There was something ominous about the first email waiting in my inbox this morning. Yuri Bogdanov, a name I hadn’t heard since college. I remembered a blonde, muscular guy with thick black glasses who wore shorts in winter, loved football, and studied English Literature, but nothing in those blurry memories could explain why Yuri was writing to me now, four years later, in the midst of a war no less. I felt a pang of guilt for not contacting him when the conflict began; he’d clearly followed my career enough to know my work email at the small ‘zine where I work, ‘The Unexplained Quarterly.’
We get a daily barrage of emails about hauntings, cryptid sightings, UFO abductions, possessions, and other bizarre events. Ninety-nine percent of our leads are trash, but the other one percent are…unexplained. That’s where I come in. I investigate, clarify for the reader, build on the information we receive…
But Yuri’s email was blank. There was no information, just an attachment with a cyrillic name.
My cursor hovered over the ‘Delete’ button: what if it was a virus? I would catch hell if I let anything into our work system…
In the end, curiosity got the better of me. I shut my eyes and clicked.
It seemed to be a scan of some sort of transcript–a military transcript. When I ran it through a translator and read through the results, the results were choppy…but by the time I finished reading, I understood why Yuri had contacted me again after all these years.
To avoid incriminating or exposing anyone, I’ve changed the names and will not specify the location, except to say that the events transcribed took place in rural southeastern Ukraine in mid-February, 2022.
Interrogator: state your name and rank for the record.
Simonovich: Lev Simonovich Voroshilov, sergeant.
Interrogator: Voroshilov? Like the old general? No relation, I suppose. They tell us you behind-the-lines boys are savages. Fanatics. They tell us you won’t talk, not even under torture. Isn’t that right?
Simonovich: Don’t fuck with me. They picked me up for the army because I flunked out of engineering school. And I’m not related to any ‘general.’
Interrogator: let’s get to the facts, then. What were you and your comrades doing behind our lines? How many of you are there?
Simonovich: my group? Ten. But there are probably others. I suppose you’ll find out soon enough (laughs). They call it ‘irregular warfare.’ What it really means is torching supplies and setting off bombs in civilian areas–then blaming it on the enemy. Instead of military targets, our groups target the soft side: supplies, morale, disinformation. Soft targets. Like you.
Interrogator: cooperative, aren’t you? Makes me wonder if you’re lying.
(Interrogator’s note: the subject is visibly disturbed: trembling, eyes darting around the room, signs of mania in his speech patterns. Something has obviously got to him).
Simonovich: I told you, don’t fuck with me. My side will arrange an ‘accident’ for me if they even think I talked to you. Then they’ll tell my grandmother I died a hero. The moment I opened my mouth, I was good as dead. But I’d rather be killed by them than it.
Interrogator: let’s start with the events that led up to your capture, shall we? You were taken in an abandoned cabin, where six of your comrades were also found dead..
Simonovich: (screams)
(Interrogator’s note: the subject continued to scream until his throat was too hoarse to continue. His screams then turned to giggles, and then, laughter).
Interrogator: what’s the joke?
Simonovich: the joke is everything. Everything in this whole fucking miserable world is the joke! But look–I’ll tell you how my part in it begins: As I said, there were ten of us. We were surprised by a patrol after setting fire to a grain depot. Sergei got popped right away. See this stain on my uniform just below the shoulder? That’s what’s left of him. He was going to get married this fall.
Interrogator: we already know about the depot fire. What happened next?
Simonovich: Rustan and Mikhail covered our retreat through the woods. They took on a whole patrol of you people–with only tree trunks to protect them–just so that we could escape. I don’t know where Mikhail was shot, but he screamed a lot. And Rustan…I was going to ask if you knew what happened to him…but he’s dead. It’s written all over your face. Rustan’s dead…
Interrogator: I can’t confirm or deny that. Were you aware that you were retreating deeper into our territory?
Simonovich: aware?! I was ‘aware’ of my heart galloping like a goddamn racehorse. I was ‘aware’ of the pine trees whipping my face and the way my boots sank into the mud. The only thing I was ‘aware’ of was that I was running for my life.
Interrogator: the cabin where you were found was thirteen kilometers from the grain depot. You ran very far indeed.
Simonovich: didn’t feel like it. Time acts funny when you’re under fire. You’re older than me, but you’ve never been to the front, have you? I can see it in your eyes.
Interrogator: let’s get back on track. What happened after you reached the cabin?
Simonovich: it was like something out of a dream. Like the place had been abandoned back when there was still a tsar. That wooden roof covered in pine needles…those foot-thick whitewashed walls…there wasn’t even a path to get there. It was just waiting for us…in the middle of the woods…
Interrogator: didn’t it occur to you that anyone looking for you would search the structure?
Simonovich: command told us our gear would be thick enough to survive outdoors in the winter. They lied. Even if we’d slept in the woods, we would’ve been found by the chattering of our teeth. We kicked in the door and cleared the place. There was nothing. Just some sagging old furniture, rat’s nests in the corners, soot in the chimney…the temperature was dropping, so it was better than the forest. We barred the door and got as comfortable as we could. Nobody talked much. We were exhausted and keyed-up on adrenaline, all at the same time. I’d never felt anything like that before, and I hope I never do again.
Interrogator: let’s jump ahead to–
Simonovich: to when Mikhail came back, right? (laughs maniacally) That’s why we’re really here, isn’t it? That’s why you idiots are wasting time and resources on a nobody like me.
Interrogator: around what time–
Simonovich: midnight. Just after midnight.
(Interrogator’s note: until now, the subject has avoided talking about this critical moment. The subject’s unfocused eyes, change of tone, and slackened facial muscles suggest he is disassociating himself from a memory he is unable to process).
Simonovich: It was dark. We could barely see our own white breath in the moonlight. We heard something pawing at the door. Ice cracked on the knob when it turned…we readied our rifles…the old wooden door squeaked open…
(The subject became unresponsive. When touched, he began to scream. Guards removed him to his cell to await tomorrow’s interrogation)
Interrogator: so, here we are again. When we left off–
Simonovich: please, just shoot me. Don’t make me remember. When I close my eyes I can still see it: see his muddy combat boot coming through the doorway…
Interrogator: whose muddy boot?
Simonovich: Mikhail’s! Mikhail’s, you bastard! Do I have to spell everything out for you?!
Interrogator: Mikhail, the one who was shot? Had he recovered from his wounds?
Simonovich: we couldn’t tell. It was too dark. All we could see was his uniform, the profile of his face…but it was Mikhail, all right. I know it sounds crazy, but we started laughing our heads off. Laughing in pure relief that he was alive and that we hadn’t been trapped by one of your patrols. Pretty soon we were touching his clothes like he was Christ come back to life…but something…something was wrong. It was just his silence, or the odd way he moved…Mikhail…he…no little clouds of white breath came out of his mouth. And his skin was cold. So very cold…
Interrogator: did anyone attempt to give Mikhail medical attention?
Simonovich: Bogdan, our medic, he tried. Then everything went to hell. Mikhail grabbed Bogdan’s throat and we heard this snapping sound, you know? Like a toothpick breaking in half. And then drool was dribbling out of Bogdan’s lips, his eyes were like marbles, no life in them…
Interrogator: so without saying a word, Mikhail attacked your squad? How did they react?
Simonovich: we couldn’t process it. We’d been through so much together…seeing Mikhail break Bogdan’s neck in front of our eyes…it would be like if your own mother casually walked up to your little sister and cut out her heart. No one wanted to shoot Mikhail. We thought it might be PTSD, or pain, or…or anything except for what it was. Bogdan, he was a big guy…if it wasn’t for the war, he never would’ve been allowed to serve…but Mikhail lifted him up like a stuffed doll and then…he used Bogdan’s corpse to block the door. By that point, guns were out. We were screaming at Mikhail to put his hands up, to get down on the ground…in the end we started shooting. It didn’t make any difference.
Interrogator: did Mikhail have some kind of special armor or–
Simonovich: It didn’t make any difference because Mikhail was already dead! Our bullets had no impact. The whole grisly scene was lit only by gunfire, like a disco from hell. The noise was deafening…it was like he was everywhere at once. In the muzzle flash, we could finally see him. Half of Mikhail’s head was missing, but somehow…he was smiling. I don’t know who ran first, but the rest of us followed. We were tripping over furniture, breaking glass, slamming into walls…It was total chaos. He took our weapons as easily as an adult taking away some misbehaving childrens’ toys…when the earsplitting racket stopped and the pitch blackness returned, we knew it was over. We were backed into a corner of the cabin’s kitchen like a herd of sheep cornered by a wolf. A wolf that didn’t need to breathe. Someone, Fyodor I think it was, tried to run. There was this wet sound like meat being thrown on a slab, and we felt him thrown back in with the rest of us.
“Ivan…Ivan…where are you Ivan? You killed seven people, Ivan….”
(Interrogator’s note: the subject’s voice changed drastically, to the point that he sounded like a different person entirely. Dissociative identity disorder is a possibility).
Simonovich: Cold hands…reached past my shoulder. Grabbed Ivan Rachmanilov…he started screaming…the rest of us did too. It was pitch black. We couldn’t see what was happening. But we could hear it. And smell it. And feel the wet splatter, like paint, that hit our faces…
Interrogator: Ivan Rachmanilov was found with seven wounds of undetermined cause…
Simonovich: ‘Undetermined cause?!’ Mikhail tore out seven fistfuls of him! He ripped out his fucking intestines! Then he came for the rest of us. One by one. He called to us in the dark, like…like we were kids playing hide and seek:
“Alexi…you killed five. Five lights have gone out of the world because of you, Alexi. Now it’s your turn…”
Interrogator: was it true, what Mikhail said?
Simonovich: what do you think? It’s not like we counted the people we shot. But…yes. I think so. You found two others with three chunks gone, right? Hearts, livers, spines? Another missing both eyes, and a fourth…just missing his head? He took one piece of each of us for every life we took.
Interrogator: so why are you here?
Simonovich: I fired my gun like everyone else! I’m not a traitor!
Interrogator: …but you didn’t kill anyone, did you?
Simonovich: …I…always fired over their heads. A little to the left or right…maybe I did it unconsciously, who knows. It was different in training. With a target in front of me, I was a crack shot. But when that target was lighting a cigarette, stretching, or chatting with his friends…I just couldn’t.
(Interrogator’s note: the subject buried his face in his hands and wept silently for several minutes.)
Simonovich: it was pitch black in the kitchen of that abandoned cabin. The air smelled like frost and ashes…and…and…the entrails of my friends. A rich rotten smell like cooking liver and onions. I knew that they were dead because I couldn’t hear them gasping or screaming, and whatever Mikhail had become…he didn’t breathe. But he was there. His hands were cold and bloody as refrigerated meat. He passed them over my hands, my neck, my face…like he was feeling for something:
“You…you haven’t taken a single life. Hmm…what to do with you? You can go. Go and tell them I’m coming. Tell them my name is WAR.”
Interrogator: I just want to make sure I’m understanding you. You claim that you were part of a guerrilla force operating behind our lines. When surprised by a patrol, you took refuge in the cabin where you were found along with…along with those mutilated corpses. You claim that they were killed by a dead man.
Simonovich: ‘I claim?!’ I’m telling the truth, you goddamn idiot! you don’t get it at all! He’s still out there. Mikhail…or the thing that he’s become…is still out there. He is WAR. And he isn’t going to stop.
Interrogator: You shot one of the patrol that brought you in. His name was Danylo Nikiforov, he was twenty years old…and he died of his wound, did you know that?
Simonovich: (screams) I didn’t mean to, I swear! I thought Mikhail was back, I thought he was coming to finish me off. I thought… (screaming continues)
Interrogator: this concludes my interview with Sergeant Lev Simonovich Voroshilov. Simonovich will be moved to a holding facility and observed for further mental health issues.
(Interrogator’s note: Lev Simonovich Voroshilov was found dead two months after this deposition. He was found in the prison yard after a heavy snowfall. One of his eyes had been torn from his skull).