My Report. Hitchhiking Through the "Kill Zone" Thick glasses, a black hat, a chin-length balaclava, graying stubble, hands blackened by motor oil on the steering wheel of a Bukhanka. Ahead lies a gray ribbon of road, with a net stretched across bare posts above it: a green tunnel protecting against "birds" for several kilometers. Where the net ends, what the Ukrainians call the "kill zone" begins. A death zone. An area where drones rule. And everything that moves is a target. And Uncle Borya