The Last Judgement (standard:other, 0 words)
Author: The Dark Master	Added: Jun 13 2001	Views/Reads: 4570/2405	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A marksman copes with reality in war-torn Sarajevo.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

bites of bread and then washed them down with some water from his 
canteen.  Still masticating the soggy bread, he calmly set up his rifle 
on the windowsill and flipped open the scope cover, just another part 
of his morning routine.  A new tally mark had been added to the wall 
the day before, bringing the total to eleven.  Eleven.  A hundred and 
eleven.  Eleven hundred.  What price could he exact from the Serbs as a 
payback for murdering his parents, his hopes, his dreams? 

The sky was gray and the flat light illuminated the stricken city.  Few
people dared to set foot in this quarter.  The buildings that were 
still standing were decorated with shell craters, bullet holes, and 
burn marks.  This wasn't far away from where he used to live, Dusan 
thought.  The joys of playing soccer on the wide boulevards.  The cries 
of joy escaping from children's lips as goals were scored.  The past.  
Dusan too played a game now, only on a far darker level.  The rows of 
ruined plaster and stone buildings lining the streets.  A little to the 
left, a once-beautiful fountain reduced to a heap of shattered tile and 
clay.  Off in the distance, Dusan could make out a flock of crows 
pecking furiously at something fallen on the ground.  Then Dusan saw 
him. 

He wasn't all that far away, maybe three hundred and fifty yards at
best, and the precision optics of Dusan's scope brought him up close 
and personal.  The Serb was a young man in his early twenties.  His 
sandy blond hair was disheveled and he looked as though he had been 
through great hardships; bits of dirt and dried blood were plastered to 
his face and his uniform was splattered with muck.  The enemy, my 
enemy, the man who wants to kill me, Dusan mused.  The Serb looked 
nervously from one side of the street to the other, searching for the 
vengeful god who had angrily struck down his comrades with bolts of 
searing lead.  The crows cawed in the distance and hopped out of the 
soldier's way as he walked down the street.  The stage was set, the 
actors ready, the audience present. 

This poor Serb had no control over what would happen to him.  He would
never even see where the bullet that would extinguish his life-force 
would originate.  He would be lifeless before the sound of the rifle 
firing would reach him.  He would make the transition from this world 
to the other side in a split second.  Dusan was a god; he had the power 
to decide who would perish and who would be spared.  A divine arbiter 
separating right from wrong.  Now, the time for judgement had come. 

The rifle pounded against the sniper's shoulder.  Dusan's round flew
straight and true; a crimson blossom appeared on the Serb's forehead 
and a puff of pinkish vapor burst from the back of the man's skull as 
he collapsed to the ground.  A spent shell casing clinked to the floor 
beside the sniper.  The crack of the rifle sent the flock of crows into 
the air, applauding his performance with the beating of their wings.  
But soon, they settled again and resumed their feast.  Dusan removed 
his gun from the window and lay low.  He smiled.  He was an artist, his 
rifle his brush, the blood of the Serbs his paint, the walls of the 
buildings his canvas, and the grim spectacle that lay before him was 
his masterpiece.  Dusan's gloating over his morbid victory was cut 
short by a barrage of artillery fire.  Wailing like banshees, the 
shells rained from the heavens, reducing once-sturdy buildings to piles 
of smoking rubble.  Dusan's room shook and more plaster fell from the 
ceiling, leaving a choking white haze in the room.  He put a rag over 
his face until the gypsum fog cleared.  He picked up his knife and made 
another scratch on the wall.  Twelve.  Dusan's stomach called to him 
with its peculiar rumbling voice and Dusan realized that he had 
finished his bread of the evening before.  Fortunately, night would be 
here soon and with it, Miloška. 

* * * 

The moon rose high in the sky that night, shedding light upon the
beleaguered city.  Dusan could hear the incessant chatter of machinegun 
fire in the distance punctuated by the deep pounding of Serb artillery 
searching relentlessly for his brothers-in-arms.  It was almost time 
for Miloška to come and solve his appetite problem.  Fresh baked bread, 
clean water.  In war time, these simple meals seemed fit for kings.  
Dusan looked up at the sky and could see some low-lying clouds moving 
in from the west.  Probably rain, he thought. 

Clouds slowly covered the moon, plunging the city into an eerie
darkness.  He looked at his watch, only another hour before company 
arrived.  He ran his hand over the cold steel barrel of his rifle.  For 
a long time now, his companion had served him well, snuffing out the 
lives of damned Serbs at his command, he thought.  Victory was sweet.  
Vengeance was his.  Dusan was marveling at his own skill when the door 
at the street creaked opened.  His eyes darted to his watch, it was 
still far too early.  His right hand shot to his holster and he grabbed 
his pistol.  He quickly pulled back the slide and chambered a round.  
Down below, down on the first floor of the building, the sniper could 
hear someone rummaging around.  Then, footsteps coming up the stairs.  
Slowly, agonizingly, they kept getting closer.  Closer and closer.  
Sweat covered Dusan's forehead and he felt perspiration breaking out 
all over his body.  He clasped the checkered steel grip of the little 
pistol with both hands and could feel his heart racing.  Faster and 
faster it raced, faster and faster as the steps got closer.  The steps 
seemed to take forever to come to him.  Dusan wished that the person 
who had invaded his lair would just run and show his ugly Serb face.  
How could the Serbs have known where he was, Dusan thought.  The only 
witnesses to his latest act were the stupid birds. 

The marksman heard the steps at the top of the stairs, and felt a
presence in the room.  A shiver went down his spine and his fingertips 
started to tingle.  The open door was obstructing his view, but he knew 
that he was no longer alone.  Dusan saw a shadowy figure stride past 
the door and then he committed to fire.  Dusan's pistol barked twice 
and the sound of the shots rolled through the neighborhood, breaking 
the ghastly silence.  The muzzle flash from the gunfire temporarily 
blinded Dusan, but he could hear and feel a body slump to the floor.  
Two casings danced on the wooden floorboards. Dusan dared not move, but 
kept his weapon trained on the silhouette.  The room was filled with an 
awful gurgling and ragged, labored breathing, but in the course of a 
few, long seconds the breathing slowed and finally stopped.  This would 
be another tally mark.  Dusan crawled over to where the figure lay to 
inspect it. 

But something was wrong, terribly wrong.  Upon nearing it, Dusan's
stomach churned, this time not out of hunger.  The clouds parted and 
the moon appeared, bathing the room in a macabre half-light.  The dim 
light illuminated the still face of a young boy contorted in pain.  His 
short, dark hair that was brushed forward over his forehead.  His mouth 
was parted slightly and a trickle of dark blood ran from it, flowing 
down his white cheek and onto his pale neck.  Dusan looked at his 
victim's face, its eyes wide with fright, the facial muscles caught in 
a painful grimace.  Jakub!  The boy was Jakub!  A wave of horror and 
revulsion swept over Dusan and he felt a burning sensation in his 
throat.  He turned to one side and doubled over and vomited.  Again and 
again he retched.  A small parcel lay next to the fallen boy and Dusan 
knew what it was.  Jakub lay across from him, fallen in a pool of his 
own blood, his young eyes wide open, looking at Dusan, asking, pleading 
with him. 

It began to rain and from the firmament came forth a veritable deluge. 
Dusan could hear the rain pounding on the ground outside, but he didn't 
care.  His eyes remained fixed on that same spot for what seemed like 
hours, attempting to decipher the labyrinth of horror he had created, 
hoping to find meaning.  Water dripped steadily from the ceiling, 
splashing on the child's face as it made its way to the floor.  The boy 
kept staring at Dusan, the water from the ceiling falling on his 
glassy, unblinking eyes.  Tears, just like tears, Dusan thought.  My 
God!  Tears!  My Jakub!  He, Dusan Zaranovic, the man who had helped 
raise Jakub, the man who had taught him to read.  He, the man who had 
murdered so many Serbs.  Other peoples' sons - and now he, the murderer 
of this innocent who was almost a son to him. 

Two large, dark stains showed through on the Jakub's brown shirt.  Dusan
looked down into his palm and realized that he was still gripping the 
pistol tightly.  He hurled it against the far wall in disgust and began 
to weep uncontrollably.  His hand reached out and touched Jakub's hair, 
gently stroking it.  Slowly he ran his fingers down the boy's face, 
closing Jakub's eyes for the last time.  Jakub dead.  Innocent Jakub.  
Dusan leaned over and took the boy in his arms, lifting his small, limp 
form from the floor, and clasped him tightly against his chest.  He 
wept, wept as he had never done before, as he never thought he could. 
"Miloška, what have I done, what have I done...," his sobs trailing off 
to a whisper.  "Why didn't you come?  Why did you send him?" 

Dusan cried as he rocked back and forth, the boy's head resting on his
shoulder as if he were only sleeping.  He had done this so many times 
before, when this little child refused to fall asleep.  Now Jakub was 
asleep, asleep in his arms, never to wake in this world again.  As 
Dusan embraced the tiny body, he heard three knocks on the wall below. 


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