No offense intended to Americans and Russians! I honestly love your countries and your people! It's just part of the dialogue. And thank you to those that have reviewed, you literally made my day. THANK YOU SO MUCH! *smiley smiley smiley*
~o0o~
Chapter Two - Pleasantries
26 Hours Before
The jeep forked left and already their hearts were racing. Every face in sight was white, their eyes sternly forward and MP5's raised in anticipation. They were going into the furthest depths of Hell, the deepest realm of nightmares and horror stories risen from simple fiction. Again.
Every few turns, they would hear a round of gun shots, a car horn blaring endlessly as they passed, or the scream of someone's story about to come to an abrupt halt. The noises made their skin prickle, like an awkward cough to a long and drawn out silence. Something unexpected, but inevitable; their silence would end with the horrors heard outside the comfort of their four mobile walls, and they would each share a concerned look, then proceed to stare into oblivion. Like all things, there is simply an end. So there was nothing left to say. No simple phrase nor comment, no snide remark or complimentary greeting. No beginning, just the end. The end was here. So what is left to talk about?
Berkins turned her gaze towards Burrito, just a few seats down the line across from her. Gomez, known simply by his comrades as Burrito (because of his Mexican decent and his love for burritos), held his chain close to his lips and muttered a silent prayer to whichever gods were listening. There was something almost peaceful about the way he prayed for the gods favour before every battle and mission, but haunting in the way his eyes would gaze over, inwardly accepting that any god that may have heard an inkling of any prayer had abandoned them now.
The sound of a match being lit broke the silence and almost instantly, the smell of a highly priced cigar filled the soldier's nostrils.
"Won't you put that shit out?" Reynolds spat. His hatred of smoking only stretched as far as his nicotine patches lasted, which was never very long as he used about twenty a day. After his girlfriend pointed out she hated the very mention of a cigarette, he opted to stop, figuring the sex was better than a daily smoke, at least only when his girlfriend was around. Safe to say as far as it went, he smoked like a chimney. Only after losing her in the first rampage, he stopped smoking in memory of her.
"What's the point?" Ivanov, a tall, proud Russian who barely gave a second thought to anyone's opinions, replied calmly. He slowly blew out rings of black smoke and leaned comfortably against the steel wall. "We're all dead anyway."
Once more, the jeep filled with an eerie silence, no different than before. He simply voiced their thoughts like they were empty words, what they truly knew but didn't point out. His posture and expressionless face was just another slap on the cheek about what awaited them outside the security of the four walls.
Berkins turned her head back down to stare at nothing in particular, until her boot was nudged discreetly by the muddied pair of boots opposite her. She raised her head to meet Rowley's mischievous smile. Though only half hearted, it was still enough to make her roll her eyes and grin back.
"Fucking Russians," he blurted out, maintaining eye contact with her. "Such pessimistic bastards." He grinned and turned to face Ivanov.
"Damn Yanks. Never know a good cigar when you see one," Ivanov smirked back.
Ivanov and Rowley only met a year or so back, but they got along through insulting remarks and snobbery, making them an inseparable pair. Though their conversations never rose above the boundaries of pointless small talk, they agreed on almost anything. Berkins quite liked his shallow humour too, almost like a rude post-it note on a topic that's blatantly obvious. Their witty insults nearly always circulated around their nationality, which had always been entertaining to watch.
"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is, Russian?" In other words, "Share, you selfish prick."
Ivanov stared back at Rowley, debating whether to offer out what was possibly his last packet of cigars. On what seemed to be a life-or-death decision, he rose to the challenge set forth by his witty opponent, and slowly reached into his breast pocket, passing around a silver cigar case and a pack of matches.
Berkins was passed a lit cigar from Rowley who gave her a victorious look, which only made her laugh. For one or two it was their first time in handling a cigar, and like a rookie, they made the mistake of breathing in, which was followed by a coughing fit that made the men laugh.
Rolling the smoke in her mouth, Berkins sat back and kicked her feet up on Rowley's knees, and watched as Chatzi (who didn't speak a lick of English), simply accepted the small offering, lit up, and sat back. When offered, Reynolds declined, then like a lost puppy, his eyes followed the case from hand to hand. He eventually ended his suffering with a simple "Ah, fuck it" and enjoyed the delights of the small haven.
The jeep was completely blackened with thick smoke soon after, and everyone filled the void with pointless talk about cigars, football, Russian vodka, and the promise of a polka game set for this evening. Everyone knew it was a lie, though no one wanted to admit it, liking the idea of a charade clouding this reality. Truthfully, there was barely a chance that even one of them would make it out alive. They were the last contactable squad within range, and they'd received the SOS only a few short days ago, to which they would arrive within the morning. They would bring the last ammo, the last everything, and then there would be nothing left. It was a suicide mission, and there was no turning back, because there was nothing to turn back to.