Mark raised his cup to the men. “Good morning,” he said.
Both men were dressed in jogging suits and white running shoes. They stared out into the fog. “We can’t run in this,” said Allenby. “We won’t even be able to see the sidewalk.”
Pendleton nodded. “I don’t remember it ever being so foggy, not here.”
“We’re moving up our attack,” said Klinger, who stood on the far end of the porch.
“Mack,” said Pendleton, “I didn’t even know you were out here. Moving up the attack, eh? Why on earth would you want to do that?”
“The fog,” grunted Klinger. “We have to take advantage of the cover. I sent Rodney out to spread the word. We’re meeting in the park. I suppose I should get into my fatigues. Sergeant Major, do you have fatigues?”
“Yes sir.”
The shadowy form of Klinger reappeared and he stood by the door. “What should we do if your attack fails?” asked Allenby.
“I don’t know,” said Klinger. “You’ll probably be tortured, so I suppose you can kick yourself in the ass for not standing up like men and fighting for your country. That’s just my take on it, I could be wrong.”
“That isn’t fair, Mack,” said Pendleton. “We’re pacifists. We told you that from the start.”
“Do you really think that’s going to make a difference to the Russians? Come on, John, you’re smarter than that. Okay, I’ll give you guys a straight answer. If we lose this fight and the Russians show up, if I were you, I’d eat a bullet.”
“You really think we’ll be tortured, don’t you?” asked Pendleton.
“I don’t just think it, I know it.”
Allenby bristled. “What about the Geneva Convention?”
Klinger laughed, bitterly. “There is no Geneva Convention, not anymore. What you men don’t understand is that we live in a different world. This is dog eat dog; pacifists or not, the Russians are going to use men like you to entertain their troops. They’re cold-blooded bastards. Trust me, if we lose, you’re going to want to take the easy way out.”
“Dear God,” said Allenby.
Inside the Winnebago, Mark changed into his fatigues and strapped on his .45. His heart fluttered inside his chest. They were going to die, he was sure of that. The only thing to do was make sure they didn’t go down without a fight. Every soldier they killed would be one less for another group of survivors to worry about. If Klinger was right, Mark thought he could take down two or three of their officers. When they took cover, he would start shooting at anything that moved. After that, the plan was for him to fall back and join Klinger and the others. In theory, the Russians would give chase and stumble into the ambush.
Mark stepped out into the fog and tried to steady his nerves. He wasn’t afraid of dying, at least he didn’t think he was; what frightened Mark was seeing Josie in the afterlife. She would know about Tina, he was sure of it. He cursed himself for being so foolish. Would he pay for his transgression for all of eternity? Josie could certainly hold a grudge. What he hoped, what he prayed for, was that Josie could see what was inside his heart. He thought that if she did, she would forgive him. And while it might take her a thousand years to do so, he knew she would be worth the wait. She was the love of his life and Mark thought that if the tables were reversed, he would forgive her.
Thinking about Josie and their children, Jake, Jerry, and Madeline, helped Mark come to terms with his fears. He knew death was simply the process of passing from this world into the next. He had lived a good life. He had done his best to make this a better world. He had been a giver, not a taker. The Great Spirit would know that; and after all, when all was said and done, what more was there?
Pendleton lived on Oak Street and Southmoreland Park was just three blocks away. Walking in the dense fog, the three blocks seemed like miles. The warm air was sticky, thick with humidity. Mark passed the time by reflecting on his training. While it had been many years ago, he remembered training to fight in these conditions. Klinger was right; their best hope was to take advantage of the cover. Following Rodney, who seemed lost in his own thoughts, Mark walked along a wall built out of slabs of limestone. Combined with the fog, the limestone wall made him feel as if he were walking back in time.
They assembled in a grassy area that was in desperate need of a mowing. The dew-soaked grass rose well above Mark’s combat boots. Shadows appeared from out of the mist, in groups that were large and small. Young and old, they carried hunting rifles and wore backpacks, heavy with ammunition. The fear was palpable, but beyond the fear, Mark felt a stirring sense of pride. There was courage in this group. Whatever happened, they were prepared to die defending their country. Mark watched boys and girls, barely in their teens and armed to the teeth, standing tall next to their parents. He saw old men and women, shuffling along, standing shoulder to shoulder with the others.
“Hey buddy,” said a familiar voice.
Mark turned to face Matt Lindeman. He offered him his hand. “Officer Lindeman,” he said. “Good to see you.”
Lindeman was dressed in black, in what Mark assumed was his riot gear. He carried an AR-15 slung over his shoulder and he wore binoculars around his neck. “I guess I’ve been paired up with you,” said Lindeman. “I’m going to act as your spotter.”
Mark shook his head. “Matt,” he said, “I can’t allow you to do that. You have a family to think of. I’m going to fire the first shots and will probably be the first of our people to die.”
Lindeman didn’t even flinch. “And your point is, what?” he asked. “You’re not going to talk me out of this. I’m going with you. Wen took the boys up to the caves. They know what we’re up against. I’ve been saved by Jesus Christ, I’m not afraid to die.”
Mark studied Lindeman and could see that there was no sense in talking him out of this madness. “I’ll see you in the happy hunting ground,” he said.
“You will, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We could pull this off. I’ve heard the plan and with this fog, I’d say we have a good chance of surviving this fight. Now, how come you never told me about your military service? I didn’t know you were in the Marines.”
Mark smiled. “It never came up.”
“Well, after we take care of business, I want to hear all about it.”
“Right, we’ll talk about it, tomorrow.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Master Sergeant SleepingBear?” barked Colonel Klinger. “There you are. Good, you have your spotter. Follow me, gentleman. I’m going to introduce you to your weapon and go over the map with you.”
“Yes sir,” said Mark.
“Yes sir,” repeated Lindeman.
Klinger led them past the troops to a picnic table. The green M40A5 sat resting on its tripod. Mark admired the weapon, noting the differences between it and the M40A3. The rifle in front of him held a ten round magazine, where the A3 had only held five rounds. The tripod was an upgrade from the A3’s bipod and the MST-100 sniper scope had been replaced by a Schmidt & Bender Police Marksman day scope. But what immediately caught Mark’s eye was the Surefire muzzle brake and sound suppressor. Mark lifted the weapon to his shoulder, feeling as if he had just been reunited with an old friend.
The men sat down and listened as Klinger went over their battle plans. “Take your shots and get the hell out of there,” said Klinger. “They’ll hit that building with everything they’ve got.”
“Yes sir,” said Mark.
“Do you have any questions, either of you? Now is the time to ask them.”
Lindeman shook his head. Mark shrugged his shoulders. “Colonel Klinger,” he said, “I really won’t need a spotter. I would like to do this on my own.”
“I’m sure you would, but this man is going along with you. I’m sorry, Master Sergeant, but that’s an order.”
Mark could see that Klinger wasn’t going to back down. He turned to Lindeman and thought he could see hurt in his eyes. “You have a family,” he said. “I was only thin
king of them.”
“Look around you,” said Lindeman. “There seems to be a lot of that going around.”
Mark turned to look and was surprised to see that the fog seemed to be lifting. Klinger’s army had been split up into platoons. Their leaders were going over last minute details. “We had better get you two moving,” said Klinger. “This shit seems to be lifting. Rodney knows the city and will act as your driver. Let’s go find him.”
Mark hefted the M40 and he picked up the heavy ammo box. They followed Klinger through the wet grass and they found Rodney standing out on Oak Street. He wore a brown hunting jacket over blue jeans, and was leaning against a Chevy Suburban. “We have to hurry,” he said. “This fog is lifting.”
Mark opened the back of the SUV and he stowed his rifle and ammunition. Behind the Suburban were rows of idling school buses. Klinger introduced Lindeman to Rodney and they exchanged cordial greetings. Mark returned to Colonel Klinger and stood at attention. He then slapped a salute. Klinger smiled and returned the salute. “Good luck, Sergeant Major,” he said.
“Thank you, sir. Good luck to you, as well.”
The men shook hands and Rodney ushered them into the Suburban. Lindeman sat in the back next to a pair of hunting rifles, while Mark climbed into the passenger seat. Mark watched Klinger as he disappeared into the fog, wondering if he would ever see him again.
“How far is it?” asked Lindeman.
“Well, before the shit hit the fan,” said Rodney, “it would be about a forty minute drive. Seeing how we won’t have any traffic to fight, we’ll be there in about ten minutes. I’ve got to tell you guys something. I’m scared shitless.”
“We’re all scared,” said Mark. “You’d have to be crazy if you weren’t.”
“I’m not scared,” said Lindeman. “I mean that and I’m not crazy. Can’t you feel that God is with us? I’ve never been so sure about anything in my whole life. He is here, right now. He is telling us that we have nothing to fear. Open up your hearts to him, you’ll see what I mean.”
Rodney shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb. He then turned to Mark and gave him an odd smile. “I think I do feel it,” he said.
Mark tried to return the smile, but he found that he couldn’t. The last thing he wanted to do was spoil their delusion. They were heading off to attack and kill an unsuspecting army. If they wanted to believe that God was behind them, he wasn’t going to stop them. He stared out the windshield and found that he could see nearly a hundred feet. The fog was lifting faster than he had imagined possible. Mark cursed their luck. Their one advantage was quickly slipping away from them.
Rodney stepped down on the accelerator and the Suburban began rocketing down the street. “Son of a bitch,” he muttered. “We should have left fifteen minutes ago.”
Mark nodded. What had once been a steel gray curtain of fog, had now become more of a reddish mist, as daylight began to filter in. He and Rodney saw the roadblock at the same time. “Stop!” shouted Mark.
Up ahead in the mist, Mark counted no less than twenty Russian soldiers. They stood behind a barricade constructed of parked cars and pickups. Much to his horror, he saw the soldiers were smiling. Some were actually waving at them. Rodney braked and whipped the wheel to the right. The Suburban’s tires squealed in protest and they lurched over the curb. Behind them, Mark heard the sound of automatic gunfire. He ducked down in his seat and reached for his sidearm.
Chapter 33
“Holy shit!” shouted Rodney, as they crossed over the sidewalk and into the tall grass at the far end of the park. Mark looked up to see muzzle flashes of another group of soldiers. Rodney jammed his right foot to the floorboards and the big engine roared to life.
“We’re surrounded!” shouted Lindeman.
“Get back to the others,” snapped Mark. “Lindeman, if you aren’t going to shoot back, hand that damn rifle to me!”
Rodney turned the Chevy in an arching loop that brought them parallel with one of the limestone walls. He sped along it. Miraculously, they hadn’t taken any fire. Mark had been expecting the glass to shatter at any second. Apparently, Rodney had been thinking the same thing. “They must want us alive,” he said. “There’s no way they could have missed us. We should be dead by now.”
Mark clutched the armrest and unrolled his window. The air was alive with chattering gunfire. His heart sank as he listened. Klinger and his army had been sitting ducks. How had the Russians known they would muster in the park? Someone must have tipped them off. “Stop!” he shouted at Rodney. “We’re close enough. I need my weapon. We’ll move in on foot.”
Rodney slammed on the brakes and the Suburban skidded across the wet grass, nearly careening into the limestone wall. Mark was out of the vehicle before it had stopped moving. He ran to the back and threw open the door. His ears ringing with the sounds of hundreds of guns firing, he grabbed the stock of the M40. He grabbed the ammo can and he began to run. The fog now seemed to be blood red and it stood in thick blotches, scattered around the park. He ran about fifty yards before he nearly collided with a concrete restroom. Mark found the door to the men’s room and he was surprised to find it open. He quickly ducked inside.
He waited for Rodney and Lindeman, but they were either dead or they hadn’t followed him. This saddened Mark and again, he cursed their luck. Outside, the battle continued to rage. Mark caught his breath and checked his weapon. He detached the tripod from the stock and discarded it. He then opened up the ammo can and he began filling his pockets with loaded magazines. Satisfied, he took a deep breath and cracked open the door. The gunfire seemed to be coming at him from all sides. The restroom was shrouded in fog and Mark crept outside, flattening himself against the wall. He concentrated on the automatic weapon fire. When he thought he had pinpointed the direction it was coming from, Mark began moving that way. He zigzagged across the grass, pausing to take cover behind the trunks of trees.
Mark suddenly realized that like the fog, the gunfire was diminishing. He ran twenty yards between trees and stopped, pressing himself against the rough bark. In that moment, the air went still. A long moment passed, a lone gunshot cut the silence. Mark remained where he was, listening to the pop-pop-pop, of occasional gunfire. Mark felt certain that he knew what these sounds were and a tear slid down his cheek. The Russians had won the battle and now they were finishing off the wounded. Feeling helpless, holding his sniper’s rifle, hiding behind the tree, Mark quietly wept.
Time passed slowly. Mark wondered what he should do. He had no intentions of throwing his life away by walking up into the killing field. He decided to backtrack and return to the relative safety of the restroom. Mark followed his own footprints in the wet grass, pausing twice to catch his breath. Cautiously, he cracked open the door to the restroom. He then slipped inside.
Sitting with his back against the wall, Mark realized that he had no way to keep track of time. He had left his watch in the Winnebago. Outside, the air was deadly still. Mark clenched his teeth, wondering who the traitor was. He thought of Rodney, and of how not a single bullet had pierced the Suburban. Rodney had been their Benedict Arnold, Mark was suddenly sure of it. No other explanation made sense.
Despite his impulse to engage the enemy, Mark decided to try and survive until sundown. He would attack under the cover of darkness. He only wished that Klinger had given him a night vision scope for his weapon. That couldn’t be helped and Mark knew he would have to do the best he could with what he had. With any luck, the Russians would be so preoccupied with the women, that he would be able to slip in among them and begin cutting throats. With that on his mind, Mark patted the handle of his knife.
He wondered if the Russians had taken any prisoners. He prayed that Colonel Klinger had gone down fighting. Klinger was an old man and Mark knew he had been right about the Russians, especially when it came to torture. Those who survived would die a slow, painful death. As he mulled that over, Mark once again thought of Rodney. The traitor would tell the Russ
ians about Mark, he was sure of it. When his body wasn’t recovered, there would be a search. Suddenly, Mark felt like a trapped rat. He picked up his rifle and crept to the door. He cracked it open and saw that what little had been left of the fog, still remained. Mark charted a course that took him in the opposite direction of Klinger and his dead army, and he began to run. Once again, Mark took cover behind trees and he soon arrived at the far edge of the park. Certain that he would be shot at any second, Mark sprinted across an asphalt street.
He began cutting through yards and ducking behind garages. He ran for several minutes, the M40 seeming to grow heavier with each passing second, before taking cover inside a garage constructed out of concrete blocks. The garage smelled musty and the windows were glazed over with grime and cobwebs. There was no car inside the single stall garage, but it was filled with second hand furniture and cardboard boxes. Feeling exhausted, Mark cleaned off a ratty sofa and he stretched out on it. He closed his eyes and soon fell into a deep sleep.
Mark awoke to the sound of his own stomach. He opened his eyes and quickly sat up. At the door, Mark was shocked to see that not only had the fog disappeared, but that it was already sunset. Overhead, the sky was dazzling in shades of orange and red. Mark rubbed his empty stomach and licked his parched lips. He needed food and water. He picked up his rifle and walked out of the garage, up to the little bungalow. He tried the back door and found that it was open. Mark steeled himself for the smell, but found that there was none. Whoever had lived there must not have been inside when the end came. Mark quickly found the kitchen and nearly cheered when he spotted a case of bottled water, lying unopened, on the tile floor. He ripped open the plastic and quickly drank down two bottles. In the cupboards, Mark found several tins of sardines and a box of saltines. He sat down at the table and ate a fragrant meal.
Satisfied, Mark began to wander from room to room. The little house was clean and simply decorated. From what Mark could gather, the house had belonged to a young couple who were expecting their first child. One of the bedrooms was in the process of being converted into a nursery. The room was filled with baby shower gifts, many still inside colorful gift bags. Mark read the cards and fought the urge to cry for the couple, who would never know the joys of parenthood. He walked out of the bedroom and then he ventured down into the basement. Beams of orange light streamed in through tiny windows. Mark found what he was looking for, hanging on a hook above a dusty workbench. The frame backpack was well-worn and of good quality. Mark began gathering up supplies. He found a first-aid kit in the bathroom and he added a bottle of rubbing alcohol and hydrogen peroxide. He began filling the pack. He added a new toothbrush and a fresh tube of toothpaste, tossing in a couple rolls of toilet paper.
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