CROSSROADS by Steven Nedelton (sight word readers txt) đ
- Author: Steven Nedelton
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AN AMBUSH
Today's The Judgement Day.
Iâm the prosecutor and the judge.
He stood in the parking lot of a small restaurant and thought that mind is all about chemistry, and that soldiering and chemistry do not mix.
The nearby highway rumbled occasionally and the chilly, drizzly dawn reeked of unburned diesel fumes. The fresh asphalt smell bonded with the fumes and drizzle. His nose ached from the corrosive mix.
Still dark. He was sure he had the cover he needed but glanced once more at the faint yellowish light above the restaurantâs entrance. The proverbial âclothes donât make a manâ was all wrong. In the obscure light, dressed in a long, dark, truckerâs coat, rubber boots, and a winter cap with ear flaps, he faded into just another Ivan.
Iâm the executioner, too.
He leaned against the doorjamb of his wifeâs Moskvitch, sensed the wet cold seeping through his coat and, shivering, rechecked his wristwatch. The luminous dial indicated five. The restaurant would open shortly, though it was still too early for most customers.
Itâs time to move. Sokolov will soon be here for his boiled eggs and blini.
He shut the car door without disturbing the silence of the parking lot, and, avoiding the noisy crunch under his feet, started across the gravel. Seven or eight meters from the restaurantâs doors, on the paved walkway, he figured he was close enough and stopped by a telephone pole. He dropped his shoulder bag on the pavement.
He ached for a smoke. He fished a cigarette and matches from his shirt pocket, struck a match against the rusty steel pole, and lit the cigarette. The sulfur quickly invaded his nostrils, though the cigarette tip only reluctantly flared in the damp darkness. When it did, the minuscule flare grabbed him and threw him back into the midst of a battle.
Afganistan. His tank bucks and rocks after each deafening salvo, and the air explodes with the Mujahadinsâ American missiles. Then the nauseating stench of gunpowder, cordite, and sweat, and the yelling, screaming, and bastard death sown all around like the seed behind a farmerâs plow. Jihad! Jihad!
they shout.
Deluded peasants on opium.
He tried to forget that past but couldnât. It loomed from behind like the dark sky above.
âThose memories donât fade, brotherâthey never do,â a veteran had once stoically counseled him while licking the edge of a square bit of thin, grayish paper filled with soggy tobacco, that he rolled into a cigarette between his yellowed fingertips. âI reckon weâre stuck with it. Youâre lucky youâre left in one pieceâlook at me. A few rubles now and then andââhe sneeredââ I can predict ya the rain and snow more accurately than that Moscow...TV channel.â
A hero without legs. A hero without a home. Politicians tell you go, Soldier, go; kill, prove youâre the right stuff. Pretty and not so pretty women hug you, wish you luck. A year later you find out it was just that they were youngâthey couldnât wait forever.
And the politicians live on, into history.
He felt lucky to be out of that hell. People were like deer, rockstill in front of headlights when they should be running for it.
Whenever he drinks too much, he wishes he had stayed in the rock-strewn no-manâs-land, next to his brethren.
He observed the restaurantâs entrance, wondering if he would end up in an asylumâfor the saneâthanks to his wifeâs fatherâs Party connections, or if heâll hang like a common criminal. Will Valentina denounce him on the spot and remarry a week later? The marriage matters were trivial to him but to Valentina they were preeminent.
Her long legs in white and her killer looks, plus her status... Her intent was to impress the world, yet she abhorred crowds. Imagine Valentina legless.
He turned away from the restaurant and stood sentry-like; smoking, waiting. The instructions hit him again: Colonel Sokolov must die.
He rechecked his wristwatch and noticed time had somehow slowed down. Even the secondhand was dragging. He shook his head, tried to rewind the already wound mechanism that was his brain.
Ten minutes later, the Zil finally arrived. The sound of its motor remind him of an angry guard dogâs growl. It occurred to him that Sokolovâs Zil, that inanimate machine, somehow recognized him and hated him for what he was about to doâtruly absurd.
He drew a deep breath to clear his mind and listened to the engine rev for a while longer. When it quieted, he dropped his cigarette butt and picked up the bag at his feet. He slung it over his shoulder, then slid his hand into his coat pocket. Lowering his head, he hid his face behind his coatâs large lapel and pretended to bend under the weight of the empty bag. Then he began to rock side-to-side, as if staving off the cold.
Like a hungry wolf stalking a deer, he listened to the Zilâs heavy car doors open and slam shut. He listened to the heavy gravel crunch under their feet, to Sokolovâs bodyguard, Stepan, cursing the puddles; to Sokolovâs muffled, âyeah, yeah, yeah.â When he
sensed them passing behind him, he tore the gun out of his coat pocket, whirled around, and fired. Four shotsâtwo and two moreâthen three until the magazine and gun are empty. In his subconscious he was back in his childhood, in the freezing cellar, his fatherâs butcher malletâs slamming a frozen carcass.
The two men fellâthrown sidewaysâsprawling across the pavement like two slaughtered, bloodied animals. A crimson liquid spread out before his eyes.
He observed their hands and legs jerk, twitch, fall silent. The heads were mostly gone.
He quickly reloaded the gun, and, still leaning forward, whirled around, searching for a construction worker or a truck driver, for anyone around. For anyone who could betray him. Heâd shoot them, too.
There was no one to be seen.
He pocketed the Makarov, and, as if released from an otherworldly power-hold, he finally ran. He stumbled and slid across the wet gravel toward the Moskvitch, straining to hear screams of âStop! St-o-o-p the
murderer! St-o-o-p him! Po-o-olice!â But he heard no shouts or sirens, nothing but the rumble of the truck convoys on the nearby highway and the heavy click-clack of a passing train. He finally reached the car and opened its door. He collapsed into the driverâs
seat muttering, âIâm free...Iâm freeââwords that would only make sense to him and a certain woman doctor...no one else.
Publication Date: 07-03-2009
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