annoy her. "Because, my friend, those songs are absolutely pure poetry...besides, they're not Irish, I've told you that a hundred times," she replied emphatically, with a playfully evil sideways glance. Her dark hair fell slightly into her face and the sun broke in her light brown eyes, which made them sparkle in an extremely seductive way. He loved her at that moment and didn't object when she turned the radio even louder. Even now he could still hear the song in his head, though he knew the dream was slowly fading. Vaguely, he thought about how ironic the lyrics were - for she had let him go and he had left her behind - as an ever-increasing breeze finally caused him to awaken fully.

Struggling for orientation for a moment, he looked around for the source of the draft and found the door of the hut standing open. Had the old idiot left his door unlocked again? Max rolled over on his side off the mattress, pleased that he could move to some extent, and reached in vain for his Skechers, which he had placed on the side of the bed.

Next, his head was abruptly jerked to the side and an all-encompassing pain shot through his jaw. Struggling not to lose consciousness, he tensed every muscle in his body and took a deep breath. Gradually his vision cleared and he recognized two men standing in front of him holding makeshift batons - that explained the pain in his jaw ... He had no time to grasp the situation more deeply, because figure number one was about to strike him again.

At the edge, he noticed how the other guy hurried into the back room, shouting unintelligible words to his companion.

Despite his limited mobility, Max was not a weak man and he had learned never to go on his patrols unarmed. Quick as a flash, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out his folding knife. He could just see the expression on his attacker's face change from determination to panic as the baton fell from his raised arm and Max's knife struck him under the unprotected ribcage. Max had no idea whether he had hit a vital organ or punctured an artery; all that mattered to him was that the attacker fell to the ground and did not get up again.

Despite the worrisome sounds coming from the next room, Max took the time to kneel down awkwardly to feel the guy's pulse. Nothing. Good. As he did so, his eyes fell on the man's face - no, the boy's, Max now realized. The fellow was 16 at the most. "Fuck," Max thought, but had no time for remorse, because even if his buddy was also a teenager, Anselm certainly wouldn't be able to handle him alone. Besides, he wanted the second one alive to find out what this robbery was all about.

As soon as he took a step into the room, however, he realized that this endeavor was pointless. Boy number two - he looked even younger than the first - lay motionless on the floor. Next to him was the heavy pot that the doc had used yesterday for his dubious inhalation purposes.

Max turned to Anselm, smiling - half with relief, half in the face of the absurdity of this whole situation. The smile on his face froze within a split second, however. Anselm was also lying on the floor, holding his chest. Max could see no blood or other superficial injuries. "What, what is it, Doc, what do you need, tell me what to get!", Max literally shouted at the old man. The latter tried to move his lips, but no words left his mouth. Max saw his left arm sticking out, completely cramped, while he continued to press the right one to his chest. "Heart attack," it flashed through Max's mind. Damn, what did one do in such a case? Dial 999 ... Well, those days were over. Absolutely helpless, Max knelt down next to his friend - for that was what he had become for him, Max now realized, probably his only one - and held his cramped hand. It wasn't long before the hand went limp and the Doc's water-blue eyes went from panicked to peaceful and finally to vacant.

Expressionless, Max paused for a moment over the lifeless body. He had no tears; they had dried up long ago. Instead, he lapsed into autopilot. He couldn't take the time to dig graves, besides, Anselm's cabin certainly didn't have the proper utensils for that. He would let the Colonel know and ask him to send some men over to take care of everything. However, before doing so, he wanted to make sure he got a good supply of ibuprofen before the medicine chest was raided. On his way to the doc's makeshift shelves, his eye caught a jute sack of some sort that attacker number two must have dropped - so they had been here with the intention of robbing the pharmacist, of course, what else? Max picked up the sack from the floor to look inside. Inside lay his Skechers. "Really, guys?" Any sense of remorse left Max's body. "Stealing a poor, sick man's orthopedic shoes!" he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

Ten minutes later, he had collected all the medicine that seemed useful and put it in the jute bag, his shoes were back on his feet, and he was about to pull the hood of his softshell coat over his short-cropped hair to leave the cabin when his eyes fell on a book in the far corner of one of the shelves.

Books were scarce in those days, which immediately aroused Max's curiosity. He grasped the book with one hand, opened it, and was disappointed to discover that it was a kind of notebook of the old man. Indistinct sketches of his wife Theodora alternated with poems and cryptic formulas. He was about to put the journal down when a drawing at the very end of the book caught his attention. It was an animal about the size of a squirrel, but its wings made it look more like a bat. An animal very similar to what he had seen last night on the way here. At that point, he had ruled out that it had really been an animal, since mammals and birds had not been sighted for years. He had rather thought of an optical illusion or even a drone. But what if it really was an animal? What if the Doc had seen it, too, close enough to draw? Would that mean there were mammals or birds under the dome after all? Wings, it had wings - what if it didn't live here at all, but had come in from OUTSIDE? "... Supposedly saw two men leave the Dome ...", Anselm's words from last night ran through Max's head. He had dismissed those thoughts as gossip. But what if it was the truth? A strange feeling of tightness and dizziness spread through Max's chest. Was this adrenaline rushing through his body, or was it hope flooding his soul?

Chapter 2 - FERA

Listlessly, she pushed her dinner from one side of the plate to the other. It was hard for her to imagine that the piece of meat lying there in front of her, fresh from a 3 D printer, had been cut out of a livi-ng creature in the past. She had never seen cows or pigs for herself. Her earliest childhood memory was of a stray cat she had tried in vain to catch. Her parents had died a few years after that, and she had lived in the Krom ever since.

She had no memory of her homeland - Finland her parents had called it. For her, there was only East and West; the concept of countries was foreign to her. She knew she was lucky to live here in the shelter of the Krom among influential scientists and princes. And she had Vlad. His parents and her parents had worked on the Dome with other scientists. At that time she had not understood many things, it had all seemed like a great adventure to her. They had been traveling constantly, memories of laboratories alternating with those of other children with whom she had learned reading and arithmetic. They had learned English, German, French and, of course, Russian. Not that she needed the other languages today. In the sphere of influence of the "power of the East", Russian was the only language spoken; the oligarchs attached the greatest importance to this. Vlad's father Yaroslav was one such. He had long since abandoned science and these days had risen to become one of the most influential businessmen - princes, as they called themselves.

Now Fera was sitting across from this same person, while Vlad sat next to her and held her hand.

"So, what do you say, Fera, Sokrovisce? Are you going to meet old Igor and give him a few pleasant hours?"

Fera put down her cutlery and swallowed hard. He was serious, he was absolutely serious, and Vlad just sat by and said nothing.

She knew that she had to answer carefully. People disappeared from the Krom again and again, former minions were no longer seen from one day to the next. Would he make an exception for his son's mistress, should she disappoint him? She did not believe.

She tried to play for time and said hesitantly, "Surely a meeting in the company of others would be a good idea first. Wouldn't he like to get to know me first?"

"But Fera, Zoika, that's not what good Igor is about. If he wants to talk shop, he goes to Yuri in the lab. All he cares about is your angelic looks, and he already knows those," Yaroslav grinned at her from his fat cheeks.

She hated it when he looked at her like that, hated it when he called her "sweetheart" or "bunny" and treated her like she was just a pawn on one of those old board games that Yuri loved so much. Yuri - maybe he would have an idea. He had become something of a surrogate father to her. Whenever she could, she went to help him with simple tasks in the lab and listened to his stories of the old world.

A gentle jiggle of her knee brought her up from her thoughts. Vlad. He looked at her encouragingly and probably wanted to get her to answer.

"Yes, fine, arrange it. Just please give me a few days notice so I can prepare for the meeting," she finally brought out. She was surprised at how firm her voice sounded.

Visibly pleased, Yaroslav clapped his fat hands and laughed, "But of course, we know how you women are, don't we, Vlad?"

Vlad did not respond to his father's dig, but turned back to his food. So the rest of the dinner passed in silence. Yaroslav had gotten what he wanted, and no one would contradict him.

"How can you bear all this so stoically? I thought I was your everything?!" Fera literally shouted at Vlad when they were together in his chamber a few hours later.

"What do you want me to do? You know what my father's like, and you also know he wouldn't back down from breaking us up. One word from him and I'll be on the damn western border tomorrow, patrolling the mud."

"He wouldn't do that, you're his son after all, and he wants to bequeath all his pomp to someone, after all. I, on the other hand, am absolutely nothing to him. The promise he made to my parents to take care of me means nothing in the face of more wealth and power. As if that would make anyone happy."

Happiness? What was that anyway? She had thought she had found it with Vlad. He had always been by her side, they had played together as children, told each other stories, he had held her in his arms when she had cried for her parents in their bed at night ... It had seemed only natural to her that their relationship with each other had developed into a love affair over time. On her 16th birthday, he had kissed her for the first time. That had been over three years ago now. Since then, she had never questioned her love for him. At the same time, of course, she had no comparison. Was it love or was it simply habit that bound her to Vlad? Something familiar, something constant in a world that she didn't understand, that made her believe she was safe, but in reality had become a prison?

Her anger had faded. Vlad also made no effort to continue the argument. Tall, but with sagging shoulders, he stood there looking sadly at his feet. His long hair had come loose from its braid and hung in his face. Suddenly infinitely tired, Fera wrapped her arms around him and folded his in her neck. She breathed in Vlad's familiar scent and felt her heartbeat slow. "Let's go to sleep. I don't want to talk about it anymore," she whispered into the crook of Vlad's arm.

"What in three devils' names is that noise?" Fera wanted to know with a laugh as she entered the lab. Yaroslav didn't like to see her spending her time down here. In his opinion, women had no business here. She wondered what his own wife would have had to say about that had she been alive. She knew from Vlad that his mother had been held in far higher esteem in research circles than his father. Had that led to the tensions in their relationship?

"That, Fera darling, is called New Wave. The Smiths, to be exact. One of Caspar's favorite bands. Fortunately, he left his records here before our collaboration ended," Yuri replied. She didn't miss his wistful look. "Ended, you mean?" Fera added knowingly.

She knew that Yuri had had a good friend in Caspar. They had been a mismatched pair, he the silent giant who always worked with obsessive concentration, and Caspar, the lanky guy with dark skin and always a joke on his lips, the one who could lighten the atmosphere in the lab like no other. And she knew how much Yuri missed him now. He never said it out loud, though, because that would have had consequences for him; just playing that old music was not looked upon favorably by the oligarchs, from which Fera concluded that Yaroslav was probably not currently in the Krom.

"How long will he be gone?" she asked anyway, to be on the safe side. She knew that Yuri was clear about whom she was talking.

"Oh, a few days for sure. He's meeting with this guy Igor. It's about an arms deal. I don't know what he needs them for anyway. He's got a good handle on the people outside the Krom anyway. He just needs to cut off their power or further restrict their access to the food consortium."

"Not only the people outside the Krom ...", Fera murmured softly. Yuri heard her nonetheless. "Is there something you want to tell me?" he asked, now turning off the music by pressing a few buttons on his console.

Fera pondered whether and how much she could tell Yuri. "I'm supposed to do him a 'favour' that I don't really want to do," she therefore only said cryptically.

"I see," Yuri replied knowingly, "does the favor have to do with that old fatso he's taking on a tour of his 'empire' right now?" He was visibly trying for a casual tone. It didn't escape Fera's notice, however, how his jaw muscles tightened. He had developed a protective instinct, as far as she was concerned, that she wished Vlad would take a page from.

She realized it was related to Yuri's daughter, who had died before the "Eternal Sunset". He often told her how much she resembled her, from the light blond curls to the long nose, which he always referred to as an aristocrat's nose. Fera hoped, however, that he liked her for her own sake, too.

"Yes," she simply replied.

Yuri sighed, dimmed the lights, and dropped into his chair with the casters. For today, he seemed done with his records and adjustments. The dome worked fine without constant monitoring and adjustments, but Yuri was reluctant to relinquish tasks, trusted his own staff only to a limited extent, and was always worried because he could no longer monitor one hundred percent of what was happening to the western part of the dome.

"Will you tell me if you need help?" he asked her now, looking at her urgently with his grey eyes.

Fera did not understand how he could help her in this matter without endangering his own position. Before she could reply, he added, "There is always a way ... and usually it leads west."

She looked up and saw a determination and a conviction in Yuri's expression that sent a chill down her spine. What was he implying here? The West was desolate, unstructured, littered with vagabonds and marauding groups - at least that's what she'd been told since the split. But that aside, how was she supposed to get there, let alone leave the Krom unseen?

"Yuri, what ...?" she began, when they were interrupted by Mikael, who stuck his head through the door and, taking no notice of her, turned to Yuri: "I'm here to pick up today's data." "Of course," Yuri said, reaching behind him to grab his tablet. Turning to Fera, he said, "I'm sorry, Fera darling, we'll have to start our chess game another time." Instinctively, she knew that the old scientist by no means meant the board game with the peculiar pieces that she loved to play with him.

Chapter 3 - MAX

The walk back to the camp took a little longer than intended. A fine but steady drizzle had set in - the kind of rain you hardly notice until your feet are suddenly soaked. Max would have to dry his Skechers in front of the space heater, assuming there was enough electricity available.

Felix already met him at the outer fence of the camp. The boy was actually much too young to help out here at the eastern border. The service was voluntary, no one was forced to stay here. Many did it to protect their families or to preserve their freedom, because the fear that the self-appointed princes of the "power of the East" could expand their territory further west was omnipresent. They were clearly at an advantage, having the resources and better control over the Dome; after all, it had been developed there. Hailed at the time as a masterpiece of international cooperation, it had quickly become clear that once the immediate threat of a human apocalypse had been averted, the quest for power by individuals would never be stopped. Now it came drop by drop, the apocalypse. It had not escaped Max's notice that birth rates were steadily falling, that life expectancy these days was not exactly high. Therefore, Felix, at twelve years old, was a rare sight.

"Max, Max, what did you see? What's in that sack there? We were getting worried, you've been gone a lot longer than usual!" the boy talked at him nineteen to the dozen as he approached the gate. "Don't forget to breathe, kid," Max patted his curly brown head, shaking his head, "I'm afraid there was a little incident. Do you know where the Colonel is? I'll have to tell him about it. And I'm in desperate need of another pair of shoes. Can you take these out to dry for me? Guard them with your eyeballs, will you? And let them know in the kitchen, something to eat wouldn't be bad." Felix nodded eagerly and waited patiently until Max had pulled each shoe off his wet feet one by one - the boy studiously ignored his pain-distorted face. He knew Max didn't want to be called on it. Then he hurried into one of the outbuildings with his hands full. Max sighed deeply and made his way to the main building.

"This is not good, this is not good at all," the Colonel shook his head as Max told him about his encounter at Anselm's cabin. "I've offered the old codger often enough to move into camp, where we could have taken much better care of him. But he didn't want to, the old free spirit, and I'm not forcing anyone here, we're not in the East," he quipped. Then, however, he abruptly became serious: "I'll put together a team immediately, we have to secure the hut and transfer the drugs to the camp." Max avoided mentioning his personal stash at this point.

"And who were those teenagers who attacked you? Are you sure they didn't speak Russian?" the Colonel now asked him. "I can't rule it out one hundred percent, I was, how shall I say, a bit distracted at the time," Max smirked, "but it didn't sound like a Slavic language. It wasn't German or English either, I'm quite sure of that, but maybe Flemish or something."

"Hmm," was all the Colonel made. He was the same age as Max and had been in the process of completing a dual degree in retail before "Eternal Sunset." He hadn't been able to finish it, but was very good at organizing manpower and was stress resistant. He also liked to joke with Max about the buying habits of customers at the time. He had this charisma that conveyed certainty, whether he was being asked about the shelf life of strawberries or whether it was about the impending danger from the East. His leadership was not questioned by anyone here, although among the self-appointed protectors of the Western Union there were certainly former soldiers who were no strangers to combat, at least in theory. Most of the men and women of the camp, however, were young people in their early twenties who remembered the old world only vaguely, if at all. For them, the colonel was a role model and embodied stability.

Now he rubbed both hands first over his eyes and then through his increasingly thinning, short hair. Suddenly, he seemed eerily old and tired - traits that were all too familiar to Max himself. "It's not the first time I've heard something like this. Young people are becoming restless, there's nothing for them here, no perspective. The old people are dying off, Max. Here at the border it's especially bad. Everyone takes what they can, and we can't be everywhere," he said sorrowfully.

Max briefly thought of his secret supply of medication and felt caught. Was everyone ultimately an egoist after all?

"But what is the alternative, I ask you, should we set up a terrorist state here like they did over there?" the colonel continued. "The Western Union headquarters is expecting me in a few weeks. What should I advise them to do? Max, I'm indispensable here, you know that. But the communication links are becoming increasingly unreliable. It's been weeks since I was last able to talk to Caspar. The power cuts are increasing and ..."

"I can go for you," Max interrupted the Colonel out of the blue.

He didn't know himself what had suddenly gotten into him. This was not in line with his normal behaviour. He never volunteered for missions. He did what he was told - unemotionally, impassively, stoically, reliably. But never on his own accord. Had the revelations in Anselm's cabin awakened something in him that he could not put his finger on? The Western Union headquarter was in the Northwest, not far from Colonel Burns' sphere of influence. Anselm's words involuntarily came back to his mind, "You just have to find a way to get to the Northwest Frontier," it echoed in his head. The Colonel's mission offered him the perfect opportunity to investigate, and in an irrational way he felt obliged to the old pharmacist to do so.

The colonel looked at Max in surprise. "Are you sure? I have to admit, that would take a lot of weight off my chest."

"Yes, as you said, you are indispensable here, I, on the other hand, am just one of many," Max replied.

The Colonel looked at Max urgently: "You are not and you know it. Nevertheless, I thank you and gladly accept your offer. I will give you all the data you need and we will have to look at the maps together to determine the best possible route. You'll need plenty of aid stations and it would be good if you could use the old railroad for at least part of the way, if it's still running ...", abruptly the Colonel paused and his gaze fell on Max's feet, which were still in soaked, holey socks (he hadn't taken the time to change before meeting the Colonel), "... and some new shoes might be an idea, too", the latter finished with a wink and raised corners of his mouth. Max simply replied, "The old ones are absolutely fine. Just let me know when you're ready to go."

What the hell had he been thinking? The northwest border of the Dome was hundreds of miles away. He was here in the easternmost part of what had once been Germany, and would have to get practically into what had once been the Netherlands. Even more, he would first have to work his way north along the eastern border to get to the old rail line that had been a direct link between the Dome's two command centers to the west and east before the split. Unless he was willing to walk the entire distance. However, even orthopedic skechers would probably not allow him to do that.

What had gotten into him? He was not healthy, far from it. Every muscle and bone in his goddamn relic of a body ached. "No, not muscle and bone," he corrected himself, "fascia. Fascia she had called it."

He vividly saw Marilyn in front of him, in her shorts and sports bra, her head between her legs, rehearsing a new yoga sequence for her group. As she did so, punk rock played from the speakers. He would never understand how she could relax to that. It wasn't that he objected to the music - it was just such a strange contrast. Just like her, Marilyn, the perfect contrast of fiery and gentle.

"You know, Max, the problem is, most people think if their back hurts or their knee hurts, they need to take it easy. Just don't move, swallow painkillers and you'll be fine. But the opposite is the case. Joints need to be moved, muscles need to be stretched. The fasciae need to loosen up," she had lectured him endlessly, while he had only listened with half an ear, too distracted by her dimples, by the little wrinkle between her eyebrows that always appeared when she talked herself into a rage. He loved her enthusiasm for what she did. Envied it on occasion, even. She had known what she wanted to do with her life, while he had simply studied what he enjoyed, with no clear goal. What a waste, he thought. And now he was here and she wasn't. What an injustice.

Well, he would go to his bedchamber, stretch his fascia - whatever that was - and hope for the best. Maybe Felix would also remember to bring him something to eat. Without question, it would be a delicious three-course meal, assembled from the best expired canned goods that were in the pantry. In the past, he had tried to eat healthy and exercised regularly, because even then he had felt pain in his joints more often. What he would give now for a pizza and a damn fresh coffee! If he had known how everything would turn out, he would have traded in his gym membership at the time for a bonus points card at Starbucks or Pizza Hut.

"Sorry, Marilyn, exercise won't help me anymore. My skeleton is beyond help," he muttered to himself.

When he opened the door to his sleeping chamber, Max was greeted by a whimpering Felix squatting on the floor in the middle of the room, holding an indefinable bundle in his hands. Upon closer inspection, Max realized that it was his Skechers, or, rather, what was left of them. He couldn't believe his eyes. The upper halves of both shoes were soot-blackened, laces and shoe tongues no longer existent.

"I'm so sorry, Max, the heater was really weak, so I put them right under there, and then I went to get your food in the kitchen, and when I came back, they were smoking on top. I pulled them right off, I swear ...," Felix stammered.

Max saw red. "FUCK's SAKE," he shouted at the boy. "Do you actually know what you've done? I can't trust you with nothing, you're just absolutely useless. How can you be so stupid?!!!"

Felix's sobs grew louder and his lanky body shook at irregular intervals. "You shouldn't yell at him like that, he's a kid, and they're just a damn pair of ancient shoes," it flashed through Max's mind. But he could not relent. Stiff as a board, he stood there staring blankly into nothingness.

Finally, he bent down to snatch the remains of the shoes from Felix. All it took was this slight lift of his right arm, a minimal twist of his hip, and he froze in mid-motion. He could neither lower his arm nor turn his hip back in. A vise had settled around his spine and the epicentre of the pain was gathering in his lowest vertebral joints, which once again must have snagged on each other. Paralyzed, he stood there, aware of the absurdity of it all, while Felix stared at him with eyes the size of dinner plates. He thought they would fall out of his eye sockets if he didn't move soon. And then it burst out of him, a resounding, all-encompassing laugh. Felix's expression changed from dismayed to irritated, and then he too began to laugh tentatively.

"Come here, boy, take both hands and clasp my waist as tightly as you can, will you?" demanded Max. The boy did as instructed and Max took a deep breath and lowered his arm very slowly. Even more slowly, he rotated his hips back to the starting position.

"I thought for a moment you were going to hit me," Felix said meekly.

"No, never," Max replied. Hesitantly, he put his arms around the boy's slender body and pulled him close. It felt strange to hold someone in his arms. He couldn't remember the last time.

"Forget what I said. They're just shoes," he reassured Felix.

"No, they're not," the latter replied defiantly, "I know, Max. They remind you of your old life, don't they? They're like Mrs. Himi." Max was about to ask what the boy was talking about when the latter already continued, "I've had her since I was little. I know I'm way too old for stuffed animals, and I don't even know what kind of animal she's supposed to be, but I remember my mom giving her to me ... and now she's all I have left of her."

Fresh tears rolled down Felix's cheeks as he pulled a small, battered stuffed animal from under his loose hoodie. Max felt equal parts overwhelmed and moved. Is this what it felt like to be a parent? In a distant corner of his mind, he thought he would be forever denied this experience. This was the closest to a father-son moment he would ever get, so he might as well make an effort.

Carefully, he wiped away Felix's tears with his palms and said softly, "Let me see. Ah, Mrs Himi is a Meerschweinchen."

"A sea pig? But she doesn't look anything like the pigs in the pictures I've seen ... and if she lives in the sea, then she needs fleets," Felix remarked confused. Max had to stifle a smirk. "You mean fins. And no, she doesn't need them, Meerschweinchen are - were - mammals. The term doesn't really make much sense, you're right. In my other language, even less so - there they're called 'guinea pigs'."

"Gieee... what? ... Will you tell me about them, Max?" Felix now asked.

Max didn't want to disappoint the boy and was glad that his distress had given way to curiosity, but he was also feeling more and more the exhaustion of the last day and his hunger, so he replied, "Okay, I will, but let's sit down for now and eat some of these 'delicacies' you brought." He pointed to the collection of canned goods on his narrow table that the boy must have placed there earlier. "It's easier to tell stories on a full stomach."

Felix had no objections, so they both sat down at the table to open the cans. Max's gaze fell wistfully on his Skechers on the floor. Maybe he could fix them. The soles seemed just as good as before, and that was what mattered. He had never liked the laces anyway, finding it far too much effort to bend down to tie them. "I don't know why I opened such a can of worms over this. The boy was really doing me a favor," Max laughed silently to himself.

Chapter 4 - FERA

Fera hung over the bucket with her upper body shaking. It had been the second time she had vomited that morning. She could still feel Igor's stale breath on her ear as he had leaned over at breakfast to whisper in her ear that he would visit her in her chamber that evening. Yaroslav had winked at him across the table, while Vlad kept his gaze stoically fixed on his feet under the table.

She had not had time to meet Yuri again to work out a plan. Completely surprisingly, Yaroslav and Igor had returned in complete harmony just two days after Fera's visit to the lab. Obviously, they had been able to come to an agreement much faster than expected.

Now she had no time left. She had to face the facts and somehow get through this evening. Suddenly an even more frightening thought came to her: What if it didn't stay with this one evening? What if he kept coming back to her? A renewed gag reflex shook her and she tasted bile in her throat. "Get a hold of yourself, damn it!" she scolded herself. "There are people in this world who go through far worse."

But it was all to no avail. She curled up on the floor like a baby and let her tears run free.

She could not expect any help from Vlad. He had tried to stroke her arm and pull her to him. When she looked into his helpless eyes, however, her fear and despair had suddenly turned into anger and she had screamed at him to leave. He had done so without comment and now there was only her in her chamber and the bucket.

It was well after 10:00 p.m. when she heard a soft knock at her door. At first she thought it might be Vlad. She would have been happy to see him now and find comfort in his familiar embrace, but when the door opened without a word from her, she saw that it was Igor.

There had to be women who liked him, who might even call him "handsome" with his hunky height, broad shoulders and well-groomed beard. But all that just intimidated her, while his barrel-round belly and flushed face repelled her. He always seemed to be sweating. Just like he did now holding out his hand to greet her.

She grasped it tentatively, but was about to pull hers away again when he dropped to his knees in front of her and breathed a kiss on the back of her hand. "What is this posing?" she thought, "Why does he pretend to be cultured?" Nothing about this agreement was sophisticated. Anger rose in her again and she tried to hold on to that emotion. Anger was far better than fear.

"Shall we sit down, my dear?" Igor asked. Fera automatically went towards the table and chairs, while Igor purposefully headed for the bed. "God, he really wasted no time!" it flashed through Fera's mind. How should she act? Should she get it over with quickly or try to stall for time by engaging him in conversation? Before she had even decided on either option, Igor pulled her close and pressed his spongy lips to her neck. His beard tickled her in an unpleasant way, and her breath caught in her throat in shock. "You are so beautiful, Fera, milaja, your skin is like an angel's, I swear," the oligarch mumbled into her hair.

"I can't do it, I can't do it ..." it rushed through Fera's head in a continuous loop. But she did not move. Even if she hadn't been frozen with panic, she wouldn't have been able to free herself from Igor's grip. His arms were more than twice as wide as hers and he held her tightly.

Suddenly he pushed her onto the bed. Fera's breath caught in her throat. What did this man weigh? Fera didn't know whether to laugh or cry. The sight of this mismatched couple must be unintentionally hilarious. But any entertaining thoughts of that kind abruptly left Fera's mind when Igor fiddled with his belt with one hand while trying to get under her skirt with the other.