By Junior Remy Haring

Junior Remy Haring continues with his third installment of his serial fiction inspired by The New Order–a mod for Hearts of Iron IV. If you recall, Remy visits an alternate dark history here, where, in WWII,  the Axis powers have won.

Outskirts of Zeya, Amur, the Russian Far East, January 24, 1962

It was the crack of dawn. I left the house garbed in a ski mask, winter camo and snow boots. It was time to check the snares I left out in the forest for small game. The air was crisp and cold with not a cloud in sight. After 15 minutes of trudging through the dense thickets crowned with snow, I finally reached the clearing where I left a trap. A snow hare was hanging from the wire. After carrying it back to the house, I produced a skinner knife and got to work. Look, it’s not a pleasant job, but people need furs, and I need to eat.

When I finished the job, I cleaned the hide, rolled it up and carved the rest for food. I rolled up the pelt, put the meat in the freezer, and set off for Zeya. When going down the road, I saw what transpired the night before: deep boot tracks and, next to them, a deep indent in the snow implying something heavy was dragged. Blood stained the snow. Ahead of all of that, tire tracks. Damn, I thought, they must have got Kozlov. After following the dirt road for a while, I finally made it to Zeya. It was a bleak little coal town that was divided into two by the river. The only way to get from one side to the other was by crossing the old, decrepit hydroelectric dam that has been offline since the war. One side was where most of the higher ups of the RFP lived. The cluster of houses almost looked like an ideal American suburb if it weren’t for the drab paint and withered roads. The next area was where most of the Russians lived. It consisted of these massive, concrete bricks for apartments that looked like they were about to fall apart. Near the coal mine to the west was where the undesirables lived: non-Russians, non-Orthodox, etc. Their dwellings were little more than hovels huddling around the mines. Some were made of metal scrap, others logs. Some people had nothing and huddled around fires for warmth.

As I walked down the main street, I couldn’t help but feel a creeping dread. The crisp, cool air turned stale, and barely anyone was out. Lifeless buildings towered above me like the corpses of giants. I could hear the echoes of my footsteps, the snow boots crunching against the snow. I looked to my left to see pockmarks on a wall and below that a line of shoes. I could have sworn I saw a couple casings in the snow, but I could not be sure. Directly in front of me, I came across a dead tree draped with nooses–more than normal.

Despite every fiber in my body telling me to turn back, that I would be next, I kept walking through the snow. In the distance I heard a crowd chanting, “Slava Rodzaevsky, slava Russia!” Then I heard the rhythmic tramping of boots and the roaring engine of a truck. Despite the thick cover of snow, I could see a crowd of people waving flags at an intersection. When I finally reached the crowd, I saw legions of Blackshirts marching, rusty bayonets pointing into the air like missiles, and a tank roaring through the street. At the far end of the street, I saw him: Konstantin Rodzaevsky, vozhd of the new Russia. He was standing at a podium with Blackshirts on his left and right. With a raise of his hand, the crowd fell silent, and he began to speak:

After his speech ended, the crowd erupted in cheers. The word ura rang throughout Zeya as the crowd roiled in ecstacy.

*Glory