The morning of a sniper

At eight o'clock, the sniper was in the kitchen drinking tea when a dense, wet snow began to fall from that point on. The flying flakes soon filled the gray space outside the window and stained the cornice. Sniper finished his tea, rinsed his cup, opened the air window, and looked out toward the street for a moment. Roofs and trees had turned white, but the wet tarmac stubbornly emerged from the snow.

The sniper spat, closed the air window with a thud, and began to pack his bags. After struggling into a red turtleneck, thick cotton pants, and an ear-protector leather cap, he pulled on a white camouflage jacket, put on a duffel canvas backpack, picked up a holster made of the same material that held his carbine, and opened the door to his room.

It was wet outside.

Snow was flying, two men were walking their dogs near the container, and a van was turning in front of the store.

The sniper put the holster on his back, put on his white gloves, and snapped away on the tarmac. As he walked past the dog walkers, he said hello to one of them. The man nodded kindly in response.

Despite the fact that it was a Sunday, the tram was packed with passengers.

The sniper strained to get to the ticket counter, threw in three kopecks, and tore off a ticket. As he squeezed toward the carriage, his backpack bumped into a man.

"When riding the tram, it is better to take off your own humpback bag ......," the man said irritably while holding his hat upright.

The sniper silently squeezed his way forward and took a seat in an empty seat.

After six stops, near the supermarket, almost all the passengers got off, so the sniper smiled and looked around the half-empty carriage, sitting a little more comfortably.

After three stops, he too got off the train.

"Third Marinkov Crossing, number 8 ......," he muttered as he looked carefully at a small slip of paper. "It's somewhere next to ......"

The sniper righted his set and took a step up the street.

All around were prefabricated houses made of panels.

"Number 8?" An old woman asked rhetorically, rising from a bench in arrears. "Look, there it is!"

She cocked her chin at a group of houses not far away.

"Which one of those houses?" The sniper narrowed his eyes.

"That's the one, on the left. It is number eight."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

The sniper jumped over the gutter and headed over to the house.

He soon found the house keeper's housing. When he heard the doorbell, a small man in a sweatshirt and a bit of a sheikh came out, finished chewing in his mouth and shook his head.

"Looking for me? Please come in."

"No, thanks," the sniper replied. "I'm due in the penthouse ...... me ...... Here are my credentials." He slipped a hand into the flap collar of his camouflage suit.

"Better come in," the house keeper said with a slight smile. "Why do you have to cross a threshold ......"

The sniper reluctantly entered the room and handed over his papers.

The house keeper gave it a quick sweep:.

"Well, that's clear. ...... One moment, please. ......"

He walked away, but soon returned with a set of keys.

"Please use a little force upwards when opening the door, it's sagging," the house keeper said as he removed the key that was to be used from the key string. "Be careful up there, there's a lot of broken glass ......"

The sniper nodded and tucked the key into one glove.

The door to the penthouse on the top floor didn't open for a long time. The sniper shook the door and turned the key until he opened it with one knee after a heavy thrust.

The penthouse was dark and damp. It smelled like concrete and cat.

The sniper spat, locked the door, and began to walk carefully toward the small window. Beneath his feet, the cinder blocks clicked and the glass began to crackle and crackle.

The sniper opened the small window, unloaded his backpack, and set it down next to his feet. Then he took the carbine from its holster and carefully placed it on the roof.

A pigeon flew up from the asbestos cement slab, which had been covered with a thin layer of snow, snapped up its wings and disappeared below.

The sniper opened his backpack and took out a register and a small canvas pouch with bullets.

He placed the pouch next to his carbine and turned the book to the page to be used:.

"That's it ...... 3rd Malinkov Lane, house ......8, 9, 9a ...... Aha... ...30."

He pulled a pen out of his backpack, clipped it to the page he wanted to use, and then gently climbed to the roof with the book.

The snow was still falling, but it was thinner and lighter. The snow-covered asbestos cement sheets crackled dry underfoot from time to time. The sniper dragged his carbine by his belt next to his left hand and carefully made his way down with his book and pouch - to the edge of the roof. Here a modestly tall iron fence fitted with rusted wire was next to a small drainage ditch on the drainage slope.

The sniper lay parallel to the fence on the drainage slope, pulled a magazine from the pouch that smelled of oil and inserted it into the carbine, then pulled a small chamois rag from under the strap and carefully wiped the lens of the optical sight clean.

"8, 9, 9a ......" He looked at the open yard enclosed by houses 8, 9, and 9a, pinched his lips into a trumpet shape, and exhaled slowly.

The courtyard was large.

In the center of the courtyard was a skating rink separated by wooden fence panels, next to which towered several mushroom-shaped pergolas that had been covered with a thin layer of snow for the children's playground, and a row of car garages a little farther away.

The sniper moved the register to his side and flipped it open.

The third Malinkov cross-alley, houses 8, 9, 9a - was written at the top of the page, while below it was drawn a narrow rectangle consisting of thirty small squares.

The sniper loosened the safety, pulled the trigger once, held the stock close to his shoulder, and dangled the black barrel with a round inlay-like silencer on the top. There were already people in the yard - on the skating rink, on the playground, on the steps and by the garage. He scanned the garage with his goggles: one of the doors was open, and deep inside there was a man under a "Zaporozhye" car. Three men stood next to the other car.

The sniper targeted the three men, but a woman flashed through the eyepiece. He began to follow her as she moved the barrel of her gun. The woman was chubby-looking, wearing a green sundress, and walking with a lidded bucket and a mesh bag with food in her hands. The sniper caught her brown hood in the crosshairs of his eyepiece, held his breath, and pulled the trigger as he continued to move the barrel.

A familiar low gunshot sounded: pop! The carbine bumped his shoulder.

The woman swayed, her two carrying hands reaching upward, her feet going limp. She collapsed backward. The empty barrel fell to the tarmac, and after a second, the sniper heard its ding-dong.

Three men ran up to the woman.

The sniper waited until they leaned down toward her and put a bullet into the back of one of the men's heads. The friends picked him up and carried him toward the garage, but in vain - after two steps, one of them convulsed and fell face down with a thud, and the other crumpled into a ball next to him, holding his stomach.

The one whose feet were exposed from under the "Zaporozhian" crawled out, running and wiping his hands on his apron as he ran to the three men. He was tall, with brownish-red hair. The sniper caught the center of his head with a crosshair and fired a shot. The brown-red-haired man fell, as if struck by an invisible hammer, but suddenly leapt up, pressed his hands to his chest, ran a few meters, hit a bench, rolled over it, and collapsed - headfirst into a snowbank.

The sniper replaced a clip, waved away a few drops of water that had melted from the snowflakes on the barrel, leaned over the book, and put end-to-end crosses in the five compartments. In that time, the snow almost stopped-only sparse flakes drifted down onto the open book, drifting above the sniper and disappearing beyond the edge of the roof. A man and a woman stepped out of the door of the house that sat across the street. The sniper took them into his eyepiece. The man wore a short coat of cooked sheepskin and a shaggy white leather hat. He took one of the woman's arms and gestured with the empty one while smiling and saying something quickly to her. She hid her smiling mouth in her Arctic fox fur collar and listened to his words with interest.

The sniper caught the man's large leather cap in the crosshairs and pulled the trigger.

Snap!

The man lurched and fell face-first into the road.

The woman stopped at a loss for words, but suddenly dropped her handbag, and her scream belatedly reached the sniper's ears.

The crosshairs swept across her back.

Snap!

She sat on her butt on the pavement and slowly collapsed sideways.

The two old women sitting on the bench closest to her stood up and stared in wonder at the lying figure. The crosses rested on the gray hood of one of them.

Snap!

This old woman opened her arms and collapsed backwards. The other screamed, shook herself awkwardly, and ran toward the house.

Snap!

The old woman stumbled and took a step to the side. Her legs became limp and she collapsed.

A red "Moscow Man" drove into the yard. It skidded to a halt next to the garage and stopped next to the murdered men. The door opened and a fat man in a blue turtleneck came out of the "Moskva". He ran to the lying people, saw the pool of blood and pressed his palms to his white face.

Snap!

The fat man opened his mouth, his head tilted back, and blood began to spurt out of a small hole in the middle of his chest. The fat man slowly bent his body backwards, as if he intended to bend over and build a "bridge", his hands folded next to his chin. He did not move for a moment, and then fell backwards with a thud. His feet twitched helplessly, and his round eyes stared at the sky.

The sniper replaced a clip and shot five new forks.

Nearby, there was a light tapping from below, - presumably someone on the highest floor had opened an air window. Immediately, a radio broadcast was heard. Judging by the sharp, harsh, sneering voice and the frequent laughter, the hall was broadcasting Lakin's speech.

The sniper fished up a handful of fresh snow and stuffed it into his mouth.

Two men - an old man in a sweatshirt and fat pajama pants and an older woman in an open-breasted robe - ran toward the man and woman who had been killed.

The old man ran to them first, pounced on the woman's side, turned her motionless face toward himself, and shook

"Sasha! Sashenka! Sasha!"

The sniper heard his hoarse voice.

The older woman ran to the heel, pushed the old man away, and hysterically ran her hands over the fur coat of the woman who had been killed. The old man fell to his knees and covered his head with both palms.

Snap!

The old man's head jerked and dark red spots of blood spurted from the back of his head. He began to turn his body and fell sideways without raising his head.

Snap!

His female companion covered her face, and blood quickly seeped out of her wrinkled hands. She bent her head and collapsed - on the dead woman's breast.

The sniper scanned the windows with his eyepiece.

A young girl pulled back the screen curtains and looked down in fear.

Snap!

She collapsed. A small, uneven-edged hole showed in the window glass.

Another woman in another window hurriedly opened the air window, poked her head out, put her palms next to her lipsticked lips and shouted down for a while.

Snap!

A piece of wood flew out of the window and the shouting stopped just as it reached the woman's mouth. She slowly began to move her body forward, as if she intended to jump, her eyes rounded. The woman's head dropped to both hands, lifted up and then dropped down again. Blood poured out of her mouth and began to trickle down her hands.

A tall man ran from deep in the back of the room to the woman, screaming and holding her by both shoulders.

Snap!

The man was gone.

Lakin uttered a long sentence under his breath and laughed,-a long laugh, with a sibilant note in it. Then a sudden, soft question. The hall was noisy. Lakin asked again - a little louder. The hall clamored even more. He waited until a long pause, and said something - in a calm and serious tone. The hall began to rumble.

The sniper drew a cross, changed a clip and pulled the trigger.

Three men lifted the old woman who had been killed and headed for the door. Four other men were carrying the second woman's body. The sniper selected one of these four men, a tall, broad-shouldered lad in a short leather jacket, and put a bullet into him between the two shoulder blades. The young man fell helplessly to the snow, tugging his hands for a moment, but suddenly leapt up and ran away. After ten steps, his legs became limp and weak, so he collapsed. The three remaining men scattered and fled.

Lykin's words were spoken so quickly and quickly that the men in the rumbling hall couldn't keep up with him.

The sniper took aim at one of the lads and pulled the trigger. The bullet hit skimmed past his head and hit another lad in the leg.

"......" the sniper muttered and shot the wounded one dead.

Lakin laughed again, hiccuped, and uttered the last words aloud. The ensuing applause and cheers were interrupted by the Good Morning! The song was interrupted. The spirited voice of the female announcer was bidding farewell to the radio audience.

The old woman is about to be carried through the door - a woman in a blue coat holds the door slightly ajar as two men stagger to carry the beaten old woman.

Snap!

The man in the back fell limply backwards.

Snap!

The other fell on top of the old woman. The woman in the blue coat ducked into the door, but after a moment looked out again and grabbed one of the hands of the dying man.

Snap!

She jerked and collapsed on top of the man.

The sniper drew a cross. There were five squares left to fill.

He felt in his pouch for a magazine and pulled it out, but it slipped out of his fingers, touched on the drain, and fell out of sight beyond the edge of the roof.

The sniper leapt up and over the railing:.

"Not enough. ......"

The clip fell next to the bench - like a small black dot. The sniper aimed his eyepiece at it - and indeed it was.

He lay down next to the railing again, inserted a new magazine, and looked down for a moment.

The yard was empty.

Twenty bodies lay black and gloomy across the snow.

A spotted dog ran around the side of the garage, sniffing the air and barking furiously, but not daring to go near the dead.

The sniper began to look out the windows.

They were almost all tightly hung with curtains.

The circle of the eyepiece slowly moved along the window. The curtains in one window wavered. The sniper paused without moving.

The curtain shifted slightly, and the blackened opening revealed a face wearing glasses. The crosshairs fell on it.

Snap!

The curtain fluctuated and the face disappeared.

The eyepiece resumed its rapid, light movement along the window. A buzzing sound was heard from below.

A gray "Volga" drove into the yard from behind the corner of the house on the side. It stopped next to the young man who had been killed, the door opened, and two people leapt out of it - a man in a red sweatshirt and a woman in a ripe sheepskin jacket.

The man immediately began to turn the young man lying in a pool of blood, the woman came forward in fear, pressed her hands to her mouth and shook her head.

Snap!

She gave a feeble cry and fell to the road.

Snap!

The man scrunched his body into a ball on the side.

The sniper grabbed a bit of snow and stuffed it into his mouth.

The man received his legs at his belly, rolled over, and collapsed on his back.

The sound of snapping wings rang out from above. A tile gray pigeon landed on the railing not far from the sniper and looked up at him with a pair of goofy eyes. The sniper threw a handful of snow at the pigeon. The pigeon flew away.

A door slammed far below, and after a moment a figure appeared on the road. The sniper took it into the eyepiece.

Walking on the sidewalk was the house keeper.

Walking to the three bodies, he stopped, sighed, and squinted at the various windows. The man in the sweatshirt was still lying on his back, the door of the "Volga" was open and its motor was still running.

The housekeeper leaned over and looked at the body, then straightened up and shook his head.

The sniper took his head into the eyepiece and was about to pull the trigger, but then he remembered the key and stopped shooting.

The housekeeper then walked forward, and at the end of the house he bumped into a hale and hearty old man, carrying a net in his hand, who came out from behind the corner of the house. The old man happily extended a hand to the house manager, but the latter said something important to him and nodded towards the yard.

The old man's eyes widened. The housekeeper said a few more words. The old man listened to him in horror, occasionally glancing over his shoulder toward the yard.

The sniper took the old man's head into the eyepiece and pulled the trigger.

Pop!

The old leather ear protection cap flew off the old man's head, and he crouched in shock, but suddenly caught it with agility and scattered his legs.

Pop!

The bullet flew over his shoulder. The old man's figure disappeared behind the corner of the room. The house keeper followed him, stumbling and slipping away as he looked back.

The sniper spat and inserted a fresh clip.

The yard remained empty. The dog sniffed carefully at the feet of the lad who had been killed.

The news was being broadcast below, and a girl could be heard laughing and telling her father about an incident.

A little boy and a little girl came into the yard. The sniper had them in the optical sights. They were going to the skating rink - their feet were skating out to either side from time to time, and the little girl was hanging on one of the little boy's arms. He was telling her something, and she was laughing, shaking two pigtails that had burst out from under a round fedora. After walking through the wooded vagina of poplars, they climbed over the railings and began to skate - the little boy confident, the little girl a little timid.

The sniper took aim at the little boy.

Snap!

The little boy fell and sat on the ground, curling his legs under himself. Blood was coming out of his mouth. He swayed and fell to the side.

The little girl slid in front of him.

Snap!

She threw her hands upward and fell to the ice. The round fedora flew off her head.

The sniper drew the last two crosses, wrote the date, signed it, and closed the book with a snap. Then exited the cartridge in the carbine, gathered up the empty shells, and bagged them.

Music was being spun below.

The sniper climbed in the window, put the bag and book in his back pocket, put the carbine in its holster, peed on a pile of glass wool that had turned brown, and headed for the door.

He handed the key to the penthouse loft to the housekeeper's wife - the housekeeper himself was not in the house.

The sniper came across two men in the courtyard - they were standing next to the man and woman who had been killed.

"The door of the Volga was still open, the motor was running, and the radio was playing softly.

"What a nightmare ......," a tall, pale man muttered, and glanced trustingly into the eyes of the sniper who had come up to him. "What the hell is going on here? Ah? Where's our much-touted civilian police force?! Is it hitting the goat?!"

The sniper gave an approving nod, stomped his foot, and then continued on his way.

As he reached the third bench, he quickly bent down, picked up the magazine, and stuffed it into his pocket.

There was a store at the back of the house on the side. There were people selling hot little enemas right at the entrance. The sniper got into the line, secretly aware that he was right behind the old man he had missed.

After half an hour, it was the old man's turn. He stuffed his net with small enemas and gave the saleswoman three rubles and six kopecks in change. The saleswoman threw the coins into a deflated pan, turned to the sniper and asked.

"How much do you want?"

"A kilo," the sniper said in a low, indistinct voice, and held out his pre-prepared backpack.