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Smokers-mothefuckers

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    2065 year The war for the right to breath took away many lives. All came down to Erium, a substance with excessive content of oxygen. Mining of it had begun right after the cease-fire but then they emerged...

  Smokers-mothefuckers
  
  2065 year
  The war for the right to breath took away many lives. All came down to Erium, a substance with excessive content of oxygen. Mining of it had begun right after the cease-fire but then they emerged...
  
  
  We were the third landing. In a week's time on Dion, one of us dubbed these wretched creatures sons of a bitch. Damn them! Soon it became clear that these wretched kin devours not only Erium, but human brain as well.
  -Damn
  Sergent folded the map and squeezed it into the bag.
  Bloody commanders!
  This time Steve Bochet had too challenging a mission to carry out. His division was defeated by a sudden attack of the colony of the Smokers. The depot was in flame for a couple of days and food depots were ablaze. Only ash was left from the barracks and headquaters, water supplies were nearing to end. It seemed that the Smokers had calculated almost everything. Now they knew for sure that people had no ways to escape merely no ways. Only one aircraft had managed to make it to the emergency aerodrom.
  There were few chances of getting through the front line, all the crafts got inevitably fired and crashed. (All that given) They had to count every single patron, every single grenade. The enthusiasm of almost exhausted military men had flagged and spirits really dampened. The hope for rescuing was fading. They could only guess weather they would make it to the morning or not.
  -Can not see a damn. Botchet cursed loudly. The map! When did they draw it? Fuck them. By now it has become not more than a toilet tissue, and even as such, the ass will get scratched. Frosty air stung the face. His eyes smarted from the white shroud of the mist. The lips were chipped. The drops of blood froze on the chin. He almost did not feel his legs, after three days passage. The clatter of the battle was left far behind. He put his hand into the pocket. In a minute, several empty shells, tin from cigars and two flat batteries from portable radio transmitter set were strewn around him. Botchet clutched in his fist a tiny bit of cracker. The outline of the old tank factory after conflagration coyly as if it were a shadow declared its presence. The weird type of hedgehog fence became all covered with ice and snow. This hybrid of hedgehog/wire with snake swayed in the wind and created an illusion of aloofness. Such view simply tempted to sit down and indulge in meditation. But no - the war was in full swing. The abandoned building was not guarded for a long time already, since the main forces had moved advanced positions. Sergent glanced at the watch, it was 13.00, 23d of December, Earth Time. It was 3 more days to wait till the help would come...3 more days? Unthinkable!
  -Freaks! Steve tried to bite through the cracker. They decided to resort to emergency measures.
   Well, they had chosen the best military men, formed a task force and sent to different zones of Dion. The goal was to make diversions. In fact not for a while had the commanders thought that these tough guys would have stopped the myriads of the Smokers. All they had wanted was just to gain some time. That"s it, not more and not less. When personal survival is on stake, time become the crucial factor. On the top of all things the Smokers had managed to take control over tracing satellites. There was no time to waste.
  -Damn it! Steve spotted the movements of the white stain, the chances were really slim. Botchet kneeled and produced the binocular out of the bag. It was a military one, with automatic focus and coverage of around 10 miles. The cracker finally crumbled under his teeth. His lower lip started to bleed. Botchet pressed his hand against his lips, at this moment he caught a weird sound. At first Steve did not attach any importance to it. He thought it was a typical fluke. No wonder, the hallucination snow had been falling for some time already. Botchet stood still. Then he tried to listen to the sound more closely. On swallowing the crumbles of bread he made an effort to listen to it once again - the sound repeated.
  -Hell on them! He caught a glimpse of the silvery outline of the enemy's "Tracer", which had slid from the cloud. It was them motherfuckers! The Smokers! Sons of a bitch- they had sniffed! Steve fell on the ground and quickly rolled to the nearest gutter. In a second he was soaked to a thread. Botchet sighed discontently. Shit means shit! He cleaned his facer from the dirt and having risen on his hands, cautiously peeped out of his hideaway. The "Tracer" was in some 100 meters from him. Volbster was slowly creeping out of the aircraft.
  -It's clear what they're here for, Erium, that's it. Dirty bastrads! Military man put aside the bag and then digged a small pit in snow. On disguising the pit with snow, he
  -Come on, come on get your meal, for the last time! Choke yourself with Erium! Strange gritting was heard. Long pipe zoomed out of the barrel-like corpus of Volbster. Then it broke in the center and one part of it fell on the frozen ground producing hollow sound. The whistle was heard. The working out of Erium began. Botchet smiled, rubbed his cheeks with coarse hands. The frost even in spite of the sun was still strong.
  -Come on, come on, whispered Steve, having put his hand on a trigger, just some thousands of pounds and it would be possible to fire at oil tanks.
   If Steven had sniper's rifle he would not run the risk. But what he had was the last model of T-3 which was pretty capable of smash through of the damn aircraft. Even if he missed the effect would be devastating.
  What was moreover is that the Smokers would not be able to spot him. This gave the guy an edge over them and an advantage of retreat if necessary. One more minute - Botchet got ready for shooting.
  -Well, Botchet swept away snow from the stock of the rifle.
  -Why did not at least one Smoker get outside? You are hiding away, that means you are scared, just like that, you never show up bastrads! True sons of a bitch!
   On gathering strength Botchet began to count till ten. It was old sniper's trick to count till ten. It was easier to cool down this way. One, two, three, seven, eight, ten. All of a sudden the pipe-like sting of a Volbster shuddered. Something crackled. Most likely it was the titanium sting which got stuck into something hard. Steve stood still, barely restraining himself from a glee. A coincidence chance helped him so he pulled the trigger. In a second, a ball of fire smashed the armored corpus of Volbster. Three hooting blows followed. Shroud of fire and smoke wrapped the enemy"s tanks, so that they were barely visible. ( Gap ). The scanner started to work. The device was very precise one and could trace even the slightest movement of an insect flying at a distance of several miles.
  -Gotta go! Botchet switched rifle into automatic mode. Show up! Assholes! Come on! Small red dot emerged on the screen. Steven held his breathe. Might it be the Smokers? Are they suffocating? Are they afraid of smoke and fire? He bit his lip and began to wait...
  Really soon indeed a Smoker crawled out of Volbster. Steven following the indications of the scanner took him at aim.
  Still Botchet was not inclined to waste shells. One more explosion blew. The red dot faded from the screen.
  -The most difficult part of the mission is accomplished. It's Tracer's turn. Steve sighed deeply and pointed the gun towards the flying craft. No. It would not work. Swear words fluttered from Botcher"s lips.
  -They are getting away. Electric flashes flickered along the armored corpus of "Tracer". The Smokers sniper was searching for the aim. Steve crept away and laid behind the knoll. His hands began to freeze. Still the gloves were taboo for a sniper. The precision of pulling up the trigger would not be the same. The miss means you are a dead man. Besides the smokers are not sadobuffs to spit against the wind. They would not miss the chance to pull the fire.
  -They are not sado-maso, still they are awful sons of a bitch, motherfuckers. Botchet shuddered when heard in walkie-talkie a familiar call signal.
  -Blue, Blue, we can see you. The group of support is likely to be on the place in 3 minutes.
  -Don't get it?
  The Sergant's brain was boiling with curse F-words. This is my mission! What support group? Damn it!
   11 diversants had done thier job, the clatter kept on in the walkie-talkie, you are the last one! Stay cool! Mate, Now we'll smash these sons of a bitch- the Smokers!
  Steven heard shooting behind him. Botchet turned around. Desant group in a file was moving down the slope. Now and then soldiers-dots flickered as bright flames. D. Was shooting at the Tracer. The clatter was heard. Steven raised to his feet. That black smoke exuded from the carter. Steve rushed towards the enemy's craft. Five, ten, fifteen steps. The hand touched the armor. B stood still. Big rectangular crack appeared on corpus of the Tracer. The sounds of the opening hull made Steve press himself against the corpus. He tried to merge into the shadow of aircraft, and managed to notice diversants approaching to enemy's carft. Go ahead, go, ahead. Botchet was moving pale from cold lips, go ahead, show up, you, son of a bitch.
  A small boy was satnding in front of him instead of an ugly creature, a Smoker.-
  The boy was dressed in pink bridges, checked shirt with short sleeves. He was holding rubber ball in one hand and small mirror in another.
   -Jesus Christ! Gosh!
  Steven could not believe his eyes. He could get better view of the boy, who had just stepped out of the aircraft, still the rubber ball was strangely familiar to him. He had had the same ball long long ago, in his childhood. It was an ordinary rubber ball with red stars on it and two grey bears on both sides.
   -Jump, jump, from the bench to the pavement, push and jump again. Mom, Steve whispered. I remember, you laughing when watching how I threw this small wonder into the air. B put his gun down and stepped forward. He could not wait to scrutinize a close gaze at fragikle creature, who was holding the favourite celluloid toy from the past.
  He boy pulled his cheeks, put the ball on the ground and broke the mirror at his knee.
  -What are You doing? Steven felt an acute pain at his temples. You'll hurt yourself.
  -Oh... the boy smiled and pointed a splinter of a mirror towrds B face.A hugeflash of light followed. Steve. narrowed his eyes.
  -Blue, it hooted in a walkie-talkie, do not do it. Do not be phsyco! The Motherfucker Smoker "ll eat your brain! But S. with call signal Blue did not respond to anything anymore.
  -He was staring straight into the boy's eyes. B saw in them something very special to him, something very warm and familiar, because of which his heart sank, and tears showed up on his eyes and his soul was singing his mom's song "Jump, jump, from the bench to the pavement, push and jump again."
  -Blue, Blue, move your ass, go away, getta go, do it now!
  The boy dropped the splinter on the ground and stretched his hands towards the Steven. Armed men saw in front of him- just himself. It was he at the age of eight.
  -How are you doing? How are you, kid? Botchet caressed the boy's hair and started to cry. Aren't you cold? Steven began to unbutton the coat, hands were freezing.
  1, 2, 3. -Blue, Blue, do not stop it! Blue, he is eating your brain! Sounds of bullets.
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