A Story of Cinders: From the Ashes

Chapter 3: Hero of War

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As the man with the bloody stump for an ear ran screaming from Lucky Lucy's, Gray Wolf sarcastically thought to himself I wonder who he pissed off with a slight chuckle. The screaming man ran straight into a group of men who didn't seem to belong. And not just because they were armed and in uniform. Zhar-Ptitsa enforcers. Jesus Christ, not again with these guys... Gray Wolf casually strode over to the enforcers. He noticed one of them had a crooked nose that looked as if it had been recently broken and poorly set. Gray Wolf broke that nose a couple months ago. They were standing in the center of town. One of them held a small holographic projector. The projector was displaying a message, all in Cyrillic. The man with the broken nose spoke in broken English with a thick Russian accent to the crowd of people gathered around them. "By order of Czar Abram, this town is now under the jurisdiction of Zhar-Ptitsa! Those who do not follow the laws vill be severely punished!"

Fucking really... I should probably do something again. "Ivan!" he yelled to the enforcer, "You're back!" He pushed his way to the crowd to the center stage to greet the enforcers. Ivan, recognizing Gray Wolf, replied, "You again?"

"Why'd they send you out this way, Ivan?" Gray Wolf asked. "Were you not pulling your weight in Rust?" Rust was the name of the town they had last met. It was a moderate sized settlement, up near Detroit.

"We are expanding," Ivan replied. "For far too long we have overlooked this part of the world."

"I see your nose healed up nicely. It's a nice improvement."          

Ivan grabs Gray Wolf by the collar. "You vill regret saying that ever, Gray Volf!"

"God I can't tell which is more broken, your English or your nose... It's wolf, with a w. Say it with me now," he said, slowly repeating the w sound. Ivan strikes him fiercely in the ribs with his baton and grabs him by the collar of his vest. Gray Wolf seems almost unfazed. He chuckles, his gold tooth glinting in the sunlight. "You still hit like a bitch too, I see..." he says, speaking Russian to get his point across.

"You and this shithole of a town are going to pay for your insolence!" Ivan shouts, the conversation now shifting to Russian.

"And who's gonna make us pay? Just the two of you? What are you gonna do, arrest me again? Lock me in another prison? We all know how well that fucking works..." he says, slowly reaching back for his kukri. Ivan thinks for a second, then releases him. "No, you vill see soon enough, Gray Wolf."

"The anticipation is killing me." He takes his hand off the kukri handle. Ivan and his partner took a couple steps forward, as if they were leaving. Then Ivan swings around, baton in hand, striking for Gray Wolf's head. The bounty hunter grabs Ivan by the wrist and rips the baton from his hands, snapping his wrist in the process. Ivan cowers down, clutching his wrist and screaming. He takes the baton and clubs his partner across the face with it. He spins and falls to the sand. "You try that every time, and it still hasn't worked yet. Now get out of this damn town before I make you a permanent resident in the Homestead Cemetery." The two soldierss turn tail and begin running. Gray Wolf hurls the baton at Ivan, yelling "And take this with you!" The baton strikes Ivan in the back of the head. Damn I am good, he thought to himself. The crowd applauded him. He took a bow jokingly. "Thank you!" he yelled. It's getting late, this hero needs to get some sleep. Maybe a little more. He headed to the brothel called Lana's.

            The two enforcers ran from the town, wishing they could run faster. A figure observed in the distance through a high powered scope. He had seen the whole incident. His rifle tracked their movement. It was a massive anti-material rifle, used for busting engine blocks in cars. Only the best snipers could be trusted with such a weapon of destruction. And he was one of those. His finger hovered over the trigger, tense, waiting for the shot. But he would not waste his ammo on these two. No, he was waiting for their officer. He had been tracking him down for months, and he had a 50 caliber bullet the size of his hand with his name on it. Now he had to wait. Story of his life. Back when it existed, standby to standby was the unofficial motto of the US Army. Even worse when you were a sniper. Endless hours laying in the grime and the dust and the dirt, waiting for the perfect shot. It was a job only a unique type of warrior could handle. And this man was of that nature. Five tours later, he still hated waiting, though he'd grown accustomed to it. Plenty of time to think. "Hey, Sergeant Reed," said a young man lying next to him, peering at the cause of the commotion through a spotter scope, "you recognize that guy?" The young man looked at the former sergeant first class. In the middle of his forties, the Sergeant was stocky and well built, with short, light brown hair, wearing old desert camouflage under his ghille suit. He had a scar under his right eye, visibly extending past the diameter of his rifle's scope. His steely eyes looked like they could kill a man just by staring him down, no rifle needed. He peered down the scope to the ruckus in the center of the town, spotting the reason they were running. "Yup. That's the Gray Wolf," the sergeant said, clearly, with a southern drawl.

"I thought so... If he's here, then there's some serious shit going down."

"Or there's about to be. Hopefully that'll bring out our guy."

"Probably, but I'm guessing he won't show for another few hours."

"You think," the sergeant said to his spotter. "How long have we been doing this?"

"I dunno, I lost track a while ago," replied the spotter.

"You should know the name of the game by now, bud."

"You're right, as always, Sarge."

"How are we doing on supplies?"

"We've got enough for a couple more days."

"Good. God knows we might be holding this position for that long."

"I'll set up the camp then."

"Get to it!"

"Hooah." The sun had almost finished its descent, turning the sky brilliant shades of pink and orange. If there was one thing about the wasteland that was still quite beautiful, it was the sunsets. No more light pollution to interfere with it. Just the pure beauty and majesty of nature, in its fullest form. "Huh," Sarge chuckled to himself. "This kinda reminds me of my second tour in Afghanistan."

"How so?" his spotter replied, with striking curiosity.

"I spent three days laying in the damn dust, and I almost didn't get him."

"You missed?"

"Yeah, the wind caught it. But it hit the grenade on one of his bodyguards, and killed him in the blast. Lucky me, huh?"

His spotter chuckled, "Yeah, God must've been looking out for you there."

"You know, something about those peaceful moments during a sunrise or sunset relaxes me to no end. Hell, I've almost fallen asleep on an assignment because I was so relaxed. It's a nice break from the reality of what we do and what the world has really become. Those short, precious moments you feel what peace really is. A very welcomed, and cherished feeling for someone in our line of work."

His spotter seemed to be entranced by the words of the sergeant, for he had never heard anything ... like that come from this hardened war veteran. The sergeant started to massage the scar under his eye with his right index finger, as he always did when he was in deep thought. "What's on your mind, Sarge" the young spotter ask with an obvious tone of curiosity to his voice.

"It's nothing kid, just get the camp set up so we can have some chow." Knowing better than to test the sergeant's patience the young man went about finishing setting up their camp. It was an old MRE for dinner that night. Not a desirable meal by any means, but definitely better than nothing. Night quickly came around as it always seemed to do. As did the officer. A middle aged Russian major, with a squad of seven in tow. "Hey, look at this," Sarge said to his spotter. His spotter high crawled to Sarge's position, and peered out of his scope at the squad making their way to the town. "What do you reckon they're all doing here?" Through his scope, Sarge saw a faint shimmering orb of light. So small he wouldn't have noticed it without the scope. Then the orb became larger and more intense. Then, six more appeared. They were flames from Molotov cocktails cooking in the soldiers' hands. The soldiers hurled the bottles at a nearby building. There was a crashing sound, and the buildings were engulfed in flame, as if Hell itself was trying to swallow the town. Sarge shook his head, barely containing his anger. He trained his rifle on the major, waiting for the right shot.