Matakishi's Tea House

Trying to get back home…

Balkanized.

A neat little term to make someone at a desk feelbetter. A word trick used when the reins of civilization slip and Hell vomits savageryand death on a town or village in some kind of timeshare scheme. Like dabbing antiseptic on a gut wound; it won't stop the bleeding, but it takes away the sting. Life ripped out by the roots, torn and shattered, and all that's left is bodies draped over charred rubble and a certain brutalized emptiness.  

Balkanized.

We were just trying to get to safety. To friendly lines. Back home.

I drew on the stub of my cigarette, embers on the filter, and looked throughthe binoculars again. The hollow eyes of a hundred broken windows stared backat me. Nothing. No motion. No sound. Not even birds. The town was empty - or atleast made to look that way.

I keyed the mike. “I want security 200 meters out onboth flanks. No visitors this time.”

“Roger Boss. 200 meters out. Anders thinks Putin Guard tore through here lastweek. Probably won’t be anything left.”

“Yep. Probably not." I sighed. "But we have to look anyway. We’re low on everything. And,” I patted my vest pocket. “I’m out of cigarettes.”

“OK boss, whatever you say. Two out.”

I cradled the mike and pounded on the roof. “Smiley! Crank her up. We’re goingin. Keep your eyes peeled for a gas station.” As the Bradley lurched into gearI grabbed the .50, unlocked it and swung it forward. “Knowles. Load up a TOW. Idon’t want any surprises.”

“Sure thing Sarge. Last one though.”

“Well then let’s hope we don’t need it.”

The remnants of my company broke out of the tree line and start downhill into another nameless east European town.

We found two gas stations. Eventually. Both had been raped clean. Whoever it was missed the rental center though. There was a warm dry garage with a lift, and tools still scattered across the workbenches. More important there was a 200 gallon diesel tank in a concrete shed out back. Its tin roof had collapsed in the fighting, and the scorched frame of a trunk was melted into the asphalt infront of the door. Easy to miss it if you weren’t desperate and didn’t know what to look for.

“Round up everything that even looks like it still works. Bring up the truckand have Dureky’s squad drain this thing. We can fuel up once we get clear of this place. I don’t like being confined.” I jumped down out of the hatch. “Stay here and keep an eye out -I’m going scrounging.”

I kicked in the metal side door and let that rusty dead air  and sewage tang billow out. I peered into the gloom of the office area. There’s got to be a break room. Stepping gingerly over the threshold, I started my search. Right away I came across a row of scattered bones shrouded in moldy suits. Lined up in one of the larger offices, all of them were face-down with their skeleton wrists zip tied behind them.Civilian causalities from the early days. Probably the first wave of riots andretaliation. I kept looking.

And there it was: end of the hall next to the bathrooms. Thank Christ the vending machines are still there... and one of them has cigarettes. Sobranies,Davidoffs, even Magnas, all dirt cheap Russian smokes but still. I broke open the back and started stuffing my cargo pockets.

CRUMP

I felt the explosion through the walls. I froze. My radio squawked.

“Contact! Contact.! I got heavy contact east. Anders is gone. So’s Travino.Michaels is pinned down. It’s Putin Guard! Say again - Putin Guard. I see 3BMP3s and one, two T80s. I need back up now.” Heavy fire hammers in the back noise.

Sh-t. Crumpled packs fall from my fingers. I snatched up my M4 and started running toward the sound of the guns.