Everyone Dies in the End #8

Anatol

Captain Anatol Vorishnov was a very lucky man. The Soviet submarine Adropov had dropped his Spetsnaz platoon of 40 men on a deserted stretch of South Carolina beech four weeks previously. Vorishnov suspected that his team was but one of many. His orders were simple, “Interdict the movement of supplies to Charleston, South Carolina.” How he interpreted those orders was not as simple For instance, he could use his men at the Charleston docks, sniping at workers, attacking convoys waiting to load, sowing dissension among the local populace. On the other hand, he could move inland, camp out next to a likely avenue of approach to Charleston, and ambush enemy convoys. He chose the second route, and it saved Vorishnov and his men’s’ lives. When the missiles struck Charleston, they were well inland…as they were now. Vorishnov and his soldiers were very lucky men.

There were only 24 of them left. Vorishnov had them hidden in the Cameron, South Carolina library, the deserted post office across the street, and the town church. Cameron’s buildings were clustered at the intersection of Highway 33 and Highway 176. The pavement curved at the intersection of the two small roads, and it provided an open field of fire for his Sagger Team, hiding in a beautiful white church set well back off the road.

The denizens of Cameron had been a dilemma. To let them go would have been dangerous. Any one of them could reveal their presence to the militias that roamed the area, militias eager for more weapons, or the remnants of the United States Army, a much more lethal adversary. But to kill innocent civilians was just as dangerous, at least in Anatol’s mind. Civilization was hanging by a thread, a very thin thread. Every act of needless violence, cruelty, or savagery only brought the thread that much closer to snapping. So Anatol had bound the civilians, and placed them under guard in the school gymnasium. Maybe he was soft, maybe it was a mistake, but this war would end one day, and he would need to live with what he had done.

What he was doing right now was preparing an ambush. The plan was simple, when and if a convoy passed through Cameron, the Sagger team would take out the most dangerous vehicle in the convoy. The RPG team in the gas station down the street would take out the lead vehicle. With two vehicles disabled, and a handful of wounded troops to protect, the convoy would be forced to stand and fight. That would play right into the Spetsnaz hands. They were in fortified positions, with well-sighted weapons, anyone who stood and fought in the streets of Cameron, South Carolina, wouldn’t be standing for long.

Cindy

The jeep was the most uncomfortable ride of Cindy’s life, but it was also the most welcome. The stiff springs jolted the chassis at every bump in the road, and the tiny seat under the machine gun had very little padding. No mater how she canted her body, repositioned her rear end, or flexed her muscles, there was always something poking her as the jeep bounced over the road’s imperfections. Nevertheless the jeep was bouncing, bouncing forward and every turn of the wheel brought her closer to Eddie. At least that was what she told herself. An hour droned by and she kept occupied by watching the desolate countryside slide by, staring at the hole in the knee of machine gunner’s pants, and studying the helmets of the two men in the front seat.

The machine gunner stood beside her, both hands on the large gun’s handles, his legs flexed and eyes alert. The big gun—when she asked, he told her it was a “fiddy caliber,” and said nothing more—remained stationary. The gunner’s head continuously swiveled left and right, but he kept the gun pointed straight.

The officer did the same. Although he held his rifle in his lap, his eyes never stopping scanning the fields through which they drove. She’d tried to make conversation, but his friendly persona had evaporated when she exploded on him.  He was polite, but nothing more. His terse responses painted a sad picture.

The officer’s unit, the 24^th Mechanized, had been shipped to West Germany in the second week of the war. The men she rode with now were reserves, replacements for the soldiers consumed in a war with a voracious appetite for blood. The officer, his name was Dixon, Lieutenant Zak Dixon, was a recent graduate of officer candidate school in Fort Benning, Georgia—the base of the 24^th Mech. Dixon had been placed in command of an infantry platoon, assigned to a reserve battalion slotted to head to Germany, and then the nukes came. Fort Benning hadn’t been hit, which didn’t make sense, but much about the world didn’t make sense.

She asked him what they were doing now.

“Restoring hope,” was his laconic reply.

The radio hissed, and Dixon put the flattened, black handset to his ear. She couldn’t follow the conversation over the roar of the jeep’s engine and the rushing wind, but managed to catch a few words... words like “fuel” and “soon.”

The convoy pulled over at three gas stations in various stages of disrepair over the next ten miles. None of the three had diesel, but a fourth one did. The station was small, painted white, with boards over the windows, and a no trespassing sign on the door. Above the green roof was a red plywood sign with “Gas” in large block letters.

Dixon dismounted. The gunner on the “fiddy caliber” trained his weapon on the station; the other soldiers aimed theirs down Route 176. Behind the station wind ruffled acres upon acres of dead tobacco, fortunately the breeze was blowing away from her, and Cindy could smell none of the rotting plants.

No sooner had Dixon’s boots hit the pavement, than the station’s door opened. Out stepped an wizened old man. He was thin as a rail, black as mahogany, and deep creases lined his face.  In his hands was a sawed-off shotgun. That takes guts, Cindy thought with a smile. A convoy of tanks, or whatever they called these things, shows up at your door, and you have the balls to meet them with your pitiful shotgun.

She liked the man right away. She rested her own shot gun against her seat, hopped off the jeep, and followed Dixon toward the man, if she could help, she would. The officer glanced back, but said nothing, and she wouldn’t have cared if he had. She didn’t need anyone’s permission. Together they approached him.

The owner stood there, squinting at them in the mid-morning sun. Saying nothing, resting the shot gun in the crook of his arm, his expression inscrutable, the deep lines on his face unmoving

Dixon removed his helmet before addressing the man. The simple gesture raised her opinion of him by a quarter-notch. “Good morning, sir.”

She wouldn’t have thought it possible a moment before, but the wrinkles compressed even more as the old face squinted at Dixon.

“Who ya with?” The voice was gravel, deep gravel.

“Sir, I’m not sure what you mean.”

The wrinkled face nodded. “That’s bullshit, son, and you know it. Now, who are you with? Do you still stand by the oath you took when you put on that uniform or are you a no good, gas-stealing renegade?”

For a moment, a long moment, Dixon was motionless. Then he nodded. “Sir, I serve the United States of America and its people. What does that make me?”

The face broke into a grin. “Why, that makes you one of the good guys, son.” The black man turned, and yelled through the open door into the station. “Elle, come on out. They’re the real deal. Real, by-God, American soldiers.”

A woman stepped into the sun, as wide as the man was thin. The large woman was dressed in a simple, cotton dress and Cindy guessed she was the same age as the wrinkled man, but then she smiled, and her face had an eternal youth that belied her age. The man leaned his shot gun against the wall, and placed an arm around the woman’s massive shoulders. “My name’s Sam and this is Elle. Now what the hell can I do for you?”

Fifteen minutes later the convoy was gassed. Dieseled would be a better word, thought Cindy. The troopers, who had dismounted to stretch their legs and relieve themselves in the surrounding fields, were back in place, and Dixon stood beside the jeep, talking to the couple. On the asphalt beside him, rested two cases of Meals Ready to Eat, or MREs as his men called them, and a case of water. Sam and Elle didn’t want payment, but Dixon had insisted.

“We would pay you, sir,” the lanky officer stated as the cases were stacked,” but money isn’t worth much right now.” I hope this is enough.

There were tears in Elle’s eyes. She wiped them with white hanky pulled from the voluminous pockets of the billowing dress. Sam stared stoically at the cases of food and water. “We’re not through yet,” the gravely voice intoned as the wrinkled head shook side to side. “As long as we have men the likes of you all,” he raised his eyes to the entire column of armored vehicles. “As long as we have men like you all, there is still hope.”

He extended an ebony hand. “Lieutenant Dixon, it is an honor.”

Dixon took the hand, white on black. “Sir, the honor is mine.”

Without another word he stepped into the jeep and sat. Another minute and they were on the road, the moist, South Carolina air whistling by. Cindy leaned forward to where the officer could hear her words. “I was wrong about you.” The helmet, which he had settled on his head as the jeep’s tires began rolling, bobbed once, and he smiled. “It’s not a problem.”

She sat back, refocusing on the scared land slipping by. Five minutes later, she noticed the outskirts of a small town on the horizon, a beautiful white church stood in the field to the side. Again she leaned forward. “What’s that?” she asked.

           Dixon pulled a worn map from his thigh pocket. “Cameron,” was the one word reply.