Blood of Vipers by Michael Wallace

wanted to take care of Greta and her
     family, for
     that matter. Hard enough to keep himself alive. Taking these
     seven would be a
     compromise, the best he could manage under the circumstances.
    Cal looked up to see Osimov watching him with
     a hard
     expression. “Well?” the man demanded. “What will it be? More
     pointless deaths?”
    Why doesn’t he force me?
    That was the question. Instead of marching
     Cal off without
     his so-called prisoners—and both men knew they weren’t prisoners
     at all, but
     under the American pilot’s protection—Osimov demanded his
     cooperation. Was that
     simply the Soviet way, that you must break, must not only
     comply, but negotiate
     your own capitulation? Must be complicit in the crimes?
    Or perhaps the man wasn’t ruthless enough to
     do the obvious
     and disappear Cal along with the rest. And he was somehow
     worried that news of
     the abuse of an American pilot would come back to cause him
     trouble.
    Cal met Greta’s eyes. With her English, she
     would understand
     this exchange and know what was at stake, but to his surprise he
     didn’t see any
     pleading, only quiet determination. A firm jaw and a slight nod.
    Don’t surrender, that look said. You
     must try to
     save them all.
    “No,” Cal said as he turned back to Osimov.
     “You killed the
     SS officer. Your choice—I turned him over to Soviet custody. But
     I did not turn
     these men over. Or the women, or the children. They are mine and
     I will bring
     them back to American lines. All of them.”
    Osimov squatted in front of Cal’s chair and
     leaned in close.
     “That is your answer?”
    “That is my answer.”
    “You will regret that.”
    He stepped over prostrate bodies until he
     straddled the
     older of the two German soldiers. He pointed his gun down at the
     man.
    “Don’t do it, Osimov.”
    The Russian didn’t turn. “Then you agree with
     the plan?”
    “Never.”
    “You condemn them to death.” He drew back the
     hammer.
    The German shut his eyes. Cal braced himself.
     Greta let out
     a low moan.
    But then Osimov straightened and lowered the
     hammer on the
     gun. He put it back into his holster and said something to the
     guards. They
     dragged the prisoners to their feet and marched them from the
     room. Osimov
     followed them out without a backward glance. A few minutes
     later, more soldiers
     came to drag away the dead SS officer.
    When they finished, Cal sat alone at the
     kitchen table,
     without even guards at the door. He stared at the pool of blood
     that spread
     across the scuffed kitchen planks, and waited for the gunshots
     of the
     executions, the screaming women as the Frontschweine took their
     pleasure.
    But it was quiet except for the murmur of
     Russian voices
     from the front room and the ever-present thump of artillery in
     the distance.
    It was then that he began to hope that he had
     won.
    #
    Cal marched at the front of a column of
     prisoners. They
     followed the darkened cobblestone street from the village until
     it joined the
     main road. Dead horses and men littered the road, together with
     overturned and
     abandoned carts, and the burned-out husks of Soviet and German
     tanks that
     squatted like giant black turtles beneath the light of the moon.
     Shell casings
     littered the ground by the thousands. A spring breeze brought
     the occasional
     whiff of smoke and ash.
    The Russians gave Cal a crust of dark bread,
     as heavy and
     tasty as a charred log of wood, but he devoured it, together
     with a canteen of
     water, followed by a cup of vodka that he accepted from the
     bearded soldier who
     offered it, rather than risk offending these men at such a
     dangerous time. He
     asked for coffee or tea, but they had none.
    His feet trudged forward through pure
     momentum. Exhaustion
     sapped his strength and his will, and when the Russians let the
     prisoners sit
     for a few minutes by the side of the road, he had to force
     himself to stay
     awake. He