Meanwhile, outside, the gate opened and let in the same Russian Tigr troop transport that had encountered Winston, Cole, and the other two meatheads down in McDonough. Following it was North Korean General Kim Kyok-Chun’s personal Mercedes-Benz Geländewagen armored truck. Major Chaek, who was dressed in the same red soccer clothes as his players, was there to greet both vehicles. The Russians laid out their four dead men — one of the wounded had succumbed to his wounds en route — and the other two wounded soldiers stood at attention and bleeding from their injuries. The eleven North Korean soccer players (the Red Team) gathered around the Russians and gawked at them.
“Tell Team Blue leader to have someone come and get these wounded men,” Major Chaek said to his Middle-Eastern radioman, who darted back inside the house to make the call to Team Blue headquarters up in Morrow where the infirmary had been relocated.
The Russian Tigr commander explained to Major Chaek what had happened on their routine morning patrol, while Russian soldiers stripped the dead men of their weapons, gear, and personal items, including their boots.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Major Chaek replied, “we must never underestimate the Americans and their insolence. They are feral pigs.” He looked around and saw his favorite batting post, Woo-jin, attempting to make himself as small as possible. Major Chaek smiled widely.
“You,” he pointed at Woo-jin, “remove these bodies at once.”
“Yes, Sir!” Woo-jin screeched, and writhed through the crowd of soldiers who did not part for him.
“Make haste. We move out in ten minutes. And do not soil your football uniform, Lance Corporal Yong.”
“Yes, Sir!”
“You men keep practicing,” the Major barked, and disappeared inside the house.
The Red Team players snickered as they knocked the ball around and watched Woo-jin struggle to drag the first body up the driveway. He pulled it into the woods and to the trash pile, only stopping briefly to look for Winston before bolting back to retrieve the other three dead soldiers’ bodies. The second and third corpses became heavier and heavier, despite them being smaller in size than the first. By the time he grasped onto the fourth soldier’s feet, he was exhausted, doubting that he could perform well in the football game.
General Kim and Major Chaek emerged from the house, eager to drive the short distance to the Clayton County Sports Complex and its American football field.
“Why haven’t you finished yet, Lance Corporal Yong?” Major Chaek demanded as he and the general promenaded to their awaiting Mercedes. The rest of the North Korean team had already loaded into the Russian Tigr transport. Woo-jin stood silently at attention, embarrassed at not completing his assigned task.
“You have failed me yet once again,” Major Chaek said. He pointed out Dong-joo and ordered, “you! Help this man.”
Dong-joo sprang out of the truck and took hold of the dead soldier’s shoulders, walking forward while Woo-jin walked backwards, carrying the legs. Major Chaek hopped into the Mercedes, and it pulled away.
Dong-joo was infuriated, his one-eyed gaze terrifying. He pushed Woo-jin to move faster and faster through the woods, Woo-jin’s feet barely keeping up, and when they reached the trash pile, Dong-joo gave one final thrust and let go of the Russian’s stiffening arms, which sent Woo-jin and the corpse reeling onto the three other bodies he had just moved. Dong-joo dashed away laughing while Woo-jin scrambled to his feet, pushing the bloody corpse off him. He looked over his shoulder to see the back of his red shorts and shirt discolored and browned by the quickly oxidizing blood that soaked through the Russian soldier’s clothes. He let out an enormous sigh and sprinted off after Dong-joo.
By the time Woo-jin got to the transport, which was waiting for him on the road, Dong-joo had already jumped in the back and bolted the door. As Woo-jin tried to open it, his eyes locked with Dong-joo’s single unemotional eye that glared at him through the window in the door. Suddenly, the transport started to move. At first, Woo-jin stood there and watched the truck pull away but he quickly realized, soiled football uniform or not, he was compelled to play in the game — or it would surely mean his death. The image of Seul-ki’s silken face inspired him to sprint to the quickly accelerating transport, hop up onto the rear step, and hoist himself up to the truck’s roof to the same Russian gunner who had earlier cut down Earl and Mike, and who now offered his hand and drew Woo-jin up next to him. They nodded at each other as the gunner surveyed the area for hostile Americans, and Woo-jin rested cross-legged, taking in the striking Georgia countryside, and pondering his fate.
May had fallen asleep, but she was rocked awake mid-morning by the sudden crash of a pickup truck’s tailgate as it slammed down just outside the barn’s thin veneer. She heard voices, but none that she recognized, which was unusual. Being cooped up inside the apartment and surrounded by the same voices for weeks on end had become an intimate one-sided relationship — she and Winston usually recognized particular soldiers, their habits, and schedules. The barn’s door opened, which was odd because it wasn’t yet noon according to the brown and gold rooster clock that hung crooked from its finish nail. It was only 11:00 a.m., a full hour before the Iranian general’s daily inspection of the barn’s contents. Noon was when the general usually emerged from the house to check on the crate of backpacks in the barn, before taking his lunch with the other generals at the stump.
Through the slit, May watched several pairs of soldiers bring in a dozen unmarked cardboard boxes roughly the size of dorm room refrigerators, perhaps three feet by three feet, into the barn. What happened next startled her even more — she felt the boxes being stacked against the false wall and their door, and if it took two fit soldiers to move just one of the boxes into the barn, how could she or Winston possibly move them if needed?
She waited for them to finish inside the barn so she could open the door to make sure there was still access to the apartment, but instead, the pickup drove off, leaving one of the cardboard boxes in the driveway. Two soldiers carted the Sparrows’ six-foot long card table out from the basement and set it up mid-driveway. It was their rummy table. Before June died, she and Ben and May and Winston and occasionally several other couples would gather at that table under Medusa’s cooling embrace in the summer before the tree was felled. They’d sit at Medusa’s stump afterwards, and play rummy until it got dark, usually scoring so carelessly that by the end of the evenings only a hunch gave away the winner. It was usually Winston, who played a curiously infuriating game of rummy by holding his cards until the end. He’d often go out all in one dramatic play, leaving the other players frustrated, the points they still held in their hands often enormous.
May clutched onto that memory, longing to have a rematch with Ben and June and her husband as she watched a Russian officer open the box and order two other Russian soldiers to empty its contents onto the card table. This all took place within ten feet from where May now stood. She had often wondered why Winston spent so much time staring out these slits while she spent her time reading books, and now realized just how interesting it all was just outside of their walls. The Russian and Iranian generals emerged from the house, the Iranian general pausing a moment at Med’s head, which was now nothing more than a skull with a tuft of hair on its crown, flittering in the cool October breeze. The generals laughed at something the Iranian general said, and they joined the Russian soldiers at the card table. May listened to every word they said, her eyes growing wide at the large, intricate, and spidery-looking flying contraption set on the card table.