A/N: Ready? I don't think you are.
...fire in the trees...
Zhanna | AdamantiumDragonfly
Zhanna would later regret not accepting that pack of cigarettes from Sveta. Smoking hadn't interested her before, using them as a kind of currency among the men, but now she would have gladly lit a cigarette and pressed it between her cracked lips. It would have given her hands something to do.
They had been successful in clearing the eastern woods surrounding Foy so, naturally, Easy was deployed to the west. It was a mindless march, meeting little resistance. Zhanna didn't really mind the hours of marching in the snow. She found solace in the movement. If her feet were moving, she could keep her mind clear. Zhanna could outpace the memories but they would always creep back into her mind when her boots stopped. Her numb fingers ached for a cigarette, curling around her rifle that was useless to her in this kind of a fight. She couldn't shoot at the shells as they fell from the sky, so the three shells in her pocket were unused.
She didn't have time to take apart her rifle, the inner workings fragile in the cold. She didn't have words to write to her now dead parents. And Zhanna didn't have Buck. If she had a cigarette, she would have been at least occupied for a few short minutes.
With Buck gone, they had been left solely in the care of Lieutenant Dike. It wasn't a comforting feeling. Most of the men had set up an attitude of indifference. Easy had never been the luckiest company in the Airborne so why would their good fortune start now? Zhanna decided that passive bitterness would be her response. She didn't say anything to CP, there wasn't anything they could do. Zhanna knew that they were stuck with Dike, as the nuances of ranks and power weren't new to her, but Zhanna didn't have to like it. And there were some, like George Luz, who took comedy as their approach.
"You fellas know I've got no reason to bullshit ya," George said. The master of impressions that he was, he had spent the march to the west of Foy perfecting his Lieutenant Dike and had been waiting for a captive audience to test it out. That audience was found in Malarkey, Penkala, and Skip, all greedy for a little cheering up. Zhanna's back rested against the sharp bark of a pine, listening to their conversation with her rifle balanced across her knees.
"This is what I saw," George insisted, amid mutters of disagreement. "It's so unbelievable you might not believe me."
Their laughter was deafened by the silence of the forest. Bastogne swallowed them whole.
"So you-know-who comes running up to Lipton."
George narrated as Zhanna studied her pearly skin in the faint moonlight that trickled between the skeletons of the trees. Empty houses and empty foxholes had been in her dreams, yawning wide enough for her to tumble into the dark and emptiness that seeped from them. George could tell his stories but in the end it did little for them. Her bitterness didn't do much for her but it provided a sense of vindication. Her bitterness was the only thing she allowed herself to feel. Admitting that the situation was less than ideal had been her first step towards moving on. She couldn't accept her parents' deaths. Janusz hadn't known what he had burdened her with, and she knew she couldn't mourn and fight. Zhanna settled on averting her gaze from the pain and water that was starting to rise around her ankles.
It had worked, for a little while. But opening that bottle of bitterness had increased the flow. That hadn't been Zhanna's intention at all. But she couldn't stem the tide so she didn't try.
Empty houses and empty foxholes were filling with water colder than ice. Above her, when she drowned, Zhanna would see those brown eyes through the rippling water. Dark and watchful, discerning the truth from her paling form, Sveta would always appear, after the dust had settled and the snow had fallen, to bring what little luck and fortune she had. It wasn't much but Sveta had always been given more than Zhanna.
Breathe, Zhanna.
If she had a cigarette, Zhanna would have stamped it hard beneath her American boots, grinding it deep into the snow. She would have liked to bury the rest of her thoughts down there with it.
The men parted ways, amused by Luz's story but Zhanna had heard it too often. It had echoed in her mind as another ran from them. She had watched Dike disappear into the forest and in her mind, she saw two figures instead of one. It might have made for a good story but seeing someone you hoped would lead you turn their back on you wasn't something Zhanna could laugh at.
Her body itched to do the same. She had dreamed of running away to some safe corner of the world, with hands clasped in her. Zhanna wanted to run away but she had to dig her heel harder into the frozen earth, pushing down the memories and the dreams she had had. She could run, like Agata and Casimir had. She could run or she could fight but Zhanna couldn't seem to gain any ground in that battle. It was a useless struggle and it made Zhanna's head ache.
The men said good night and parted ways, heading back to their foxholes, still chuckling about Geroge Luz and his storytelling. She could go back to her shared foxhole with Malarkey. She could huddle in Buck's old coat and shudder as she begged sleep to take her. That was a useless errand, really.
She could sit out here for a little longer.
Casting her eyes to what portion of the sky that could be seen, Zhanna tried to make out stars among the skeleton fingers of trees that stretched across the night. It was a clearer view than the first weeks in Bastogne, the branches tossed to the ground, or burst into splinters. It was quiet, out here by herself. Zhanna had almost forgotten what it was like to be alone, truly.
When the first shell exploded, Zhanna didn't flinch. Her feet slid along the icy ground as a tree burst into a starburst of white light to her left. It had been silent, for that few heartbeats, but the now all too familiar calls for cover split the air between the drumming of shells.
The men could shout and cover could be taken but that didn't guarantee anything. If she made it to a foxhole, would that mean safety, or would the water rise and fill her airways, drowning her in the bursts of light?
Zhanna sat, back against the sharp bark, watching Easy Company scramble for cover. Running or fighting, it was exhausting. She hadn't slept in days. This tree, shaking in the volleys of shells and the thunderous shouts of her comrades, was the only place that she didn't feel the rise of the river, come to drag her down with stones in her pockets and ice in her bones. Zhanna was prepared to sit there, until the volley of artillery ceased, knowing that her debt hadn't been paid and life hadn't taken enough from her yet. She could run, dart among the trees, and still meet a blinding white end.
The world wasn't done with her yet.
The stones in her pocket mixed with the three bullets and the crumbling dried flowers from her journal, as the sky burst to life in white blurs.
She watched the men run for cover, their feet failing them only to dive into the graves they had dug. Zhanna should have moved. She should have joined Malarkey in their foxhole. She should have moved, taken a breath, gathered her strength and pushed away from the tree. But it was the only tie she had, the tether to this solid ground, even as the world trembled around her.
The blasts from the shells couldn't drown out the cries of familiar voices. Skip and Penkala, shouting for Luz. The radioman was writhing in the snow, his footing lost again, in the attempt to shelter with them. He was out in the open. Luz was the perfect target. Luz hadn't gambled with his life. George Luz wasn't drowning like she was. He had pulled her into a foxhole, darting among the shells and explosions so that she would be safe. He still had stories to tell.
"George!" Skip screamed, the desperation in his voice was enough to stir something inside her. A string pulled her spine upright, tucking her knees underneath her as Zhanna shouldered her rifle. She kept low, tugged along by the debt and the force of nature that pulled the strings in her life. She wasn't running or fighting. This was just another payment.
"Zhanna!" Their voices added her name to the mix, calling her to their foxhole. Skip, her friend, the only one she really had left. He had made her laugh. She still owed him all the drinks he had provided in Aldbourne. Another debt. Another string that tied her to someone she considered a friend.
Zhanna's numb fingers looped through George's webbing, trying to help him get his feet under him. She yanked him upwards like he was a puppet and she was his master. They stumbled together, pushing forward towards Skip and his outstretched hands, to Alex and his fear-wracked face.
Breathe, Zhanna.
"Zhanna! Luz! Come on!"
They ran together, feet stumbling, breath caught in their choked throats, towards the only people they had left. Towards the only people Zhanna had left. Her rifle caught between her legs, bringing her down hard on the ground, Luz falling down heavy atop her. The head that hit the frozen ground didn't rise at first. Her lungs screamed.
Breathe, Zhanna.
She swore someone was laughing at her, collapsed on the forest floor, safety only a few yards ahead. The foxhole wasn't empty and she would join Skip.
Pearl white light blinded her. There wasn't laughter echoing in her blurry mind. A shrill scream replaced it. Had the bullets dragged her down or was it the blooms that had been reduced to powder in her pockets?
The world still swayed, blinding white light burning into her mind's eye.
Breathe, Zhanna.
Nothing tethered her to the ground or lifted her from the rising water. She fell backwards, dragged the way she had come by the current, a heavy pressure around her middle as she tried to remember how to breathe.
Breathe, Zhanna.
Nic mnie nie zest. That was a lie. It was the only thing she could think of, repeating in her head, swimming in the pearly white sea that had flooded her thoughts and was dragging her down.
"Muck and Penkala!" That was George's voice, though very faint, as if garbled by the current that had pulled her deeper underwater. She had heard a scream. She had seen a blinding light. Her bones had rattled in an explosion. Muck and Penkala…
"What?" Lipton, slightly closer, as the grip on her waist loosened and she rose to the surface, closer towards the blinding light.
"Muck and Penkala were hit!" George was right beside her.
Her vision was blurry but returning. Muck hadn't been hit. She would have seen. Penkala hadn't been hit. She would have heard. Between shells she swore she could hear voices. Those voices. It was Skip.
Her heart clawed its way out of her icy ribs to her throat.
"I can still hear him," She muttered but her jaw was too tightly set and her lips were too chapped to open. It was a plea against her teeth, lost in the clamour.
"Hey, Shortstop, you got a cigarette?"
Her neck cracked, the frost on her vertebrae breaking off in sheets, and falling to the ground around her. It was Skip and he was still here. She tried to push away from Lipton but his arms, Zhanna now realized they had been the current to drag her to the bottom, were still heavy around her. She couldn't move.
"Zhanna, are you alright? Is everything okay?"
That was Buck. He had found his way back to her. As the all-clear called, Zhanna tried again, to cry out. To call for Buck or Skip and to let them know that she heard them.
"Perelko, we will be back."
That wasn't real. It couldn't have been real.
"Zhanna, we have to go."
Her heart plummeted back into the pit of her stomach and she stopped trying to fight against Lipton and Luz. She stopped fighting.
They weren't here. Skip had been hit. Buck had been lost. Agata hadn't come back. Casimir had run away.
"Stay down till you get the all-clear!"
She stopped fighting. She didn't try to run. Zhanna watched as a shell burrowed deep into the ground beside her left foot, diving further than she had been able to bury the silver of that necklace and the ghosts who still followed her. The shell hissed, steaming in the cold air with its fire and fury that could burst into bright white light.
She had stopped fighting. She had stopped running. She had stopped dreaming. She wanted it all to stop. Watching the shell smoke before her still blurry vision, swimming with the tide of the river, Zhanna waited for it all to stop. Her payments for survival had been met in full. Her legs had grown tired and stopped running. Her mind had finally found that quiet. Zhanna couldn't cheat death any longer.
The all-clear had been called but Zhanna couldn't move, huddled between Luz and Lipton, staring down that still hissing shell. She wanted it to detonate, to bathe her in that blinding white light. At least she would be warm. Zhanna didn't have anything left to give but herself. It seemed it wasn't enough. The shell stayed in one piece, a dud.
Breathe, Zhanna.