Bodies lay scattered across the meadow, half-hidden among patches of nameless wildflowers.
A young man in a dark vest struggled desperately through the grass, his legs severed below the knees.
Screaming in agony, he clawed at the ground with both hands, dragging himself toward a nearby pond.
Behind him, a thick trail of blood stained the grass a deep crimson, stretching all the way back to a weathered wooden shed.
A pair of mud-caked military boots emerged from the weeds and closed the distance without hurry.
The soldier drove a polished bayonet into the young man’s back, just below the shoulder blade, then twisted it hard.
The scream ended abruptly.
Blood burst from the wound, splattering the surrounding grass before dripping into the stagnant pond nearby.
Floating face-down among the dead reeds and rotting leaves was another corpse, its back blackened and charred beyond recognition.
Flies swarmed over the tangled hair, which had long since dried stiff with blood.
Viktor jerked awake.
His body shuddered violently as the nightmare dissolved, replaced by the familiar interior of a railway carriage.
The faint smell of worn leather lingered in the air, and for several seconds he simply sat there, breathing heavily, waiting for reality to settle back into place.
The train had stopped beneath a high river embankment.
Through the window, Viktor watched a column of tanks rumble slowly along the road above.
More than a dozen vehicles rolled past in orderly formation, accompanied by infantry marching along both sides of the embankment.
Behind them came a long line of trucks carrying soldiers, ammunition, and supplies.
The convoy had come from the direction of Yarmolyntsi.
Its unit designation was unknown.
Its destination was unknown as well.
The only instructions Viktor had received from his superiors were brief and unmistakable: say nothing about the movement of these troops and do everything possible to prevent panic among the local population.
The wording of the order had caught his attention.
It referred to these troops, not this unit.
That implied the convoy passing before him was only one of several.
More formations would almost certainly follow.
His orders extended beyond maintaining public calm.
All roads leading from the Shevchenko district toward the Polish border were to be sealed immediately.
The entire Border Guard sector had been placed under temporary lockdown, with all civilian movement strictly prohibited.
Identical instructions had been issued throughout the Border Guard system, and every unit along the frontier was expected to enforce them without exception.
It was already the middle of August.
Although the official orders gave no explanation for the sudden concentration of troops, Viktor didn’t need one.
History had never been his strongest subject in his previous life, but even he could recognize what was happening.
These forces were assembling for the campaign against Poland.
The realization left a heavy weight in his chest.
He had only dozed off for a short while, yet the nightmare still lingered vividly in his mind.
Feeling strangely suffocated, Viktor slid the compartment door open a few inches to let in the cool morning air.
Then he reached into his pocket for a cigarette.
The sound of galloping hooves echoed outside the railway carriage.
Moments later, a warhorse came to a halt beside the tracks with a sharp neigh.
A cavalryman carrying a carbine swung down from the saddle, strode quickly to the open carriage door, and snapped a salute.
“Comrade Lieutenant Viktor Viktorovich,” he reported, “about half an hour ago a partisan unit attacked the Novaya Belaya Collective Farm.
The farm militia repelled the assault.”
“What were the casualties?” Viktor asked, leaning slightly out of the doorway.
He returned the salute almost absentmindedly.
“They were heavy,” the soldier replied.
“Four dead and several wounded.
The partisans also suffered losses.
They left two bodies behind, and two others were captured alive.
The farm militia is requesting instructions on how to deal with the prisoners.”
“Then execute them.”
The soldier hesitated.
“No interrogation?
We might be able to obtain useful intelligence.”
Viktor shook his head.
“At this stage, whatever they know is less important than the message their deaths will send.” He paused before continuing in an even voice.
“People need to understand the consequences of taking up arms against the Soviet Union and betraying the Motherland.
That’s what matters.”
He gave a brief wave of his hand.
“Go, Comrade Corporal.
Carry out the order.”
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant.”
The corporal saluted once more, mounted his horse, and galloped away.
Viktor remained standing in the doorway, listening as the sound of hoofbeats gradually faded into the distance.
The latest report confirmed what he had already begun to suspect.
The containment strategy implemented over the past several months was working.
Previously, the partisan groups had rarely attacked collective farms.
Their preferred targets had been military installations—Border Guard outposts, supply depots, communications facilities, and other government infrastructure.
Now they were risking attacks on farms instead.
That could only mean one thing.
They were running short of food.
If they had been forced to raid collective farms for grain, then the blockade was beginning to achieve its intended effect.
During the past few months, the anti-partisan campaign directed by Viktor had produced results beyond anyone’s expectations.
His three-stage security plan had been fully implemented across all thirteen collective farms surrounding Shevchenko.
Working alongside the Border Guard, his forces had overrun four major partisan camps hidden in the forests, killing nearly seventy guerrillas and capturing another fourteen alive.
The greatest success, however, had come from those prisoners.
During interrogation, one of them had finally revealed the identity of the commander of the Sichyak partisan organization.
Shtokh Zelinsky.
Before the war, Zelinsky had served as a captain in the Polish Army.
Now he was one of the most wanted men operating along the border.
A name alone was enough.
Using the information supplied by Viktor’s bureau, higher headquarters quickly assembled a complete intelligence file on Zelinsky.
Within days, wanted posters bearing his photograph appeared throughout the Soviet-controlled districts of Ukraine.
The reward offered for information leading to his capture was 5,000 rubles—a fortune large enough to tempt almost anyone.
As the anti-partisan campaign gathered momentum, Viktor’s name began to spread throughout the Volyn–Shevchenko Forest.
Every successful operation made him a greater threat in the eyes of the guerrillas.
According to intelligence reports, the partisan leadership had responded by placing a bounty on his head.
Anyone who managed to kill him would receive a reward of 5,000 rubles.
Five thousand rubles.
Viktor couldn’t help smiling to himself.
It was a considerable sum—large enough to tempt almost anyone.
Shaking the thought from his mind, he removed his immaculate blue service cap, laid it neatly across his knees, and looked toward the front of the jeep.
“Let’s head back.”
Valenka, who had apparently been dozing behind the wheel, gave a start.
After confirming the destination, he started the engine, turned the vehicle around, and drove toward Shevchenko.
About half an hour later, the jeep rolled slowly through the streets of the town.
They were still rough, but at least they no longer dissolved into knee-deep mud after every rainfall.
As the vehicle passed, pedestrians quietly stepped aside.
Some crossed the street, while others disappeared into doorways long before the jeep reached them.
Months earlier, the townspeople had merely tried to avoid Viktor whenever possible.
Now most of them didn’t even dare meet his eyes.
The reason was simple.
Under the previous system, every execution had at least required the approval of the Three-Man Tribunal.
That tribunal no longer existed.
Its authority had been absorbed by the newly established State Security Bureau, leaving the final decision in the hands of Lieutenant Viktor.
A single accusation was often enough to determine whether a prisoner lived or died.
The jeep came to a stop outside the stone administration building.
As Viktor climbed out, he instinctively glanced toward the window of his office.
Behind the curtain, he caught the briefest glimpse of a figure moving out of sight.
“Bring lunch to my office at noon,” he said as he closed the jeep door and started up the front steps.
“Beef or chicken, if you can find some.
I’m tired of eating potatoes every day.”
“Yes, Comrade Chief,” Valenka replied brightly.
Ever since joining the State Security Bureau, the young man had been in unusually high spirits.
To him, simply being allowed to wear the blue service cap seemed like the greatest honor imaginable.
Viktor merely shook his head with a faint smile and continued inside.
He crossed the dimly lit corridor and headed straight for his office.
Just as he had expected, someone was already there.
A slender young woman stood behind his desk, carefully organizing a stack of documents.
She wore a traditional Belarusian linen dress, freshly washed and brilliantly white.
Against the simple fabric, her fair complexion seemed even more striking, giving her an elegance that stood in sharp contrast to the bleak surroundings of Shevchenko.
It was Anlina.
Had someone seen her only two weeks earlier, they would never have recognized her as the same girl.
Gone was the dirt smeared across her face, the tangled hair, and the worn-out appearance that had once hidden her features.
Even now, however, she never dared wear this dress outside the bureau.
Whenever she returned home, she changed back into the patched gray skirt that had become her everyday clothing.
Hearing the door open, Anlina immediately stopped sorting the documents.
She lowered her eyes and quietly stepped aside, her posture instinctively tense, as though trying to make herself as inconspicuous as possible.
Viktor closed the door behind him and turned the key in the lock.
As he unfastened the top buttons of his uniform jacket, he crossed the room without a word.
Passing Anlina, he caught hold of her by the hair and forced her forward against the desk.
She offered no resistance.
She simply remained where he had pushed her, silent and motionless, waiting for what she already knew would follow.
Apart from a brief muffled sound, she made no attempt to struggle or speak.
For Viktor, the moment itself brought little satisfaction.
He could barely remember what he had felt the first time he had forced himself upon her.
Since awakening in this world, and especially over the past two weeks, he had become surrounded by death.
He had ordered executions, directed military operations, and watched men die almost daily.
Partisans who refused to surrender, farmers accused of aiding them, negligent militiamen—one after another, they had all become names on reports and bodies left behind.
Those scenes followed him even into his sleep.
Night after night, his dreams were filled with blood, shattered bodies, desperate pleas, and endless screams.
The fear of what he had become, mixed with a guilt he could never fully suppress, left him unable to find peace.
The headaches had grown steadily worse, pounding behind his eyes until they became almost unbearable.
Only in those rare moments when he held Anlina close did the noise in his mind seem to fade, allowing him, however briefly, to find a fragile sense of quiet.