Chapter 47 Road To Victory

The scent of pine mingled with the earthy aroma of eucalyptus, making the sauna room warm and inviting. President Wang and President Pushkin sat on the top bench, carved from smooth, pale aspen. Beads of sweat glistened like tiny jewels on their skin, highlighting the warm, orange glow emanating from the strategically placed salt lamp—painting the Scandiavian-style wood paneling in a soft, soothing light.

Pushkin reached for a leafy bundle of venik, a staple in traditional saunas. With a rhythm born of countless repetitions, he began to pat the venik against his back, speaking in a relaxed, casual tone.

"It seems our commanders have succeeded in their task," said Pushkin.

"Reports indicate what remains of the Americans have been swept away by the river currents."

Wang dabbed his brow with a white fluffy towel, tracing his tongue along the edge of his teeth in a gesture of regret.

"It's a shame we could not capture Trump alive. Trump would have made for a powerful symbol of our total dominance."

"True, if nothing for the sport of warfare," Pushkin conceded.

"Making an example of him in front of our troops would have been a glorious beginning to our new dawn."

Their talk turned to reconstruction—the messy work of dismantling supply chains, redrawing borders, establishing puppet governments. Such weighty considerations could wait for now, at least until some much-needed rest and refreshment. President Wang rose and slid open the sauna door. Steam floated out into the dressing room as both presidents stepped out of the heat. Their lungs greedily gulped in the blast of cool air, sharpening their thoughts after the hazy intensity of the sauna.

In front of the mirror, Wang noticed the pronounced lines around his eyes, evidence of sleepless nights spent poring over battle plans. Pushkin, on the other hand, studied the way his slightly stooped shoulders appeared beneath his damp towel.

Many had dared oppose them over the years, and all had fallen because of it—Trump being the most recent. They couldn't help but marvel at their reflections, admiring their commanding presence. In a seamless motion, Wang reached into a cabinet, retrieving two syringes filled with a potent concoction. He passed one to Pushkin, their eyes meeting in silent understanding. They each then administered the injection into their thighs, with the cocktail of steroids promising to maintain their strength and youthful vitality.

A sharp rap sounded at the door, interrupting the ritual.

"Enter," Wang called, fully unwrapped.

Tammy entered clutching an armful of neatly folded ceremonial robes and a couple of black penguin suits.

"Your clothes, sirs," she said shyly, averting her gaze as they stood exposed.

But not before snagging a peek at Pushkin's amused expression in the glass while taking a quick look at President Wang's pert bottom.

“Do I look good for my age, Tammy?” Wang inquired.

“You don’t look a day over thirty, Your Excellency,” Tammy responded.

Wang chuckled. “You’re quite tactful for an American. You’ll make a fine addition as my next little concubine.”

“I am trained to serve well, Your Excellency."

Wang turned around with his full-on Wang on show.

"I will find a space for you in my schedule. You can leave now."

"I have a whole load of cosplay Girl Scout uniforms if His Excellency finds that to his taste?"

"Make it a date!"

Both presidents resumed the conversation after Tammy had left while dressing in the evening wear.

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“Speaking of which,” Wang began.

“Have we received any more recent updates from our commanders in the forest yet?”

Pushkin, meticulously adjusting his robe, replied.

“Patience, my friend. The last I heard, they were combing the riverbanks. Lee and Volkovski are hopeful. They aim to confirm Trump’s fate by nightfall. A substantial reward has been set for his remains.”

“Even more so if he’s found alive. I want undeniable proof of his fate, regardless of the outcome,” Wang added.

Once they were dressed, the men of power and routine turned to preening before the mirror. Pushkin drew a comb through his bushy beard with a cold, methodical precision, mirroring his approach to leadership. Wang, being a man of subtlety and grace, applied his signature perfume with delicate sniffs, ensuring just the right amount. The presidents donned the ceremonial garments with a quick critique of each other's public image.

"Come, my comrade. It is time," said Pushkin.

After a short walk across the arched, windowed foyer of the president’s residence, they encountered a flurry of salutes from high ranking attending soldiers. Along with a quick briefing from their military aides. Wang and Pushkin, in due course, found their vehicle waiting in the gravel driveway beyond the well maintained lawn. Its engine purred smoothly, with the driver holding the passenger door open in a respectful bow. Wang and Pushkin slid into the leather seats, exchanging a subtle smile of mutual accomplishment.

Earth had been conquered, its people now slaves under their regime. All they needed now was the proverbial cherry on top: Trump, served to them on a platter for the whole world to see, dead or alive.

"You know," Pushkin said.

“In the light of our recent global success, it seems prudent that we turn our attention to the stars. A joint space program could be the next step in our shared vision.”

“Indeed, the cosmos offers vast opportunities, my Russian counterpart. But let us not rush into the future just yet. Tonight, let us savor our triumph. For we are masters of the universe!”

It was all smooth sailing from here on out. The presidents embarked on their victory lap, riding in supreme comfort on the roads of Bohemium Grove. The night was theirs, a confirmation of their hard-won dominance. The stars could wait while they reveled in their global conquest.

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Kimfuka slowly woke from his dream, his mind still ensnared and tangled in shadows. A sheen of cold sweat soaked through his thin sleeping clothes. The nightmarish distillation of the images still fizzed hauntingly behind his blind, milky white eyes: five circling points of light converging upon the epicenter where he stood trapped. It was the one central dot of light that scared him the most. It resembled a dying cell that should have been extinguished, yet it persisted, regenerating with the ferocity of molten lava. The lava then surged inward, engulfing his entire body until he was reduced to a raw skeleton. This horrific transformation wasn’t a one-time event; it was a relentless cycle, a torturous loop that held him captive until he had woken from its grip.

What could it mean? His inner sight seldom steered him wrong, though interpreting its cryptic vision left him dumbfounded. A sense of what was to come grimly settled heavily on his thoughts.

From outside, the low buzz of an engine drifted in, accompanied by the crunch of tires breaking on loose gravel, prompting Kimfuka to rise unsteadily, his hand instinctively reaching for the support of his walking stick.

The smooth timber of the stick served as a familiar, comforting presence, his primary connection to reality amidst the disorienting remnants of his nightmare.

"Kimfuka, it's David. Are you in there?"

"I'm not coming. Not this night," Kimfuka shouted.

"Quit playing around; it's showtime!"

"I told you I'm not coming," Kimfuka shouted again in his Congolese patwa.

The handle turned, and David entered, his eyes adjusting to the dim interior of Kimfuka's gloomy existence.

"Time to-"

He stopped short at the sight of Kimfuka wrapped in a robe, his face discolored and glistening in sweat.

"You alright, man? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"An invisible shadow approaches," Kimfuka warned.

"Beware the night, for it may hide what we cannot see coming."

David was used to Kimfuka's outlandish claims, though he would have rather handed him off to Tammy for the most part. But so be it duty called.

"Come on now, don't be talking nonsense. Probably just a bad dream and all."

He motioned to the open door, where he expected Kimfuka to ride with him in the parked-up golf cart sidled at the curb.

"The children are waiting. We can't have you talking crazy like that in front of the regime."

But Kimfuka would not be dissuaded. Grabbing David's arm with shocking strength, he insisted.

"We must leave this place at once. Warn the others—no one is safe as long as we remain."

"Come on, blind man," David said.

"You will be killed if you're not careful. You've got protocol and presidents to please!"