Bajria
31-12-2004, 22:23
Six years. It had been six long years. Years of war. Years of blood soaked streets. Years of bodies.
Part One: Dreams of the Republic
Viktor Katyrsky stepped out of the dilapidated one story home, into the grey streets of the small rural village. He removed a hand rolled cigarette and a book of matches from his pocket. He had misplaced his lighter. He tore the last match out of the book, and struck it. He inhaled deeply as he touched the lit match to the tip of the cigarette, closing his eyes and allowing a moment of relaxation to come over him, to take him away to a different place, another time.
A distant thud brought him back home, back to his senses. He jumped slightly, dropping the cigarette, and was ashamed for it. He figured that after years of dashing about under the artillery shells in old Krazorska would have sharpened his nerves. In fact, it had nearly shattered them.
He cursed himself and his rotten luck, and bent down to grab the dropped smoke. He reached into his coat pocket, searching around for another book of matches. His fingers touched paper, and he grasped the crumpled ball. He pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a photograph. Time had torn and faded the thing, a forgotten relic. Katyrsky’s eyes sank as he stared into the captured faces, two of them. He exhaled a cloud of smoke which drifted through his fingers and soaked over the picture. Appropriate. It had been a grey day…
A train station five years ago. It was snowing, the white powder mixing with the dark soot that covered the rail junction. It had been so cold. Her face was red, wind chapped, set with a stern expression, biting back the urge to break down weeping; out of fear or misery, he wasn’t sure. A simple goodbye, the screeching of the train, and she was gone. A refugee heading over the border, the only trace of her existence a rapidly fading photograph that would be lost for many years in a dusty coat pocket.
“Who’s the girl?”
“No one.”
“An attractive no one.”
“Still no one.”
A second man stepped out into the quiet street. He looked nearly as tired as Viktor, his military fatigues torn and blackened with ash, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He lit up his own cigarette, and pulled out a rolled up newspaper that protruded from his coat pockets. He unfurled the paper and scanned the headlines.
“Hah! Viktor, take a look at this. We made the papers.”
“We always make the goddamned papers.”
“No, right here. Listen: ‘elements of the fifth Krazorskan people’s militia were forced to withdraw from the city’s suburbs yesterday after a five-hour firefight with Bajrian government forces, however not before the militia succeeded in taking control of the Krazorskan Popular Affairs Ministry, killing three of President Katsokov’s administrators.’ That’s us.”
Viktor chuckled dryly.
“Regular soldiers of fortune, aren’t we.”
“We’re riding back towards town tonight to hit some howitzers. Are you coming?”
“I suppose. Nothing else to do around here. You either kill soldiers or you kill rebels.”
“Good. Get some rest. We’ll leave at sunset.”
The day passed slowly in the small town, interrupted occasionally by the distant thud of an artillery shell, or the raking of a machine gun. As the sun sank two old pickup trucks set off down a dirt road, heading for the rolling hills as the clouds of grey smoke drifted overhead, remnants of the day’s destruction in the east.
The men were quiet, waiting in the back of the vehicles, assorted AKMs and submachine guns resting casually in their laps or hanging over their shoulders. Viktor’s mind was empty, and he let the countryside softly drift over his eyes, wishing he had a cigarette. Western rock and roll was playing on the truck’s stereo in the cab.
As the truck’s climbed higher into the hills, the sounds of the artillery guns grew louder, until finally each burst sounded as if it were right next to your ear. At this point, the trucks slowed, cut their engines, and coasted down the sloping path, finally pulling off into a grove of trees and halting. The men got out of each vehicle. Some had blackened their faces, the rest pulled on balaclavas.
“Three guns. They should be lightly defended. Split into two teams. We’ll hit the last one together.”
The men rushed off into the surrounding forest. Viktor let his gun hang casually in his hands. It was strange. At this stage in the war, he felt not even the slightest bit of fear or apprehension. No one did.
Viktor and his group came to a small riverbed, and followed it some way until the thunder of the artillery gun grew so loud as to be unbearable. From there, they simply followed the roar.
Moving quickly and quietly to the edge of the trees, the men lowered themselves against the forest floor. Viktor followed the man who had asked if he would join the excursion, crawling ahead of the rest to scan the emplacement.
“Looks like around seven of them. Three man crew, four guards. A cakewalk.”
“Get a few guys around on the other side. We’ll set up a crossfire, and finish this quickly.”
Viktor signaled, and three men vanished into the blackness of the moonless night, moving around to the other side of the gun.
“Smoke?”
“Wait until it’s over.”
The artillery crew had seemingly taken a breather from pummeling the city in the valley below, and now the seven men stood chattering away idly in some Slavic tongue.
“Now.”
The men opened fire on the cluster of soldiers from either side. They writhed in agony as the red spurts exploded from their chests and legs, bullets burying themselves deep into the flesh and bone. The guerillas charged into the clearing, firing away at wounded men writhing on the ground.
One man screamed and tried to crawl away as Viktor approached him, his legs a bloody mess. Viktor turned him over with his foot, and stared into his glassy eyes. He removed a pistol from his waist, and knelt down beside the man. Prying his jaw open, he shoved the muzzle of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The man’s eyes rolled up into his skull as his head slammed into the dirt.
As the moans of the wounded subsided, being either bound with cloth to be suffocated, or simply shot in the face, the guerillas shouldered their weapons. The faint sounds of another firefight drifted over the hills.
“Looks like they’re ready too. Let’s move before the patrols get here.”
The men scattered into the blackness, towards the third of the night's targets.
Part One: Dreams of the Republic
Viktor Katyrsky stepped out of the dilapidated one story home, into the grey streets of the small rural village. He removed a hand rolled cigarette and a book of matches from his pocket. He had misplaced his lighter. He tore the last match out of the book, and struck it. He inhaled deeply as he touched the lit match to the tip of the cigarette, closing his eyes and allowing a moment of relaxation to come over him, to take him away to a different place, another time.
A distant thud brought him back home, back to his senses. He jumped slightly, dropping the cigarette, and was ashamed for it. He figured that after years of dashing about under the artillery shells in old Krazorska would have sharpened his nerves. In fact, it had nearly shattered them.
He cursed himself and his rotten luck, and bent down to grab the dropped smoke. He reached into his coat pocket, searching around for another book of matches. His fingers touched paper, and he grasped the crumpled ball. He pulled it out and unfolded it. It was a photograph. Time had torn and faded the thing, a forgotten relic. Katyrsky’s eyes sank as he stared into the captured faces, two of them. He exhaled a cloud of smoke which drifted through his fingers and soaked over the picture. Appropriate. It had been a grey day…
A train station five years ago. It was snowing, the white powder mixing with the dark soot that covered the rail junction. It had been so cold. Her face was red, wind chapped, set with a stern expression, biting back the urge to break down weeping; out of fear or misery, he wasn’t sure. A simple goodbye, the screeching of the train, and she was gone. A refugee heading over the border, the only trace of her existence a rapidly fading photograph that would be lost for many years in a dusty coat pocket.
“Who’s the girl?”
“No one.”
“An attractive no one.”
“Still no one.”
A second man stepped out into the quiet street. He looked nearly as tired as Viktor, his military fatigues torn and blackened with ash, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder. He lit up his own cigarette, and pulled out a rolled up newspaper that protruded from his coat pockets. He unfurled the paper and scanned the headlines.
“Hah! Viktor, take a look at this. We made the papers.”
“We always make the goddamned papers.”
“No, right here. Listen: ‘elements of the fifth Krazorskan people’s militia were forced to withdraw from the city’s suburbs yesterday after a five-hour firefight with Bajrian government forces, however not before the militia succeeded in taking control of the Krazorskan Popular Affairs Ministry, killing three of President Katsokov’s administrators.’ That’s us.”
Viktor chuckled dryly.
“Regular soldiers of fortune, aren’t we.”
“We’re riding back towards town tonight to hit some howitzers. Are you coming?”
“I suppose. Nothing else to do around here. You either kill soldiers or you kill rebels.”
“Good. Get some rest. We’ll leave at sunset.”
The day passed slowly in the small town, interrupted occasionally by the distant thud of an artillery shell, or the raking of a machine gun. As the sun sank two old pickup trucks set off down a dirt road, heading for the rolling hills as the clouds of grey smoke drifted overhead, remnants of the day’s destruction in the east.
The men were quiet, waiting in the back of the vehicles, assorted AKMs and submachine guns resting casually in their laps or hanging over their shoulders. Viktor’s mind was empty, and he let the countryside softly drift over his eyes, wishing he had a cigarette. Western rock and roll was playing on the truck’s stereo in the cab.
As the truck’s climbed higher into the hills, the sounds of the artillery guns grew louder, until finally each burst sounded as if it were right next to your ear. At this point, the trucks slowed, cut their engines, and coasted down the sloping path, finally pulling off into a grove of trees and halting. The men got out of each vehicle. Some had blackened their faces, the rest pulled on balaclavas.
“Three guns. They should be lightly defended. Split into two teams. We’ll hit the last one together.”
The men rushed off into the surrounding forest. Viktor let his gun hang casually in his hands. It was strange. At this stage in the war, he felt not even the slightest bit of fear or apprehension. No one did.
Viktor and his group came to a small riverbed, and followed it some way until the thunder of the artillery gun grew so loud as to be unbearable. From there, they simply followed the roar.
Moving quickly and quietly to the edge of the trees, the men lowered themselves against the forest floor. Viktor followed the man who had asked if he would join the excursion, crawling ahead of the rest to scan the emplacement.
“Looks like around seven of them. Three man crew, four guards. A cakewalk.”
“Get a few guys around on the other side. We’ll set up a crossfire, and finish this quickly.”
Viktor signaled, and three men vanished into the blackness of the moonless night, moving around to the other side of the gun.
“Smoke?”
“Wait until it’s over.”
The artillery crew had seemingly taken a breather from pummeling the city in the valley below, and now the seven men stood chattering away idly in some Slavic tongue.
“Now.”
The men opened fire on the cluster of soldiers from either side. They writhed in agony as the red spurts exploded from their chests and legs, bullets burying themselves deep into the flesh and bone. The guerillas charged into the clearing, firing away at wounded men writhing on the ground.
One man screamed and tried to crawl away as Viktor approached him, his legs a bloody mess. Viktor turned him over with his foot, and stared into his glassy eyes. He removed a pistol from his waist, and knelt down beside the man. Prying his jaw open, he shoved the muzzle of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. The man’s eyes rolled up into his skull as his head slammed into the dirt.
As the moans of the wounded subsided, being either bound with cloth to be suffocated, or simply shot in the face, the guerillas shouldered their weapons. The faint sounds of another firefight drifted over the hills.
“Looks like they’re ready too. Let’s move before the patrols get here.”
The men scattered into the blackness, towards the third of the night's targets.