The Last Judgement (standard:other, 0 words)
Author: The Dark Master	Added: Jun 13 2001	Views/Reads: 4369/2272	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A marksman copes with reality in war-torn Sarajevo.

THE LAST JUDGEMENT 

An index finger increasing its pressure on the trigger.  A tiny metallic
snap.   The sharp crack of a rifle shot.  A violent collision of lead 
and bone.  A shell casing spinning through the air and landing on the 
floor.  A body falling to the earth.  Screams.  Panic.  Chaos.  The 
sound of feet running.  Another tally mark on the wall.  Another day in 
the life of Dusan Zaranovic. 

His rifle was propped up on a bipod set on an old, cracked wooden
windowsill.  He was on the fifth floor of the building and had a 
perfect position from which he could wreak havoc upon his foes.  Shell 
casings littered the warped, hardwood floor next to the window and a 
small steel box of ammunition lay to the left of his rifle.  Two loaded 
magazines lay under his rifle, ready for action.  On the wall next to 
the window was a group of tally marks.  Ten etches on the wall.  Ten 
dead Serbs. 

The sniper's nest had endured torments the likes of which ordinary
buildings were not designed to withstand, but despite the bullet holes 
and craters in its walls, it still somehow managed to stand.  There 
were no lights in the room and piles of rubble were scattered around as 
pieces of the ceiling occasionally gave way.  An old doorway in the 
back of the room led to five flights of stairs.  Dusan dared not leave 
the building, let alone the room, and exercised great caution in moving 
around within it for fear of being spotted by the watchful eyes of the 
enemy.  This was Dusan's lair, his dark sanctuary.  From here, he could 
play God and reach out and touch someone whenever the sinister 
opportunity presented itself to him.  But even a god had to be cautious 
on occasion. 

In the moonlight, he could see a tall thin figure, a woman, crossing the
street with a package under her right arm.  The figure disappeared into 
the shadows below and moments later came the signal.  Three taps on the 
wall at the foot of the stairs.  He opened the door a crack, 
cautiously.  She was noiselessly making her way up the stairs, her long 
dark hair, somewhat unkempt, cascading around her shoulders.  She was a 
friend, his friend, a friend of the family, a friend of his parents, 
parents who were no longer of this world.  They had helped her, her and 
her young child, when her husband had disappeared one evening six years 
ago, just as his parents had more recently vanished, now that the 
trouble had begun again. "You've come, Miloška.  Thank God," whispered 
Dusan, as he accepted the package.  "It's all I could bring you, Dusan. 
 Just this loaf of rye bread and a pouch of water.  He eats so much, 
this nine-year old.  And the rations..." 

Jakub, Dusan thought.  Jakub, now nine years old.  Jakub and Miloška. 
Almost family for those six years.  Guests at their table.  The 
steaming gulaš, the wine, the egg noodles that his mother prepared and 
which Jakub would teasingly dangle above the nose of Rex, the family's 
spotted spaniel. "Miloška, before I take a bite out of what you so 
generously brought me, stay a while.  Tell me, is it safe for you to 
come like this? And how do you get food for you and the boy?" "It 
hasn't been easy, but we manage.  There is a man on the west side of 
town who still runs a bakery.  When I asked him how he managed to 
continue operating despite the state of our city's supply lines, he 
told me that friends of his in the army provided him with enough 
propane and flour to feed the people still holding out in our area.  
He's a saint; without him, we'd all be starving." He wanted the moment 
to last forever, but she was nervous, he could see that. "After what 
you and your family did for us, the sacrifices I make now are the 
smallest tokens of gratitude that I can bestow upon you," whispered 
Miloška, turning away from his glance.  Dusan placed the bread on top 
of his bedroll and turned to her.  The words did not come, they could 
not come. "I have to go Dusan.  It's late and I need to put Jakub to 
bed," she said, "I will try to bring you more tomorrow - at the same 
time." A kiss and then she was gone as quickly and as quietly as she 
had come.  Dusan put his hand to his cheek, hoping to savor the warmth 
of Miloška's lips as he made his way to the window and looked out.  He 
could see the silhouette of her slender form cutting across the street, 
then turning a corner and disappearing.  For years, they had been 
close, but now, in this unexpected change of events, things seemed so 
different.  Perhaps it was for the better. 

The next morning, after a fitful slumber, Dusan woke up, took a few


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