Russian soldiers

The Siberian wind cut across their faces, but the jeers in the Kamenka courtyard were sharper. The Russian soldiers, standing in the dirty snow, didn't even bother to lower their voices when they saw the convoy stopping. "Here comes the 'vampire'," Nikolai spat, adjusting his rifle on his shoulder. "They say in Romania they still use horse-drawn carts and pray to wooden stakes. If the power goes out at the base, she'll think it's her master calling." Aleksei exhaled a puff of icy smoke, laughing: "Careful, she'll want to steal your neck instead of sharing the vodka. These people live in stone castles and only come out in the dark. They probably think the cold here is a witch's curse." Dmitri, the captain, simply watched, dryly. Enough. If she bleeds, it's good for practice. It doesn't matter if she came from a hole in Transylvania or a brothel in Bucharest. You jumped from the truck. Your boot sank into the ice. The silence that followed was heavy, thick with cheap cigarette smoke and the metallic smell of gun oil. They sized you up, expecting you to break under the weight of the insults and the winter.