Leonid, October 2nd, 2000
So many thoughts spinning round my head. I have questions and questions, but Rutkowski doesn't have the answers. Not really. Oh, he has what he thinks are answers. We know it is not true. Angels and Demons and God's Will are not a part of the plans for Poland. Only men and something not-men. I can't stop rolling it around my head.
The troops have us set in a basement dwelling. It must have belonged to some of Czarny's minders. The room is well apportioned. Two cubicles blanketed, one with a raw wood bunks and the other with double mattresses on the floor, a number of piles of bedding near a oil drum stove, and a table with four rickety chairs. High living by the local standards. The Doc and Kapitan take the bunks. Eddie grabs the other mattresses. Alphabit takes a bundle of blankets near the small fire in the stove. I take a chair. I don't have lice or fleas yet. Like to keep it that way.
The others are soon snoring. I lean back in the chair, MP5 on my chest, try to sleep. My mind keeps going in circles. I need a drink. The good vodka's back on the boat. Maybe I should talk to our guards about some rotgut. No, last thing I need is to be drunk if there's a night action. Head down, I try to sleep.
Maybe I succeeded. There's a sound by the stairs. One of our guards, Henry or Tom, looks around. He motions for silence and waves me up. I pinch at a growing headache as I go to him. He holds the drape over the entrance aside so I can pass. I squeeze past, damn, he's a big man.
"Your wanted topside," he growls.
I head up. Damn if I'm going to sleep now. Where does Doc stash the aspirin?
I'm almost at the top of the stairs when the guard grabs me from behind and lofts me out into the open. My breath stolen as I slam into the ground. A foot kicks me over before I can inhale. It's clawed, grey hands rip the MP5 away. Nonexistent God, Rutkowski was right.
I bat feebly as one hand grips my throat and hauls me upright. The restless tentacle where it's mouth should be strikes into my shoulder. I feel a numbness spreading from the wound. I'm slammed back into the ground as it wretches out a mouthful of my blood.
From the ground I can see two more men clutching guns. AKR and HK-CAW a part of me catalogs. The slim form of greyhounds stand ready at our door. The things contemplates me with disgust. "Wrong," it snarls.
I have only a pistol and scarce seconds left to act. I convulse. Give out shuddering breaths, convulse, arch my back, beat my feet against the pavement. A final shudder and a hissing breath. Be still. Be dead.
The men step back. The thing lashes that tentacle about. The end moves forming harsh words. "Not right. You," points at AKR, "watch it.
Turns to HK, "You, finish this." It spits and chitters at the dogs. They head down.
It stands at the entrance to our quarters, listening, as the gunfire begins. It seems relaxed.
Alphabit
Trying to sleep. Leo keeps fidgeting. Finally, he decides to go take a walk. I roll onto my back and listen to the small sounds of the fire. Now, maybe, some sleep. Closing my eyes I give out a happy sigh. Yes, now some sleep.
Except Da let the hounds in. I hear them racing down the basement stairs. Ma is going to be so angry with the man. I love our hounds and they love me. They're coming now to jump and bark and lick my face.
Some other part of me knows what's a dream and what isn't. My hatchets in my hand as the chitter and squeal of rats close. I swing an arm up under a throat forcing snapping teeth away from my face. The hatchet swings in at an awkward angle scrapping at it's thigh. My bellow over powers it's screech.
It's the size and weight of a hound, but the sounds and teeth scream rat. With an effort I throw it away and roll to all fours. Another one closes from the left. It meets my hatchet face first as it charges. It scream as the steel bites. I clutch at its hide and raise the axe.
The one I'd lofted away skids against the cement as turns back towards me. Gathers speed for a charge. the sharp crack of Doc's M-16 smacks it back to the ground. Pinned the one in my hand I bellow as the axe rises and strikes again.
Doc's M-16 cracks again and again in controlled semi-automatic before the deafening roar of a shotgun drowns it out. Doc staggers back under the impact. She crumples to the ground mewling in pain. I scramble on all fours behind the stove as the shotgun speaks again.
The shotgunner showers the dark with harsh Polish obscenities. A shadow running low to the ground, a third rat-dog, rushes towards Doc and the curtain. Damn, my gun's back in the bedding.
The Pole strokes the trigger twice. Buckshot rattles off the stove and wall above me. Blind bursts from Ed's M-16 answer him. The shotgun roars back, too fast for a pump or semi, firing a long burst into the curtains. The Pole curses again. In the sudden silence I hear something, a magazine, hit the floor.
In the pause I Throw my hatchet at the shotgunner. He jerks at the impact and drops the spare mag in his hand. Someone else will get him. I rush the rat-dog as it bites into Doc. I take it in the shoulder. Arms lock around the trunk. We roll over the concrete. I end on top. With both hands I force away it's snarling snout. I bring in a knee and let my full weight fall on it's ribs. The bones crunch. Again and a third time. Blood splatters from it's mouth as it slowly stills.
While I struggled, Ed's M-16 fired burst after burst. I turn in a crouch. The Pole and his shotgun are on the floor. Ed's replacing his magazine. I hear Cap yelling for light and a medic. Ed covers the stairs while I grab my weapons. Once armed I snap on a flash.
Captain Paterson has a both hands on Doc's abdomen holding things in. I know I'm next to useless with wounds. "Ed, help Cap. I'll get the stairs." We swap. Another light switches on.
"I'll get her pack!" Ed shouts.
"Hurry, God damn you!" Cap reaches out, grabs one of my blankets, and uses it as a compress. I can see red and grey things slither under Doc's skin. That's bad. Worse, I'm not watching the stairs.
My M-16 is wrenched from my hands. A thick grey arm smashes it into the ceiling. The butt stock shares raining hard plastic shards down over me. It's big.
I'm so jumped up on adrenalin that I don't think, just react. Pulling my pistol I step under the out thrust arm. I shove it into the middle and start pulling the trigger. Great arms surround me in a bear hug trapping my arms close in. But the pistol's still in it's gut and I empty out the Makarov's magazine.
I try to keep all my chest muscles tight, but I can't beat it's strength. My breath hisses out painfully and I can't draw another in. Shouts and screams, orders, echo around me. Head swimming I kick and thrash to no effect. In the dark basement a greater darkness closes in around me.
Distantly I hear Cap and Ed shouting. I wish they would shut-up. I need my sleep. The buzz of the alarm grows to a growl then a hammer of automatic fire. The floor, I'm on the floor. I stare numbly as silhouettes approach me. Cap, "Don!" She never calls me Don. "Don, can you move?"
"Ta," I answer in the Mother tongue, "Ta."
"He's delirious," was that Ed or Leo?
"No," I struggle to say, "I can move." To show them I put my hands on the pile of grey sacks beside me and lever my self up. They come back covered in sticky black blood. "Oh, damn."
Leonid
What do the Americans call it. Yes, I have the time to think, playing possum. The thing stands at the stairs enjoying, somehow I can tell, the death and violence it's man is visiting on us below. The throaty crash of the HK-CAW is overridden by the bark of one or more M-16s. The M-16s win. It's shoulders tense with anger. Down it goes.
The last man's nervous. I watch him in my peripheral vision. He licks his lips compulsively, attention switching from me to the stairs. As the gunfire resumes he gives me one last look and turns to the stairs. I may have lost the MP5, but I've got that big 1911 strapped to my waist. The snap of the holster is lost in the reports from below. I shift to a sitting position. Two hands steady the automatic. I space my fire. Two into the back, another in an arm as he twists in his fall. One in the side. One in the upper chest. His head rolls back to face me as he settles on the ground. Shock writ large on features. The last two into the face.
The monsters down there with my comrades. This must be one of the blessed; Wozniak or Zajac, I don't give a fuck which. I reload as I stand and walk to him. Blood seeps from his ruined face. It sticks to my hands as I unbuckle his helmet and toss it aside. Empty the new magazine, all seven rounds, into his head. Not enough left to even resemble a head.
I take the AKR. From the stairwell I hear Cap and Eddie shouting. With my back to the remains of the houses wall, clear of the stairwell, I shout down. "Kapitan! It Leo! May I come down!"
She snarls back, "Stay there! A patrol should be coming at a run. Tell them we need a medic. Now!"
I leave the AKR by the wall at the sound of running feet. Taking no chances, I drop to my knees in the open with my hands on my head. I explain who I am to the bright glare of flashlights and the open mouths of guns. Fortunately, one of our men from the 5th is with them and I stand with his help.
Paterson
A stretcher crew takes Doc away. We don't have the competency to care for her. She's in the vet's hands now. I wonder what it'll take to buy his silence. Fuck.
Alphabit, his ribs taped, sits by the stairs. Ed stands look out. Leo's down below helping haul up the bodies. I'm going to chew someone a new one. I'm never going back into a hole with only one way out. Never.
They drag the corpse of Rutkowski's demon up the stairs. It takes five men to move it. They'd be better with a block and tackle. Sure, maybe you should have told them.
"Lieutenant!" I'm still barking. "Bring me our high value prisoner. You can make him walk, but keep his hands bound." He jumps to it.
Three rat-things, two men, and one demon. I keep the anger on. The other troops keep stealing looks at the things. I snarl. Put them back to their tasks.
God damn it! I suddenly lash out. Kick the shotgunner savagely in the head. Leo pulls me back after I start stamping on his groin. He's beyond feeling it. But by god I can. If Doc dies? Who am I going to kill. The murdering motherless sons are right fucking here. There's always Rutkowski. He's one of them.
I have to let the anger go. Visualize a clench fist. L:et all the rage fill it. Open it wide. Just let it fall to the ground. Mist into the air. The adrenaline slowly ebb away.
"So, Lieutenant Rutkowski," I ask as he approaches, "this your angel?"
He stares. I have to repeat it for him. Empty eyes, "Yes."
"Good," I draw my knife, "now turn around."
He looks from the bare blade to me and back. "Be quick about it." He turns lifting his head to bare his throat.
I'm not gentle. He leaves some skin and a bit of blood behind as I cut through his bonds. With his back to me I ask, "Ever skinned a buck?"
He carefully steps back and around. He stands there, studying me as he rubs his wrists. He nods once.
I flip the knife around offering him the hilt. "Good, start with the big one."
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