(written late at night, 2:49am)
...1998… Kosovo... tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat The explosions of the machine gun popped in the twelve year olds ears as he clung onto the mounted death dealer on the back of a rusty pick up. The bald tires squealed and protested as it screeched around a turn of the broken pavement road. Dust stung the youth’s eyes, and the sun sweltered on his bandana covered head.
tik-tik-tik The sounds of the bullets biting flesh echoed the bangs of the gun as the boy held on for dear life, his fingers white with pressure against the trigger as he waved the sights over a pursuing vehicle. He gritted his teeth, the scarlet holes he left in the other people were no longer figures of question and guilt in his mind, but a sense of relief, knowing there was one less man ready to kill him, and his family. Though he was a young boy as he fired the rounds into the enemies jeep, he had the heart of a man.
Whoooosh The smokey trail of a rocket belched out of hills. The shell slammed into the road with a baritone roar and the boys stinging teary sight was dried and lost in a fiery inferno.
...2015...Tokyo… The warehouse was grey, the boxes filling it were grey, and even the sunlight that peeked through boarded windows revealed the grey dust floating in the air. Japanese shadows were silently unpacking amorphous figures from the crates, and loading them into a large semi. Shotguns and rifles glistened in the dim light, overlooking the operation from catwalks. Sharp eyes darted back and forth, and skeptical grunts were released by even more skeptical guards of ambiguous moral.
A fat man sat in the seat of the semi, he looked important, and considering the truck was facing the exit, and the frustrated look on his red face, he was also in a hurry. He knew that a sitting duck was easy to catch, and a duck with many enemies was even easier. A cold sweat started to bead from his anxiety as he impatiently tapped the steering wheel.
A warehouse worker heaved with another as they picked up one of the crates. One of them swore, dropping it and the armed guards turned their attention to the workers for a moment. The worker shrugged, complaining about the weight, receiving vague death threats in reply. He grumbled and looked down at the crate as he got ready to lift it again. The man cocked a brow as he noticed the missing nails in it’s lid, and he flittered a finger across the coarse wood curiously.
Pain shot through his chin and into the back of his neck as the lid blew off, snapping his head back. Saw dust polluted the air with a
poof. There was a click and suddenly an explosion of white flashing light. The flashbang threw the workers back with it’s white light and shattering crack.
A lone figure dressed in a dark kevlar and flak armor thrusted out of the crate, a small assault rifle cozy under his arm. With near silent whistles the soldier let loose a rain of bullets. The guards took cover, witnessing their confused partner’s heads popping into blood and gore. Five more crate burst into identical beings of silent peril and soon the warehouse became a war zone.
The first figure, Armend, rolled out of the crate and behind a metal support for the catwalk. A blast from a shotgun blew by his face and he quickly crouched and aimed his rifle, taking careful aim as he uniformly let out small bursts of bullets.
tik tik Two in the chest,
ti-crack! Two in the head. The shotgunner was blown off the catwalk by the bullets and crumpled into a mess.
There was a loud groan of an engine, and then the headlights of the semi shot on with a blinding white beam, cutting off Armend’s sight. He ducked his head, trying to peek through the visor of his helmet. The others were easily taking care of the rest behind the semi, swiftly and accurately dispatching enemies while avoiding the workers.
A faint clank caught the man’s attention and he looked down at a hissing grenade. Immediately he dove from the position. An ear shattering bang erupted behind him as flame licked his boots and a shard of shrapnel ricocheted off his helmet with a
clink.
With a hard poof of dust, he landed on his belly. His gun was pulled against his cheek and he squeezed the trigger. Silent bullets oozed out of the barrel and buried into two of the guards.
The semi belched exhaust and barreled through the warehouse entrance, the fat man eager to escape the invaders.
“Armend, rifitoj ... gjallë,” one of the soldiers hollered, ripping a blood soaked knife from the spine of one of the guards.
“Lexuesit nuk e kuptojnë gjuhën e Shqipërisë!” Armend shouted back before looking over to a dusty motorcycle, keys conveniently placed inside. The other went to shout back but a sudden flash of a shotgun muzzle burped a mist of lead, slamming into the man’s side, and sending him over the catwalk railing. Armend winced and without hesitation, he hopped onto the bike.
The semi roared as it plowed onto the roads of Tokyo. Cars honked and beeped as it raced past, shoving slower cars out of it’s way. With a small roar of it’s own, Armend and his convenient ride burst out of the fire fight, and screeched onto the road in hot pursuit.
Sharp blue eyes squinted behind the protective visor of the helmet, and he twisted the accelerator. The wheels groaned as it speed to the side of the plain white semi, sides illuminated by the sun. Cars protested and shouted, and drivers slammed their horns down at the racing duo.
One car raced beside Armend and its balding red faced driver started yelling at him in some language that Armend didn’t quite understand past the horns and ringing in his battle torn ears. The Kosovar lifted his rifle and showcased it to the man with a flourish. The driver seemed to shrink with his mouth agape as his car quickly slowed down, leaving the road rage to the professionals.
Armend smirked and raced along side the right of the semi’s trailer. A japanese man leaned out, AK waving and popped a few rounds. The Kosovar swore and swerved, swinging his rifle over his shoulder in favor for his holstered pistol. With one hand he steered while the other aimed his glock carefully. The Japanese man poked out the window again, but before he could aim Armend let loose two bullets, the first one hitting the mirror of the truck, the second blowing a pink and red hole out the back of the man’s head.
Sirens started to scream in the distance behind the scene, and the corpse of the Japanese man hung out of the truck window, arm’s flapping in the breeze of the chase. Armend revved his vehicle and forced the motorcycle up against the door of the truck. He grabbed the slippery arm of the dead man and pulled him out of the window, the limp body slapping against the concrete.
Sucking in a moist breath, the Kosovar kicked off his bike, and halfway into the truck, resting his belly on the window sill of the door, while his legs dangled outside. The fat man looked over at the soldier, shock in his eyes, and anger gritting his teeth. The man took a tight left, nearly tossing the semi on it’s side and throwing Armend out of the truck.
Cars blared their horns and the sound of a few screeching into a crash could be heard behind the turn. The police sirens sounded over the explosive crashes, getting closer. Armend forced himself through the door, and remembering the words of his fallen brother in arms, he threw a heavy left into the side of the fat man’s head.
The fat man swerved and his shoulder hit the door, propelled by the force. He yelled at Armend in Japanese and the Kosovar propped the hot metal of his pistols barrel against his head, “ku është shenjë!”
“I.. what?” the fat man yelled in English, horrified. Armend snarled, and his deep voice twisted with a heavy Balkan accent, “vare es the marrk.”
“The mark, what?” the fat man said incredulously. Armend slapped the man’s face with a crack of his pistol, forcing a grunt from the fat man. A small rivulet of red trickled from the side of the man’s forehead and he whimpered. The truck swerved around another corner, shaking from the spastic steering of the fat man under attack.
Armend grunted and grabbed the fat man. With a heave he slammed the fat man against the door of the truck, breaking the latch and swinging the door open. The fat man’s grip on the steering wheel slipped and as he hung outside the truck door, only Armend’s grasp kept him from grinding against the quick moving asphalt.
The wind whipped at the man with force as the truck continued to bullet, now shaking without control as its steering wheel jerked and turned freely, without a driver. Armend growled again, “vare es the marrk!”
“You’re crazy-” the fat man started to say, when suddenly the truck crashed. The window’s of the establishment the truck had battered through blasted into a hail of glass as the semi barreled full force through the entrance of “Chou’s” Cafe. A wooden beam caught the fat man’s skull and ripped it sideways on his neck with a sickening snap. The truck slammed into another wall, forcing it to a stop with a clap of a head splitting crash, luckily avoiding the patrons.
Armend’s eyes widened as his body was flung full force through the windshield, his helmet taking most of the blow. He flew for a split second before tumbling hard into a table, his cracked helmet flying off and slamming into another. Sirens screamed in the distance along with frightened patrons. He quickly patted his rifle to ensure it was still there, and with only a scratch on his forehead and one seriously sore body, he rolled to his heels, pistol in hand. He looked at the bloody mess that was the fat man and swore, “sëmbon yndyrë.” He spat the ground, and scanned the mess with his blues, eager to find an escape from the encroaching sirens.
