21st Century Bogatyr: Chased by the Devil

"High above me, ponderously and sharply sundering the air with its wings, a vigilant raven flew by, turned its head, looked sidewards at me, took wing and disappeared beyond the wood with strident cawings."

Ivan Turgenev, Sketches From A Hunter's Album

by Zvi Baranoff

The fog thickened. The air was moist and tasted salty with each breath. Visibility was approaching zero as we worked. We emptied the bungalow and filled the truck with the crates of books.

The heavy fog certainly may have given the attacking forces some early advantages. The conditions probably delayed our sighting of their drones.

Most likely the driver of the decoy vehicle was our first casualty. His brother was the first that I was aware of. A burst of light went through his torso and he was no more. When he fell to the ground the pet lizard scurried off into the woods.

The brothers that spoke in their own language lived their short intertwined lives and died far from the place of their birth for absolutely no reason whatsoever. The first died in a useless delaying tactic. The other met his ultimate fate absorbed in separation anguish and mental confusion, wandering about babbling to himself in a language that no one else understood.

The battle that ensued left no time for contemplating such matters as the meaninglessness of these deaths. Immediate survival and avoiding my own demise was the only thing swirling about in my skull. My own reptilian brain took control at that moment.

For the attackers, their primary interest was to snatch the merchandise. Because of the inherent value of the cargo, they certainly didn't want it damaged or destroyed. For this reason, they didn't attack with full direct force but rather attempted to pick us off one at a time or drive us away from the loaded truck.

Bullets and mortars were flying fast and furiously. The van and one of the cars were in flames. Off to my left, I heard a thud as one of the snipers fell from his perch in the tree and crashed unceremoniously and quite lifelessly on the ground. To my right, I could hear a wailing cry emitting from the woods where at least one of our Security Crew was evidently wounded and in quite a lot of pain.

Zuhrah was monitoring her drone to determine the condition of her troops and to gauge the strength and the whereabouts of our attackers. She was in touch with her troops via electronic communicators.

The fog, though initially an advantage for the attackers, helped obscure our position so once the battle was engaged it actually began to serve our interests more than theirs.

Zuhrah added smoke to the mix. She tossed a Napalm Pineapple through the open door of the bungalow where we had slept and tossed others at the surrounding, most likely unoccupied, bungalows. She managed to set most of the back end of the No Tell Motel ablaze.

For some reason the thought crossed my mind that the Motel's insurance probably would not cover this sort of thing, not that I cared a rat's ass about the Motel, their management problems or the fucking insurance company.

If visibility was close to zero before the battle began, once the fires kicked in we were probably in negative numbers. I couldn't see what was there and I was seeing things that weren't there at all. I mostly was just trying to keep an eye on the merchandise and not get myself killed. I guess I managed to do that.

Somehow, between the use of her drone and her communicators and perhaps augmented by intuitive powers, Zuhrah kept tabs on her troops and had an overview of the entire battle. She moved about, shouted, cajoled, ordered and controlled throughout the chaos. She moved her troops like pieces on a chessboard, foreseeing the moves of the opposing forces and outflanking them.

Eventually, the bullets stopped coming in our direction. The only sounds were those of the fires all around us and the moaning of the wounded. Zuhrah and I set out to inspect the damages to our equipment and check on the conditions of the troops.

In an open field the body of the African teenager was face down. Zuhrah used her boot to turn the boy over. She bent down and emptied his pockets of a pocket knife and an orange. She put the knife into her own pocket and calmly peeled and ate the orange while we walked on.

We came upon two wounded mercenaries prone in a ditch. Zuhrah cursed as she climbed down. She lifted the first victim to level ground and proceeded to provide first aid. She stopped the bleeding and bandaged the wound.

Zuhrah climbed back down to where the second mercenary moaned and wailed. She put a pistol to his head and relieved him of any further pain.

We moved on to check on the rest of her troops. Of the wounded, those that could be moved were carried to the remaining functional vehicles.

Those mercenaries that were most seriously wounded, Zuhrah, showing no emotion or regret, shot to death. The bodies were left in place, with no obvious further thought from the Commander.

For what it is worth, there were more dead attackers scattered about the battleground than defenders. Before long, I supposed, crows or other scavengers would make no distinction. Which side their sustenance had fought on or how they had died would not be a concern.

Our convoy moved out. Frank drove the truck and took the lead. He had secured a hideout and he knew the way. I rode in the cab of the truck and Zuhrah sat next to me, cradling her Kalashnikov. Spider followed the truck, driving my car, crammed full of armed mercenaries. I don't know how many were in the back of the truck with the merchandise, but that is where most of our wounded were.

We headed up the road and further inland. As we did so, fire engines passed us in the opposite direction, heading towards the No Tell Motel.

No doubt homicide detectives and probably the FBI would be out there soon, after the Fire Department reported that the area around the fire was strewn with corpses. We kept going. We drove into the Jersey Pine Barrens.

We left the paved highway and drove the winding, rutted dirt roads with strangely twisted trees reaching in all directions. Branches scratched, bent and occasionally snapped as we barreled at high speed through the dark and eerie woods.

There were no clear markings, but we changed direction several times at what could roughly be called intersections if we are to use that term loosely. At times I felt as if we were being observed. From the cab of that truck, as we sped along, all I could see were the twisted trees and twisted shadows. Frank drove as if being chased by the Jersey Devil Himself.

The narrow dirt road presented us with a sharp bend and a fallen tree blocked forward progress. Frank rolled down the driver's window and armed guards stepped out of the shadows. Frank greeted them and they moved the tree from the roadway allowing us to proceed. As our caravan moved forward, the guards replaced the downed tree, once again making the roadway impassable.

In a small clearing there was a fenced compound with a barn-like structure. To be more accurate, there was the ruins of a barn. We pulled behind this and we were met with more armed guards. We were in a Piney stronghold.

A panel in the floor of the barn began to rise and before us was a ramp. The opening was big enough to drive the truck and down the ramp we went. We disappeared from view as the panel slid back into place above us.

This was a cavernous underground complex. I was very glad to disembark from the truck and hopefully decompress some. There was plenty of room for our load of contraband books, our vehicles and our crew.

I told Frank to send our Security Force home, as we would no longer be needing their services. He went to talk with Zuhrah and about twenty minutes later he came back with an itemized invoice.

I gave it all a quick perusal. Zuhrah was charging us per hour for their time as well as a fee for weapons lost and equipment damaged or destroyed. There was a charge for each injury, based on the severity. Each death had a monetary value placed on it based on the skill set of the deceased. For instance, there was an extra charge for the death of the sharpshooter. At the bottom of the list was a moderate charge for the two slaves.

The total of the charges, of course, were astronomical but probably weren't that far off of fair market value, all things considered.

"Offer her half the amount, payable in thirty days," I told Frank. "Settle for around seventy percent, with the payment in a week. If she will take her payoff in books, we can settle up now and she can take the merchandise with her."

Frank tapped his nose, indicating that he "knows" how to handle it and he went off to reach a settlement.