As the jeep came to a stop in the center of the makeshift village square, a crowd quickly gathered around it. Linda rushed to a girl half her age, throwing herself into a heartfelt embrace. Tears of joy flowed freely as they clung to each other. The trio exited the vehicle and was soon surrounded by grateful villagers, receiving pats on the back and words of thanks while witnessing the emotional reunion.
Przemek asked someone for a cigarette, and they happily obliged, sharing a lighter. They shook hands with the crowd, and Sven, holding Sofia’s hand, gave her a long, grateful stare before patting her on the shoulder.
A few hours later they had just finished unloading the supplies they had received. They had been granted more than they had agreed to before, just how valuable this woman was to everyone was apparent as Przemek struggled to fit all the cans of food into the shelves.
Jonathan sat alone on the cabin patio, the serene surroundings offering little solace. As he gazed out at the tranquil landscape, the distant echoes of the community’s celebration seemed worlds away. Suddenly, the peaceful scene shattered as a traumatic flashback surged through his mind. He was thrown back into the chaos of gunfire, the relentless thud of bullets, and the agonized screams of those he had left behind. His breath quickened, and he felt a cold sweat break out on his skin as the memories flooded in, each detail as vivid and horrifying as the moment they had happened. He gripped the armrests of his chair tightly, trying to anchor himself to the present, but the visceral images and sounds were relentless, leaving him gasping for control amidst the haunting echoes of his past. He was dragged out of it by Sofia asking him if he was okay.
She looked at him and understood directly as she saw the stare he gave her. She got closer before sitting down next to him, her warm hand laid on his arm as she looked at his face.
Jonathan took a shaky drag from his cigarette, his hands trembling. “Those guys were bad, I know that,” he said, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “But if I had to do it all over again, I’d rather die than let them get their hands on them.” He paused, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. “You did what you thought was right,” came the reassuring reply. “Because of you, you’re here now, and we got Linda back to her daughter and friends.”
“I’ve been telling myself that,” Jonathan admitted, his voice strained. “I know it, but my brain doesn’t seem to agree.”
“I’d be more concerned if you didn’t have these thoughts now,” came the calm response. “It’s completely normal to feel this way, especially after everything you’ve been through. This was traumatic, and it’s going to take time to process. You’ll feel like shit tonight, you’ll keep feeling bad for a while. Just be sure to know why you did it. And at the end of the day you did what thought was right and you were in the right have no doubt about that.”
Sofia and Jonathan shared a long, intense look before she offered a reassuring smile and embraced him. Her warmth and comfort provided a steady anchor, helping Jonathan regain his composure and find a moment of peace amidst the turmoil.
“Now, clean that machine gun like Przemek advised you too. And by the time you should be done dinner will be ready.”
“Please tell me you’re the one cooking.” Jonathan asked
Sofia shaked her head. “No such luck.”
They both laughed as Sofia walked back inside. Jonathan let out his cigarette before putting the machine gun on the table.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
Jonathan approached the FN MAG with methodical precision, every movement deliberate and practiced. First, he confirmed the machine gun was unloaded, carefully inspecting the chamber and magazine well. Satisfied, he engaged the safety catch, his fingers moving with the ease of repetition. He reached for the barrel assembly release lever, pulling it forward and sliding the barrel free from the receiver. Setting the barrel aside with care, he turned his attention to the gas system.
With steady hands, he unscrewed the gas regulator, detaching the gas plug and piston assembly. Each component was laid out neatly in front of him, forming a meticulous arrangement on the makeshift workspace. Next, Jonathan placed his hand on the charging handle, squeezed the trigger, and moved it forward. He removed the stock, revealing the spring rod, oiled and sticky with grime. Carefully, he extracted it, followed by the operating rod, freeing each part from the receiver with fluid, practiced motions.
Jonathan inspected each component with an almost surgical focus. Using a sponge, he cleaned away the layers of dried cannon powder that had accumulated through prolonged use. For the oil and residue, he reached for a discarded T-shirt he had found in the cabin—far too small for anyone to wear but perfect for this purpose. His movements were calm and methodical, his focus unwavering as he restored the machine gun's components to pristine condition.
Once satisfied, he reassembled the weapon with the same deliberate care. Pulling back the charging handle, he engaged the safety and pressed the trigger, ensuring the mechanism functioned as intended. Finally, he placed his hand on the bolt, disengaged the safety, and pressed the trigger. The bolt moved forward, guided smoothly by his hand, completing the cycle.
With the weapon fully serviced and ready for action, Jonathan reached into his backpack and pulled out one of the ammunition boxes he had painstakingly carried. The long trek with the two heavy boxes had been grueling, but it was worth the effort. He counted the rounds carefully—500 in each box, as expected. A wave of satisfaction washed over him as he calculated the load: 25 kilos carried across the rough terrain. His body ached, but the knowledge that the FN MAG was operational and fully supplied made the effort worthwhile.
But as he pondered this, the haunting memory of the man's screams resurfaced in his mind. With a sudden jolt, he slammed the machine gun shut, the sound echoing as if it were an attempt to drown out those chilling echoes.
Przemek stood beside the wooden stove, its flames crackling softly as he prepared to make beef potato stew. He carefully chopped chunks of beef and potatoes, the knife’s rhythmic slicing a soothing backdrop to the stove’s warmth. As he added the beef to a heavy pot, he seared it to a rich brown, the savory aroma filling the air. He tossed in diced onions and garlic, stirring until they softened and released their fragrant scent. Next, he added the potatoes and a mix of herbs, his hands moving deftly to season the stew with salt and pepper. With a ladle, he poured in a rich broth, watching as the ingredients began to simmer. Przemek adjusted the heat on the wooden stove, ensuring a gentle, steady boil. He stirred occasionally, savoring the comforting blend of flavors as the stew cooked slowly, the rustic warmth of the stove adding an extra layer of coziness to the dish.
Sofia gave him a look as she made her way to the bedroom, she shared with Przemek . She had the master bedroom of the small hut; Jonathan had a smaller room with a one person bed in of it right across the small hallway.
Sofia stood in the doorway of the cabin bedroom, taking in the rustic charm of the space. The room featured a large, sturdy wooden bed adorned with a patchwork quilt. Hand-carved wooden furniture, including a bedside table and a dresser, added to the room's charm, while a woven rug sprawled across the floor, offering a soft, textured contrast to the wooden planks. Sunlight streamed through a small, paned window; casting a gentle glow on the walls, which to her surprise, Przemek had put a Polish flag on the wall above the bed. They would have to board the window tomorrow. They couldn’t risk being attacked from there. Bags and supplies were put around the room. Some hers, some’s Przemek’s.
She removed the few clothes from her backpack and neatly placed them in the small wooden wardrobe. Glancing back at the bed, she reflected on how sharing it with Przemek had been less troublesome than she’d anticipated. Neither of them wanted to sleep on the sofa or floor, and they were both mature enough to respect each other's space at night. Przemek exuded a calm reliability that reassured her. Though she usually struggled to keep men at a distance and trusted few, Przemek 's steady demeanour made her feel at ease.
She walked into the kitchen; “was the polish flag necessary?” She asked in a casual manner.
“Hey I didn’t carry that all the way here not to put it up.” He said with a smug while continuing to cook.