Everyone Dies in the End #25

Anatol

Captain Anatol Vorishnov was dead. His senior sergeant and leader of the Sagger team, Nikoli Berliavskii, still knew that. Although he wasn’t with them anymore, Berliavskii felt responsible to Anatol Vorishnov, felt his eyes, knew that the Spetsnaz team, pushed on for the memory of their slain leader. That pushing had taken them through the woodlands that dotted the countryside surrounding Cameron, South Carolina—the scene of Vorishnov’s last battle—through the sparse, twisted crop fields, through the suburbs, and into the city, the city of Charlotte, North Carolina.

They had arrived the previous night, tired and more than a little hungry. The team had rested, partly because Berliavskii felt they needed to regroup, get a feel for town, learn where the weapon Viktor carried would do the most good, and partly because of the momentous morbidity of the task they had set for themselves. So Berliavskii posted a watch and the Russians slept, sure that the sleep would be their last.

The sun broke through Berliavskii’s dreams early the next morning and he rose, squinting against the brightness. He had taken the first watch, and the other four had rotated through after him, each taking their turn. Mikhail crouched by the window now, his RPD resting on the sill. They had bedded in what looked like an electronics store. At least that is what it must have been two months ago, but now it was picked clean, shelves of CDs and video tapes tipped over, their contents smashed or stolen. A pair of TVs remained in the back, their screens shattered; the store reeked of urine and feces. The windows, which looked over a broad, four-lane street, were long since gone, but the stout, short wall they sat on remained, providing perfect cover for the Spetsnaz if they needed to fight and a back door led into a narrow alley, if they needed to run.

“Good morning, comrade,” Mikhail greeted him without taking his eyes from the road to their front. “There’s coffee,” he tilted his head to indicate the pot on a portable cooker, a one-burner American Coleman stove.

“Ah Mikhail, you read my mind.”

“It is not difficult, Comrade Sergeant.” The RPD gunner’s light laugh robbed the words of insult, and Berliavskii laughed with him. He had taken a sip, cradling the cup in both hands to warm them against the early chill, when the Bronco appeared, sliding onto the street, but slowing to pick its way through the debris littering the pavement.

Mikhail lowered his eye to the RPD’s sights. Crouching, Berliavskii placed a hand on Mikhail’s shoulder, “Wait.”

They watched careened down the street, avoiding most of Armageddon’s accumulated refuse, rolling over the rest, obviously in a hurry.

“They’re running,” whispered Mikhail.

“Da,” replied Berliavskii, “but from what?”

Then the Bronco passed, and the motorcycles appeared, and the bicycles, and then the men on foot, and then the firing began, and then it was plain to see who the Bronco was running from.

They were all awake now, lining the windows, ready to fight. It was up to Berliavskii who they would fight. He chose the pursuers, and wasn’t sure why. They were all Americans, all his enemy, but Berliavskii was a veteran of Afghanistan, Africa, and the heights that separated Syria from Jewish homeland. He had seen too many innocents killed, done much of the killing himself, this one time he wanted to help the hunted, not kill them. After all, he reasoned, all of them were going to die before the sun set again. He pointed out the targets and gave the command, “Fire!”

           The first bullets from Mikhail’s RPD ripped through the motorcyclists, the machine gun’s retort echoing loudly against the buildings.