I wrote close to two thousand words for this and had to cut it down to the skeletal fragment of it. So much to go with. History of the village, the contradiction of lives of children vs adults, the scary relics from space, the harsh tundra, the dog, and whatever horrible thing you want to happen to them all. Great prompt!
You can write your own, here!
@f3nix"СКБ Прогресс". Space Missile Center Progress.
The writing stood out on the roof of the latrine, indelible against the cobalt blue metal, sparkling under the dirty white sky of a first spring attempt.
Gennadiy waited impatiently, hopping from leg to leg in the mud and throwing stones at the door of the makeshift bathroom.
Not far away, Drogol pointed to a litter of kittens wagging his tail, the snorting nose pressed between the mesh of the net surrounding one of the last houses before the forest. From his sharp eyes and outstretched ears, a curiosity shone halfway between the festive and the ferocious.
"Stop it with these stones, Genna, or there's no deal."
The Siberian husky slipped off his nose from the net, the time to direct a dry bark in the direction of the voice filtered by the rotten wooden boards.
"Even Drogol is annoyed with your complaining, Anton. The sun sets quickly." Gennadiy said, throwing another stone with a theatrical gesture as if he were casting a dark curse. The dirty pebble ended up right in the crack above the door.
"You're a bastard, Genna. Forget me leaving this pisshole”.
Perhaps, it was better to leave him in peace, free to concentrate. It was not only the hours of daylight but also their fathers, who in a few hours would be home with the day's loot and would certainly have wanted to find them ready to help with the recovered material. The boy stared at the makeshift latrine with the mark of the nearby Pleseck's cosmodrome: a missile and a satellite with its orbit in evidence stood out against the blue background and the white silhouette of a planet.
That symbol often appeared in the most unthinkable places of Dolgoščelę, an insignificant village in the Russian region of Mezen, a stone throw away from the Arctic circle. It seemed as if over the years millions of spores from the nearby cosmodrome had taken root and proliferated among the simple urban elements of that group of houses between tundra and sea.
From the time of the cold war, when the launch program intensified, for the population of the region to recover the pieces of the rockets embedded in the snow became an essential second job. One that, eventually, could replace the traditional activities of hunting and fishing and grant those poor families better odds against the sublime yet sharp immensity of nature. Sifting through the snow of the tundra in winter was easier than in summer when even the streets flooded and boats built with rocket shells came back to use after the seasonal dormancy.
Recovered metals such as gold and titanium could be sold to Arcangelo's black market. The activity ended up involving all family members, each with a task in an efficient recycling chain.
The door of the latrine opened wide. Anton, the son of the country's pastor and Gennadiy's inseparable friend, now stood out against the shining metal like a war hero.
"Anton, if they discover us because of your endless shitting, I swear this time your bike is mine.”
"Stop worrying and think, instead, of their faces in front of our loot," replied Anton with a seraphic expression.
"East, beyond the lake. Where the caribous' footprints stop," said Gennadiy absorbed, his mind already gliding on the untouched expanse of snow of that spot deep in the forest.
"Aha. Today we go hunting for the wrong pieces," Anton urged hinting a smile.
Both friends nodded solemnly before answering to the tundra's call.
The wreckage glowed. Anton couldn’t be wrong about that. He poked the reflective surface with a stick and the silver specks danced off the craft into the waning sunlight.
A 737 at least, Anton thought. Drogol the husky had led them to it from the forest. Genna had found a crack in the hull and was ready to crawl inside, ranting about it being their big score and buying the entire village.
“You sure it's safe, Genna?” One end of the saucer protruded from the hellish, icy landscape.
“You’re always a scared little faggot, aren’t you, Anton”
“I’m tired of you saying that,” Anton replied. “It’s not cool.”
“Why? You’re a faggot.”
“I’m not. I like women, and it’s weird.”
Genna dismissed him with a stroke of his sheepskin mittens disappeared inside the ship. Anton peaked at the sun. They needed to head back. He smoked one of the cigarettes he stole from his father and waited. His friend reappeared, carrying a glowing silver tube. “This will buy the village,” he said. “You’ll see. Faggot.”
“Stop calling me that! Ask your sister how much of a faggot I am.”
Genna’s face turned dark. “What did you say?”
“Because I heard from Nadia. She said you couldn’t even get hard.”
That did it. They broke into a fight, tumbling along the snow, Drogol growling and barking. The two boys rolled down the hill, smacking hard onto rocks strewn about the ice.
“I think it broke! The tube!” Genna shouted. “Help!”
Anton stood over his friend. Genna’s entire back was covered in that silvery goo.
The Town of Dolgoščelę had its myths. It was founded by cultist reindeer herders before the times of the czars. That after the arrival of the Soviets, it was a site of military bases and their secrets. That the first cosmonaut came there and offended the Gods, and that’s why the space debris always landed there. That Stalin had once visited and dined with the locals, praising them on their venison stew.
The danger of Traktor was no myth. He and his crew had tormented Anton and Genna since kindergarten. Even the adults feared him, after his father had gone drunk and mad one winter and wandered off into the night, carrying with him Traktor’s mother. Both were never found and the town authorities left him to live with his dottardly grandfather.
Anton rode the motorbike down the trail in the night. Genna, drifted in and out of consciousness behind him. The smell of that goo was like rotten metal, if there was such a thing.
“Hold on!” he shouted.
A chain flew up in front of them. The front wheel caught and the bike spun forward, launching both from the bike.
Taktor approached. “I want what you shits found.”
Genna blinked and saw Anton, his neck in an impossible angle, a puddle of blood forming below his head.
“He’s dying,” Genna murmured. Traktor gripped the boy by the throat.
“Your loot.”
Genna, furious, imagined Traktor’s head exploding.
It did just that.
