“What is it?” asked May, sitting at Winston’s feet.
“Looks like they plannin’ on movin’ into our house.”
“What?”
“They jes’ marched on into the house, and here come a big ol’ truck backin’ down our driveway.”
“Oh dear.”
A Russian Ural-4320 backed down the driveway, and to the Sparrows’ back porch. Major Chaek stood, hands on his hips, and instructed the PLA soldiers to move gear inside the house — communications equipment, from what Winston could make out — and the Sparrows’ possessions out of the house. Electronic equipment flowed from the truck and into the house, and just as quickly, the contents of their house were systematically removed and tossed into the back yard — coffee tables and lamps, books and bookcases — anything that took up space that didn’t provide comfort.
“Looks like they makin’ our house into their headquarters,” Winston whispered.
“What do we do?”
“Pray.”
The First Days
Neither Winston nor May slept much the first night. Winston stood at the observation slits, constantly shifting his position throughout the night, and watching the swarm of enemy combatants invade their home. May begged Winston to sit down and rest — she had no interest in watching what was going on outside — and he’d often shift to his knees and watch through the lower slits, but those lower slits caused his knees to ache. It was more comfortable to stand. They each found a hushed voice to speak in while in the apartment, like when talking in a movie theater or at a funeral. As the evening went on, the sound of gunfire came from all directions: automatic fire from one side, mortars detonating from another, and single assassination-style reports coming from everywhere, including from across the lake. The ground trembled with the slowly creeping heavily armored vehicles that passed through Johnsonville on their way north toward Atlanta. Winston wasn’t shocked so much by the sheer volume of enemy soldiers as much as he was by their highly-coordinated military conduct and precision, especially given that the PLA was comprised of vastly diverse soldiers from severely distinct countries and cultures. Winston was further impressed that the majority of PLA soldiers spoke some English, be it fluent, broken, or bad — English, it seemed, was the predominant language spoken between the forces of the PLA.
The brown and gold rooster clock from the half bathroom just off the kitchen now hung from a finish nail to the right of the apartment’s simple doorway. The clock ticked loudly in the tiny space — loud enough that May wondered if it could be heard outside. Winston checked the clock — it was just after two in the morning when he decided to lay down next to May, who had been drifting in and out of sleep for several hours. He did it more for her than for himself. He spooned her as if they were in their own bed upstairs in the house and lay there for the next few hours. He was too exhausted to completely succumb to sleep with the din of the military vehicles passing by on the highway, the sporadic gunshots in the distance, and the loud racket of Winston’s generator that now powered several spotlights keeping him awake.
Winston was an over-thinker and over-achiever, with a mind that constantly churned. During that first night, Winston put himself in his enemy’s head, rationalizing the logistics of what was happening inside their house and what they were likely plotting, while also knowing that none of the toilets would flush given that Johnsonville’s municipal sewage system and water supply had been offline for months. The residents of Johnsonville were told to conserve their wastewater. Mayor Calef had sent out a flyer saying: If it’s yellow, it’s mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down. The flyer made Winston laugh at the time, but now he fretted, thinking of the mess he’d have to contend with if the house’s new occupants flushed with reckless abandon. He was then reminded that neither he nor May ate or drank much of anything, nor did either of them use the facilities. He chalked it up to nerves and the gruesome events that had unfolded earlier, but made a promise to himself to insist that he and May would eat and drink consistently, lest they cause their bodies internal harm. As he closed his eyes, he wondered why he hadn’t seen the generals since they arrived. Johnsonville was approximately twenty miles due south of Atlanta. Why did they make a military offensive headquarters so far away from their targeted city?
The next morning, three Russian soldiers speaking enthusiastically startled Winston awake. The soldiers must have been standing no more than a foot from his head. It felt like he had slept for less than an hour as he pushed himself up to his feet. May was already awake, reading The Postman by David Brin, her back leaning against the outside wall. She raised a finger to her lips warning Winston to be quiet.
Winston’s back screamed from the awkward position in which he had slept. His moves were cautious and deliberate as the Russian soldiers carried on their conversation. He flipped the towel up and peered outside. Sure enough, three Russian PLA soldiers gabbed about military matters, judging by their hand gestures, body language, and tone. Winston realized that he was chilled and he had to urinate. A cold front had moved in, which was uncharacteristic for early September in Southern Georgia. Winston grabbed his black hoodie from a hook near the shower curtain, put it on, and pulled the curtain open. He and May both winced at the harsh, grating noise of the curtain rings as they scraped loudly across the metal rod. His old man bladder screeched as he unzipped his fly and aimed his stream down the pipe. Unfortunately, the urine made a loud, babbling, hollow noise as it travelled down the length of pipe and into the rudimentary septic system. Winston, terrified that the Russian soldiers outside could hear the noise, interrupted his stream with great pain and grabbed an empty twelve-ounce plastic bottle to finish in. He was relieved, yet he grew concerned when the stream didn’t slow and he nearly filled the bottle, with only a capful of room remaining. He turned to May as he slowly poured the fluid down the pipe, careful not to let it make any sound. She sat there, staring up at him, and smiled a wide grin.
“You think that’s funny, do you?” he whispered, a smile creeping onto his face.
She nodded and turned her head back down into her book. Winston rinsed the bottle, cleaned his hands (he had set up a wash basin, which was their largest stainless steel mixing bowl from the kitchen), checked to see that the soldiers had left, kneeled down to May, and kissed her forehead.
“I had to do the same,” May confessed.
“How long you been awake?”
“A couple hours.”
“You hungry?”
“I could eat.”
“Good. How would you like a western omelet and some crispy bacon?”
“Tease.”
He kissed her again, pushed himself up, and stepped into the apartment’s kitchen area. It was difficult to remain quiet and discreet, but considered that their very survival relied on these two very deliberate actions. Winston poured dry Count Chocula cereal into a plastic bowl and handed a package of two frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts and a bottled water to May. She faked being disappointed.
“No bacon?”
“Doctor said ta cut back anyway.”
She opened the package and took a bite of a Pop-Tart.