In the Crosshairs

Chapter 9: Letters from Alexander

"Where the hell are we even supposed to go?" Max complained, slowly crawling behind Friedrich.

Friedrich ignored him as he continued to inch his way forward, with Max following close behind. It was obviously a while since the vent was last operational, as nearly all of the freezing-cold steel was covered in dust and spider webs. 

Friedrich continued placing one elbow in front of the other, crawling his way down the labyrinth with Max closely behind. After what seemed like forever,  Friedrich saw light at the very end of a path, causing him to raced through the vent and paw at it. As he came closer, Friedrich saw that it was shining through the aperature of another hatch—what he prayed was an exit one.

"Thank fucking god. Let's get out," Max gasped behind Friedrich, breathing a sigh of relief.

"Yeah. Please be an exit. I'm sick of this place," Friedrich groaned.

Friedrich punched the vent hatch open, which thankfully, was located on the outside of the house, making it fragile thanks to the freezing temperatures. He slowly pushed himself out of the vent and onto a set of rooftop shingles, rolling off them until he hit the hard concrete road.

"Ow, fucking bitch!" he exclaimed as he winced in pain.

Max followed Friedrich's actions, but landed much more gracefully on his feet from the shingles.

"Alrighty. Where do we go from here?" Max pondered.

Friedrich looked around and attempted to find some landmark, field, or building that could tell them where they were. Despite months of combat in the city, Stalingrad was still a completely foreign place to him. A seemingly endless swamp of concrete, fiber glass, exposed beams, and violence and death.

While they began their search, the vicious Russian wind began slamming into them like a pile of bricks. It partially made Friedrich regret even trying to escape the house, which was at least insulated from the howling winds of Russia. Friedrich attempted to brace himself from it by pulling the brim of his hat beneath his eyebrow, leading to him accidentally shift the glass lodged in his cheek. He yelped loudly in pain.

"Shhhhh. Are you crazy? They'll hear us!" Max yelled.

Friedrich flashed him a dirty glare before they began to try to explore their surroundings. They walked down several streets, carefully manuevering between walls and ducking under signs to ensure that no one could see them. They eventually happened upon a street of residential homes. Friedrich looked up at the Russian characters plastered on the road sign to see what street it was.

Kirov Street. 

Max and Friedrich began spent the next couple of house searching the homes for food and supplies. The vast majority of them had been destroyed by the war, leaving them rummaging through piles of rubble and shanty brick walls. That was, until they saw a relatively intact home at the very left end of the street corner. 

"Last one. Let's just see what we can find. My cheek is killing me," Friedrich uttered. 

They walked up to the light brown house, and attempted to creak the door open. To both of their surprises, the door was unlocked. Friedrich entered first, quietly tip-toeing his way into the house's foyer. To his left was a large, emerald-shaped mirror hanging on the flowery wallpaper, with its glass completely shattered. The floor beneath the mirror was completely clean. No shards of glass, as if whoever had damaged it had immediately cleaned it all up.

Friedrich slowly approached the mirror and stared at himself. The damaged mirror reflected a distorted copy of his face, with bits of his skin chopped up and mashed together like a Picasso painting.