Brothers In Blood: For Country

Killing Folks Like Us

Vlad heard something fall into the tracks, but didn’t pay any attention. He was having enough trouble figuring out the American’s detonator. It was like nothing he had ever been prepared to use. All the most guarded, secret technology of any organization in the world had been stolen and integrated into his training. He was concentrated so hard on trying to crack the conundrum that he barely heard the footsteps in time. he turned to see what was coming, but they stopped. The Russian felt sweat beginning to form on his forehead. His fingers trembled slightly with fear as the footsteps started again, coming from a completely different direction. He fired off two rounds in that direction, but the footsteps kept coming. They came closer, seeming to come from all around him. Then he felt something wrap cold fingers around his neck.
Whatever it was, it had near-superhuman strength. Vlad felt himself lifted high into the air and thrown against the roof. Plaster rained down around his battered body when he tried to get up off the floor. A sharp pain accompanied by a heavy blow sent him skidding across the concrete floor. He could feel blood soaking his clothes and heard the painful grating of broken bones. Somehow, he found the strength to stand and face his attacker. Recognition wasn’t a problem.
“McNaughton!”
The dark figure towered over Vlad. A spasm of pain from his severed pectoral fiber and from the abdominal wound sent him crashing to the floor. Mac crept closer to the writhing soldier, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I remember you,” Mac’s voice had a touch of compassion in it, something Vlad has never expected from this American. “You were one of the Suits that came up to see me after the War. You wanted me to join some UN thing, wanted me to help in some testing in psychological conditioning stuff. Ain’t that right?”
Vlad nodded, blood and bile mixing in his throat. “That was I, Mister McNaughton. You know, you and I are very much alike, I think.” he coughed, vomiting all over the floor. “We both believe that our country is the greatest and that no other can stand in our way.” Vlad was amazed that the American didn’t recognize him as the leader of the men who had attacked him and Rachel on the side of the road.
“You were an American citizen, though, weren’t you?”
Another spasm shook the dying man. “I was, but my ties to the Motherland were much stronger. When the Soviets collapsed, my family believed that one of us would come to bring down America. We knew about your Tribe, McNaughton, we followed all of them. We couldn’t find you until you came out of hiding and came to New York.” He coughed, gasping for breath. “Kevin McNaughton, never give up on your country’s dreams, don’t let them die.” Vlad’s eyes began to close. “Is there a Heaven for Communists, like there is for Americans, Mister McNaughton? I hear singing, and see a great light. I...” He faded fast, leaving the broken shell of a man dedicated to the cause of his nation.
“See you after, brother.” Kneeling, putting his head down to his boot, he licked the blade clean of his counterpart’s blood. “You’ll never die.”
His walkie talkie squawked. “Mac, what’s going on down there?” Max walked over to Joe, checked for vital signs. Mean Joe was still alive, with a large lump on the side of his head. “Got Joe, boys, I’m heading back-” The staccato shouts of a machine gun echoed down through the grate. “What the Hell’s goin’ on up there?” Heaving the crisscrossed metal aside, Mac eased Joe’s limp body onto the asphalt above before climbing out himself. The New World trucks shielded them from whoever was shooting.
Mac’s brain suddenly registered the background noise as helicopter rotors. One of the soldiers must have called in reinforcements from the sky! He searched frantically inside one of the barrack vehicles until he found something, anything that he could use to fight against an air attack. Mortars, grenade launchers, anything! He smacked the side of the truck in frustration, making the entire wall fall away. It crashed to the road, crushing some New World soldiers under its weight. Mac was completely exposed to the enemy.
he dove to the right, grabbing a rifle, hoping that it would be powerful enough to splinter the windshield glass on the chopper. Slowly raising his head into view, he stopped. There was only one chopper, and it was flying a search pattern, killing everything that moved.
“Jack, is everyone okay?” Seconds passed, an eternity.
“Yeah, Mac, everyone’s safe, but... something screwy’s goin’ on here.” Mac spotted Jack in an apartment window, three stories up, watching the lone aircraft. “Whip’s flying the bird, but when he got here, he started shooting at us, like we were the ones he was fighting, not these Russians.”
Scud stood up behind Jack. “Hey, I think I know what’s going on.” All the men in the room turned and looked at him. “When the Russians came after me, on the slopes right before Joe and Whip showed up, the guy said that ‘One of your tribe has agreed to our terms’ but he didn’t get the chance to say which one. Whip turned on us, brothers.” GD relayed the information to Mac. They didn’t say anything for several minutes, just letting the change of events sink in.
Scud threw a rock at the wall. “That freakin’ squick!” he said, “What did they say to make him turn on his brothers like this?” Outside, the bird was circling around, looking into all the windows. Mista D moved towards the window, his grenade launcher ready. Outside, in the weapons truck, Mac was setting up one of the New World mortars. He felt something gathering in his eyes, an ache in his sinuses. He didn’t want to have to kill Whip, no matter how much of a jerk he had been.
“Hey fellas!” Flash’s voice sounded over the walkie talkies. “He may not understand what he’s doing, you know, like he hit his head or something. Maybe he’s just-” Ricocheting bullets and the pounding of the massive airborne guns drowned out anything else he said.
Mac set his sights in the path the chopper was following. He had to get Whip before he got the rest of the boys. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, he put his hand on the firing button.
In the building, Mista D was unloading grenades, setting some on the floor to throw, and putting the rest back in the launcher. A single tear ran down his cheek, getting lost in his beard. Praying that Whip would die quick and painless, he pushed closer to the wall, trying to get a better angle.
The chopper eased itself into the crosshairs on the sight. Mac hammered the button, turning away so he wouldn’t have to watch. His stomach rebelled and hurled everything it had out onto the pavement.
The chopper exploded, throwing off a massive amount of heat. Flames and shrapnel went everywhere, shattering whatever windows were left nearby. An entire wall broke and slid to the ground, raising a huge dust cloud. Whip was vaporized, just like his wife and baby son, his the only life that would ever hang on Mac’s conscience. In the ruins of that idealistic city block, seven men were weeping, the eighth still asleep, in blissful ignorance of the disaster.