“What the fuck are you doing?” Cole asked.
“Now hold on fellas,” Winston said.
“Hands up,” Earl said.
“Gimme the gun,” Mike demanded, pointing at the .38 special that Cole clutched.
“You ain’t gonna shoot me,” Cole said.
“I’ll shoot you in the God damned face, man, and I mean it!”
Winston spied the bulging outlines of the MREs tucked inside Mike’s filthy denim jacket.
“All of this over three MREs?” Winston asked.
“You seen any other food out here ya dumb foreign niggah?” Earl squealed. He looked at Cole, expecting to see some sort of disappointment on his face, but there was none. Cole handed the gun over to Mike, who instantly trained it back at him.
“How many mines you put in that car?” Earl asked.
“Two,” Winston said.
“Bullshit!” Mike erupted, “what’s that in your pocket?”
Winston looked down and smiled, “well, I guess you caught me red handed.”
As Winston started to pull the mine from his pocket, a Russian Tigr infantry patrol vehicle bounded into view, coming at them from the north. It wasn’t clear if the Russians had seen them yet, but as all eyes turned toward the Russian vehicle, Cole yanked on Winston’s .22, attempting to wrench it free from Earl’s feeble hands. Earl felt Cole’s tug and pulled back on the gun, his finger, unfortunately, was still on the trigger. The gun’s small, brilliant flash sent a lethal bullet into Cole’s pounding heart, and it was seen by the Russian Tigr commander who signaled to his gunner to train the 7.62-mm roof-mounted machine gun on their position. Earl dropped the rifle with an incredulous feeling of guilt as Cole’s arterial blood spurted. Earl and Mike fled southbound on the northbound highway while Winston made a vain attempt to save Cole from the Russian’s large-caliber bullets. Winston said, “I’m sorry,” picked up his rifle, and bolted into the scrub brush, ignoring the burrs and thorns that scratched his face and hands.
The Russian Tigr was at the Caddy in seconds, screeching to a halt. Its crew of ten Russian soldiers disembarked the truck with great haste and took up defensive positions. The Tigr pressed forward for another hundred meters and cut down Mike and Earl, who had neither the wit nor gumption to dive for cover into the thick barren brambles, sweet gum, and scrub pine that lined the highway. They died like cowards, and the stolen MREs would now nourish their enemy. Cole, on his knees and gasping for air, his lifeblood nearly drained, was mercifully and unceremoniously gunned down with a clean shot to the head. Several soldiers emptied their Kalashnikov AKs into the dense brush in an attempt to strike Winston, while another soldier unwittingly checked the Cadillac’s glove compartment. He and two of his compatriots were killed by Winston’s clever strategy, their bodies pierced by hundreds of quarter-inch stainless steel balls, while the mine wounded two other troops.
Winston sprinted through the nearly impenetrable overgrowth of vegetation and through a maze of abandoned neighborhoods until his legs and lungs could carry him no more. He had traveled several miles east and found himself at the rear of a Pentecostal church on U.S. Route 23 at the very northern side of McDonough. He knew this area well. Johnsonville was less than ten miles north, though he’d have to cut through a few side streets to get home. The sun’s morning rays cut brilliant swaths through the tawny pines that lined both sides of the church property. Winston was exhausted; vehicles parked haphazardly around the church impeded his progress as he wandered toward the church’s rear entrance. It was so difficult to get to the door that he was forced to climb over several vehicles, and stood on the hood of a car and discovered that the parking lot and lawns surrounding the church were likewise jam-packed with vehicles. As he surveyed the sea of vehicles, he noticed that there was little evidence of combat, bullet holes, or shattered windows, which gave him a modicum of hope that this northern part of McDonough had been spared. He hopped off the car’s hood, which reminded his body just how much pain he was in, and paced up the four steps to the rear door. The dewy morning air steeped Winston’s tired bones, but his curiosity was piqued because so many vehicles were parked outside the church. He slowly pulled the door open toward him six inches and was met with a swarm of common black houseflies that escaped from inside, and he choked on the rotted stench that immediately assaulted his nose. He slammed the door, knowing what horror awaited him if he walked through those doors, turned his back, slid down the door, and wept softly, holding his knees to his chin like a child. The worn green welcome mat with the words Christ is the Head of THIS House felt luxurious as he laid his head down and passed out from exhaustion.
Droning
While Winston closed his weary eyes, May stood at the slits watching the enemy’s morning activities. Ten North Korean soldiers, dressed in red from head to toe, including knee-high socks, exercised and practiced their football skills in the driveway. One of the soldiers tossed a football through the ball hoop several times as the other soldiers laughed. She recognized Woo-jin and noticed the one-eyed Dong-joo, who wore as much blue as the others wore red, and thought that a one-eyed soccer player seemed out of place. She hadn’t had water since Winston left and she was parched. She grasped the fact that Winston was not coming home — not while the sun was up — and the fact that they were now completely out of food. She left the slits and rifled through the area where they kept their provisions, praying to find some scrap of sustenance, moving the accumulation of trash and empty cans out of the way. She forgot herself at one point and tossed an empty tuna can into the corner when she came up empty-handed and, unbeknownst to her, the noise was heard by a North Korean soldier who was shagging a ball from behind the barn. He stopped for a moment, tilted his head and listened for where the noise was coming from. After a moment of silence, he pressed on, as the team was readying to leave.
May, defeated, crumbled on the bed, feeling like she would dissolve into a good old-fashioned crying jag, but she knew she couldn’t. She was forced to just sit there, like she made her students sit when they were out of line in her class. Her just sitting there was very different from day one of Johnsonville’s invasion and only got more and more maddening as time ticked by. Hungry, dehydrated, and alone, May was frightened, and would remain that way — at least until Winston made his way home tonight. She left the shower curtain slightly ajar, her eyes scanning the mess hidden behind it — trash, dirty clothes (they were now all very dirty), boxes of memories and photos and supplies — when she spied Amadeus’ big bag of dry cat food propped up in the corner. The bag was open and there was plenty of food left inside, and she thought if Amadeus wasn’t going to eat it…
She scooted on her knees over to the unsealed bag. They usually used a monkey face-shaped clip to seal the bag, but they had forgotten it in the house, so the bag’s top was slightly open. She opened the bag and sniffed at its contents. It certainly didn’t smell like chicken and brown rice, but it didn’t exactly smell offensive to her hungry belly. She shoved a hand into the bag and grabbed a handful of the kibble, and without giving herself a reason to second-guess her decision, stuffed it into her mouth and chomped down. Aside from being dry and aggravating her thirst, the cat food didn’t taste that bad. She sat next to the bag and ate until her hunger was sated. Had she had adequate light in the apartment, she would have seen the Indian Meal Moth larva she was also chomping on.