alarmed.
“The dulags. I know it sounds incredible but—” His voice was cut off as a thrown knife whirled through the air and caught him in the back. The officer fell to the concrete ground, the phone dropping from his hand. The front ranks of the dulags tore into the gate troops. Within seconds twenty torn bodies lay in pools of hot blood, their eyes wide, their mouths contorted in screams of sheer horror. The heads were again sliced clean from the corpses and mounted atop poles. The head bearers marched at the front, into the city, walking through a large open area that was sometimes used as an outdoor market, still largely empty in the early morning. The peddlers who were just starting to set up their vegetable and used goods stands stood stock-still in amazement at the vision of the army moving forward, forty heads now held aloft on blood-splattered pikes.
“Join us, men who are nothing. Join us or die!” the leader yelled. The peddlers ran in terror toward a second gate at which Red troops were now setting up machine guns. As the peddlers came toward the inner gate they were mowed down like so many rats, falling by the bloody dozens onto the concrete square. The dulag army surged forward screaming as they charged at the line of defense.
“Food, give us food—bread, meat. Give us food or die.” The troops opened up on the advancing ragtag army, taking out nearly fifty of the forward ranks in just seconds. But still the untouchable came forward, no longer afraid of anything. Death was a joke to them now. Blood was what they wanted. If they could not eat bread, then they would taste Red Army blood. The officer in charge of the second line saw that they would be overrun within minutes. Already the ranks were shouting at one another, getting ready for another charge.
“Close the gate,” he bellowed, a large-paunched sergeant with muscular arms and thighs. “Pull back.” The machine gunners dragged their tripod-mounted .55mm back several yards as the officer slammed his fist onto the buttons that controlled the motion of the two towering steel gates. The nearly thirty-foot high, two-inch thick steel doors whirred swiftly along ball bearing tracks and slammed shut with a resounding bang that echoed through the square.
The army of no-men looked around. Who could they kill now? They ran through the large open space, grabbing the food the dead peddlers had dropped as they ran.
“Food, food—see, we have won our dinner,” one of the headholders cried out. They forgot their weapons and even their whereabouts, so intense was their hunger. They pounced on the fresh fruits, the flaky pies, and loaves of bread piled high atop round wooden tables. They didn’t even notice a squad of Russian soldiers silently close the front gates as well. After they had gorged themselves, gobbling down the feast by the handful, slamming it into their thin, starving mouths, they looked around, suddenly remembering their situation and the trouble that might ensue.
“We leave now,” the leader said, still bleeding from the shot that had caught him in the shoulder. “We have won! Now we go back to hills—we hide.” He held one of the heads high, moving it up and down high above his arms, an insane flag of Red death.
Suddenly they heard a sound above them—choppers—three of them roaring over the square. The army of dulags, clutching every bit of food they could carry, rushed toward the front gate. The first to reach it found it locked tight and they screamed out.
“We’re trapped. The bastards have trapped us.” The untouchables ran off in every direction, their cohesion and unity broken by the sudden realization that they were about to be victims. They spread out over the nearly six-square-acre marketplace like roaches fleeing for their very lives. The helicopter gunships came in from one end of the square, flying slowly about seventy-five feet apart. The twin machine guns in their bellies opened up, sending a hail of
“The dulags. I know it sounds incredible but—” His voice was cut off as a thrown knife whirled through the air and caught him in the back. The officer fell to the concrete ground, the phone dropping from his hand. The front ranks of the dulags tore into the gate troops. Within seconds twenty torn bodies lay in pools of hot blood, their eyes wide, their mouths contorted in screams of sheer horror. The heads were again sliced clean from the corpses and mounted atop poles. The head bearers marched at the front, into the city, walking through a large open area that was sometimes used as an outdoor market, still largely empty in the early morning. The peddlers who were just starting to set up their vegetable and used goods stands stood stock-still in amazement at the vision of the army moving forward, forty heads now held aloft on blood-splattered pikes.
“Join us, men who are nothing. Join us or die!” the leader yelled. The peddlers ran in terror toward a second gate at which Red troops were now setting up machine guns. As the peddlers came toward the inner gate they were mowed down like so many rats, falling by the bloody dozens onto the concrete square. The dulag army surged forward screaming as they charged at the line of defense.
“Food, give us food—bread, meat. Give us food or die.” The troops opened up on the advancing ragtag army, taking out nearly fifty of the forward ranks in just seconds. But still the untouchable came forward, no longer afraid of anything. Death was a joke to them now. Blood was what they wanted. If they could not eat bread, then they would taste Red Army blood. The officer in charge of the second line saw that they would be overrun within minutes. Already the ranks were shouting at one another, getting ready for another charge.
“Close the gate,” he bellowed, a large-paunched sergeant with muscular arms and thighs. “Pull back.” The machine gunners dragged their tripod-mounted .55mm back several yards as the officer slammed his fist onto the buttons that controlled the motion of the two towering steel gates. The nearly thirty-foot high, two-inch thick steel doors whirred swiftly along ball bearing tracks and slammed shut with a resounding bang that echoed through the square.
The army of no-men looked around. Who could they kill now? They ran through the large open space, grabbing the food the dead peddlers had dropped as they ran.
“Food, food—see, we have won our dinner,” one of the headholders cried out. They forgot their weapons and even their whereabouts, so intense was their hunger. They pounced on the fresh fruits, the flaky pies, and loaves of bread piled high atop round wooden tables. They didn’t even notice a squad of Russian soldiers silently close the front gates as well. After they had gorged themselves, gobbling down the feast by the handful, slamming it into their thin, starving mouths, they looked around, suddenly remembering their situation and the trouble that might ensue.
“We leave now,” the leader said, still bleeding from the shot that had caught him in the shoulder. “We have won! Now we go back to hills—we hide.” He held one of the heads high, moving it up and down high above his arms, an insane flag of Red death.
Suddenly they heard a sound above them—choppers—three of them roaring over the square. The army of dulags, clutching every bit of food they could carry, rushed toward the front gate. The first to reach it found it locked tight and they screamed out.
“We’re trapped. The bastards have trapped us.” The untouchables ran off in every direction, their cohesion and unity broken by the sudden realization that they were about to be victims. They spread out over the nearly six-square-acre marketplace like roaches fleeing for their very lives. The helicopter gunships came in from one end of the square, flying slowly about seventy-five feet apart. The twin machine guns in their bellies opened up, sending a hail of
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