GRANNY

GRANNY is a work of fiction. Though the character of Granny was inspired by a real person, all characters and events depicted in Granny are fictitious. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

The convoy, fifty military vehicles of varying types, slowed to a stop. Muted groans arose from several troop carriers. Another delay, another in a succession of setbacks eroded already fragile morale. A few brave veterans' voices cut through the moans, gripes of "what now," and "not again."

Corporal Angleoff sat wedged between Petrov, a muscular veteran sergeant, and Ilyin, a sad-sack draftee. The army conscripted most of the men in the division, Angleoff knew. He didn't like it, though he himself had once been a conscript. After washing out at Saint Petersburg Mining University, Angeloff found himself at loose ends, searching for direction. Drafted into the army, he took to military life. He stepped up in rank, a point of pride after a lackluster start. The vast majority of recent draftees, though, lacked motivation. Just as he had at first.

Unlike the new conscripts, however, Angeloff forgot the reason armies exist. This baffling exercise reminded him.

A familiar voice, that of Lieutenant Vassiliev, shouted from outside Angeloff's vehicle. "Everybody out! Stretch your legs."

Though Angeloff's legs needed the stretch, his nerves didn't. His thigh muscles ached. The leap to the pavement made him wince. The brisk February air tightened his face, cleansed his lungs. He ignored the sensations and gripped his RPK-16 Squad Automatic Weapon tighter than usual as he scanned the landscape.

To Angeloff's left and right lay the Ukrainian steppes, dry, grassy plains. A line of tall trees stood a dozen or so kilometers away to either side. The highway fell like a gray ribbon on the uneven ground ahead of him. His eyes wandered upward. The enemy had no air force to speak of, he'd been told.

I've been told many things, he thought.

Sergeant Petrov ambled up to Angeloff. He noted the corporal's white knuckle grip on his machine gun. "You worry too much," he said. "I fought in Georgia in '08. Twelve days and done with the fighting. This will be the same."

"You think so?" Angeloff pointed at the electronic message board above the convoy.

"'Go f**k yourselves,'" Petrov read aloud. The veteran chuckled. "Empty bravado. We will reach the capitol in a week or two, stay for a month, then head home."

Angeloff reached into a thigh pocket of his uniform. "Maybe." He peeked over his shoulder at Lieutenant Vassiliev before pulling out a smart phone.

"We're not supposed to have phones," Petrov cautioned. "If Vassiliev catches you with that he'll have your head."

Beckoning his sergeant closer, Angeloff prodded the device. "This is not Georgia. Watch this."

A video interview played on Angeloff's screen. With a strange mixture of anger and glee, a grandmother showed a reporter her cache of Molotov Cocktails.

"Let those Russians come," the dowager declared. "We are waiting for them."

"Even the old people are armed," Angeloff muttered, grimacing. "We've entered a country full of civilians who are ready to throw fire bombs at us."

Petrov laughed and slapped him on the back. "Buck up, man. Show Granny any fear and she'll get you for sure."

"Granny and her friends have taken down all the street signs. That's what's taking us so long to deploy."

"So we'll take Kyiv in two weeks instead of one," Petrov said. "Get rid of that phone. Or hide it. That's all Western propaganda anyway."

"And we haven't been force-fed propaganda?"

Petrov stiffened. He brought his nose to within an inch of Angeloff's face.

"We had to attack them before they attacked us," the veteran growled. "The one who strikes first is more often the victor. It's the smart play. Our president knows what he's doing, doesn't he?"

Angeloff scowled. He shook his head, arched his back to loosen tight muscles, and sauntered toward shrubbery on the side of the highway to relieve himself.

"Our president knows what he's doing," he mumbled as he unzipped his fly.

"Mount up!" shouted Vassiliev. The soldiers shambled to their vehicles and climbed aboard. The convoy rolled again for an hour, stopping twice more to correct its route. The column finally halted at the outskirts of a small town. The troops disembarked again, weapons at the ready.

"In threes," Vassiliev commanded. "Take any weapons and cell phones."

"Cell phones?" Ilyin whispered to Angeloff.

Angeloff sighed.

Petrov led the way to the first home. He pounded on the door.

"Open up," the sergeant yelled. "Don't make us open the door for you."

A middle-aged woman cracked the wooden door open. Petrov stormed in. Ilyin and Angeloff followed.

Eyes wide with terror, the woman stumbled backward. The three intruders found themselves in a modest kitchen, with a table set for two and a pot of stew on the stove.

Petrov put his nose above the pot and sniffed. Beef, tomato sauce and dill unified in a hearty cloud of comfort. "That smells good."

The woman approached Petrov slowly. She held a wooden spoon out to him. Petrov took the spoon. Before he could sample the stew, the woman swept the pot to the ground.

"Eat from the floor like all other dogs," she commanded.

The back of Petrov's hand sent the woman reeling.

Angeloff helped her to her feet. "Where is your husband?" he asked, noting the woman's wedding band.

"Out chasing you dogs back to where you came from."

Petrov struck her again.

Impulsively, Angeloff stepped between them. "We need your cell phone, if you have one."

The woman handed it to him. "Here. God forbid the world should know the truth."

Ilyin sighed. "Ah. I see."

"You see nothing." Petrov suddenly cocked his head toward the door. Shouts drew nearer. He beckoned to his contingent. "What's going on out there?"

"Nothing good," Angeloff said. "Let's leave it."

Petrov chuckled. "Come on. This might be fun."

The trio departed with Angeloff at the rear, shaking his head and grimacing.

"More of you!" an old woman bellowed as she tramped up the street towards them. "Here, across the way, next door. You're like tarakany. Cockroaches!"

With an amused smirk on his face, Petrov approached the woman. "Watch it, Granny. These cockroaches carry guns."

"That makes you less of a cockroach?"

Angeloff eyed the old woman. "You'd best go home."

"You'd best go home yourselves," she spat. "We know why you're here."

"Why is that? Half of us don't know," Ilyin muttered.

The woman turned to him. "That doesn't surprise me at all, young cockroach. You've been fed cow manure."

"Our intelligence reported you were going to invade us," Petrov said. "We just beat you to it. Too bad."

The matriarch stepped up to the sergeant, scrutinizing him with flinty eyes from head to foot and back.

Petrov chuckled. "What do you see, Granny?"

The woman shook her head. "A weak-minded fool. We have food for ourselves. We have industry. We have everything we need here. Why would we attack you? What do we want with your backwards country full of fools like you?"

Petrov's mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Angeloff sidled up to the pair. "An excellent question, Granny. Petrov?"

Petrov smirked again at them both and brushed Angeloff aside. "What does it matter? You're in the army, you do what you're told."

The old woman broke away from the knot, chuckling without mirth. She headed for a small shed next to the house. "We've heard that excuse before."

Ilyin raised an eyebrow. "Excuse?"

The woman opened the door to the outbuilding. "Sure. 'I had to commit evil because my officers told me to.' What a terrible defense."

"It's how an army runs," Angeloff pointed out. "We would have chaos if everyone gave orders."

The woman stuck her head out of the shed. "What do you have now?" She stepped outside. In one hand she held a Molotov Cocktail, its white cloth wick dripping kerosene.

"Watch it with that thing, Granny," Petrov warned. "You might get hurt."

Angeloff' squinted. "Weren't you the one on the video?" he asked the woman.

The old lady ignored him. "Let me tell you something, and keep this in your head," the woman said. "Coming into our country is one thing. Leaving alive will be quite another. Go, get out before summer."

"What happens then?" Angeloff asked.

The woman stared into Angeloff's eyes. He took a step back.

"Oh, I know," Petrov said. "She hangs her dainty panties on the wash line."

An exasperated Vassiliev detached himself from a band of privates on the other side of the road. He strode up to Angeloff's gathering.

"Why have you stopped in your duties?" the officer barked.

"Granny here—" Petrov began.

"She's holding you up?" Vassiliev raised his pistol and shot the old woman in the forehead. The woman dropped dead at Vassiliev's feet. The homemade firebomb shattered on the ground, splashing kerosene on the officer's boots.

Angeloff and Ilyin stood motionless, mouths agape. Petrov hefted his machine gun.

"Stop mucking about here," Vassiliev ordered his troops. "Clear the next house and move on."

"I think she was the one on the internet who told us to come ahead," Angeloff said. "I'm pretty sure she was the one."

"I guess they aren't as ready for us as she claimed," Petrov said. "Come on. Let's take the next house."

Transfixed, Ilyin hesitated.

"Granny's dead, Ilyin. Move out," Petrov ordered.

The middle aged woman of the house they had just left scurried outside. She rushed to the old woman heaped in the road. Kneeling next to the body, the woman wailed.

The sergeant grunted. "She should never have threatened us."

Ilyin pointed at the woman's hands. "She had no matches to light the bomb. She was no threat."

"I wonder what she meant about summer," Angeloff mumbled as they proceeded to the next house.

Petrov arched an eyebrow. "What?"

"'Get out before summer,' she told us. What did she mean?"

"Ask her," Petrov said. "It will be a one-sided conversation. Buck up, soldier. We'll be done in two weeks. You'll see."

The rest of the town posed few problems for the invaders.

But after they left and pushed further into enemy territory the unnamed roads continued giving them fits. They also met with more and more spirited resistance. Casualties piled up. Petrov's easy two week prediction turned into a nightmare closing out its fourth month. Artillery and rocket fire reduced cities, towns and villages to rubble. Regular army and citizen soldiers fought against them amidst the debris, making the going not only slow for Angeloff and his band, but also deadly.

The divisional convoy ground to a halt after another torturous slog. Anti-tank weaponry of several types destroyed nearly a dozen vehicles along the way. Weary troops spilled out of the trucks. Angeloff and Petrov disembarked together.

Jaws clenched, Angeloff surveyed the area. He blinked. "We've been here before," he said.

"Looks a bit different now," Petrov grumbled.

Weapons held at the ready, they advanced into what was left of the town at a slow, wary pace. The piles of crumbled masonry they approached gave the impression of a moonscape. Dust and grit hung in the air, common after an artillery barrage. Nothing stirred. The two men peered down the narrow lane lined with shattered buildings, shells with half or more of their facades now heaps of rubble in the street.

Petrov grimaced. "I don't like this," he murmured with a glance toward Vassiliev, who shepherded a contingent of conscripts. "We took too long to get back here."

Ilyin joined them. He crouched, holding his rifle in an iron grip as he inched closer to Petrov. "What is it, Sarge?"

The wily veteran jabbed a finger at the ruins. "I see a dozen places perfect for a sharpshooter to use as cover," he said. "We gave them too much time to deploy."

Angeloff shook his head. "We didn't give them time. We had to fight our way back here."

Petrov took in a deep breath. "So, we're here." He gazed up at the cloudless sky. "Summer's here, too. Who would have thought it?"

"Summer," Angeloff murmured.

"What is it?"

"Today. First of June. Summer."

"What of it?"

"The old lady with the Molotov cocktails. Granny. She said to get out before summer."

Petrov's face fell. "We'll be here until next summer. Longer."

Vassiliev detached himself from the conscripts and jogged up to Petrov.

"Why do you stop here?" the red-faced lieutenant demanded.

"Sniper," Petrov said.

"Have you seen any movement? Heard anything?"

"Not yet, sir."

"So. We four are in the lead, the others will follow. In twos. We start with that corner building first—"

A bullet whizzed into a pile of masonry. The men took cover.

"I heard something, sir," Angeloff sneered.

"Sniper," Ilyin said.

"Not a very good one," Petrov observed.

Angeloff grunted. "How many tries do you want to give him to improve his aim?"

"I think he's across the street in the building right before the bend," Petrov said.

Vassiliev tapped Ilyin on the back. "There's more cover at the other side of the road. You're the fastest. You take the far side, I'll be right behind you. Angeloff, take the near side. Petrov, draw fire to help us move up and flank him."

Angeloff and Ilyin nodded.

Petrov spat. "Yes, sir."

"Ready? Here we go."

Petrov uncoiled from his crouch. Another bullet hit next to his hand.

Ilyin bolted from his position. He hustled to the middle of the street but came to an awkward stop.

"Ilyin! Take cover!" Angeloff roared.

Astonished, Ilyin stared down at his feet.

Crouching behind the rubble again, Vassiliev gritted his teeth. "Ilyin! Move it!"

"I can't—" A shot to the shoulder cut the young draftee short. He dropped to the ground, writhing and moaning.

Angeloff stood. Another bullet kicked up debris in front of him. He ducked again, raised his gun over the pile and loosed several blind rounds.

"I'll get him," Petrov said. He darted to the prone Ilyin only to stop there. His eyebrows knit in confusion. "What the hell?"

"Sarge! Get down!"

Petrov turned his face toward Angeloff. A shocked and quizzical expression creased his brow. "Stay there," he said. Then half his head exploded.

Vassiliev hugged the debris pile. "Angeloff," he hissed. "Help them."

"Dead bodies attract dead bodies, sir."

"All right," the lieutenant said. "It's up to us then. I'll take the far side, you the near side. We can still flank him."

"Sir, we don't even know exactly where he is."

Without another word, Vassiliev dashed for the opposite curb. He got to Petrov and Ilyin but tripped on something unseen. His feet stopped moving, his torso tipped over. Once he righted himself he squinted down at his boots.

"Lieutenant!"

Vassiliev's whole body jerked downward. He grew panicky as he jolted slowly into a growing hole in the cement. He twisted and squirmed.

"Let go!" Vassiliev cried. He swiped at his feet as his legs disappeared up to the knee. The desperate officer shrieked as his thighs plunged into the ground. He ignored a marksman's round hitting close by. His fists pounded on the broken concrete. The ravenous earth continued swallowing the hapless lieutenant. Soon, all that remained were his chest and head.

"Corporal! Get me out of this!" Vassiliev shrieked.

A well-placed shot to the top of Angeloff's pile of debris kept him in his position. He crouched, watching Vassiliev being yanked into the ground, helpless to stop it.

Hysterical and clawing at the rim of the hole in the pavement, Vassiliev begged one more time. "Angeloff!" Then his head disappeared, followed by his thrashing arms and hands.

His heartbeat racing, Angeloff hunched behind his heap of rubble. He scanned the area. None of his unit's conscripts appeared behind him. He called out to them.

"Volkov! Alekhin! Nikolaev!" The corporal waited. An eternity passed in heavy silence.

Movement drew his attention. Ilyin sat up.

"Get back down, you fool," Angeloff hissed.

"Angeloff," the private groaned. Ilyin tumbled aside. The ground he lay on creased upward. The crease lengthened, shoving the cracked road to either side.

Terrified, Angeloff threw his machine gun down and scuffled backward. He managed only to gawk in thunderstruck fascination as the fold in the crumbling concrete headed for him, an invisible plow churning the surface.

The moving ridge stopped a few meters away from the cowering Angeloff. At the tip of the furrow, movement. The top of a helmet appeared from the upturned ground. Next came the rest of the head. Angeloff recognized Vassiliev. Panic and surprise etched themselves on the officer's face. Dirt and cement dust fell from his nostrils and open mouth.

"Leave," Vassiliev growled. "Leave now."

The monotone, gravelly voice did not belong to Vassiliev.

"I-is that an order, sir?"

"Summer," Vassiliev said. "It's summer. Leave now, Angeloff."

Angeloff's hand inched toward the weapon he had pitched aside. "My squad?"

"Leave," Vassiliev snarled. Suddenly, the lieutenant rose up and flew toward Angeloff as if fired from a catapult.

Granny stood in the lieutenant's place.

Eyes bulging, Angeloff stopped reaching for his RPK-16. Vassiliev's body had fallen on the gun. The petrified corporal held his breath.

Wrinkled, mottled gray skin covered Granny's face. The apparition raised a hand. With her index finger and thumb, she picked at the bullet hole in the forehead. Then Granny tugged violently. A patch of skin sloughed off her face, exposing half the skull.

Angeloff heaved. He gulped air, wiping the vomit from his lower lip. "Mercy," he gasped.

The specter chuckled, then cackled.

The sound made the hair on Angeloff's arms stand up. He raised his hand and pleaded again. "Mercy."

Granny jabbed a finger first at the cornered Russian, then down the lane in the direction from which his squad had come.

"Out," the demon intoned, gliding toward him. "Get out."

Galvanized to action, Angeloff scrambled to his feet and sprinted around the demon to Ilyin, who held his shoulder and writhed in pain. "Come on, let's go."

"Hey. Where'd she go?"

Angeloff turned. The thing that was Granny had vanished.

"I don't know. I don't want to know. Let's get you up on your feet."

Lifting Ilyin by his armpits, Angeloff got the wounded private to stand.

Ilyin shivered. "What about the sniper?"

"Would you rather stay here and—" Angeloff stumbled over a rotting hand sticking up through the broken pavement.

The hand grabbed at his ankle.

"Let's get out of here!" he cried.

The corporal took Ilyin's good arm and draped it over his own shoulders. He hustled the bleeding private down the lane. Another decomposing hand broke through the road surface at their feet. The fugitives dodged it. More hands, corrupt and noxious, popped up in their way, grasping at their ankles. The refugees weaved around them.

"Damn!" Angeloff jerked to a halt. A bony hand took hold of the heel of his boot. He released Ilyin's arm. Instinctively, he yanked a razor sharp combat knife from its sheath and sliced the boot's laces. His foot pulled free of the boot, Angeloff hauled Ilyin once again toward the edge of the village. Dozens of hands now surged up from the pavement, choking their path.

The shocked runaways managed to evade the rest of them. They reached the outskirts of town, and the two retreating soldiers glanced back at the throng of moldering hands.

Angeloff shuddered.

"I need to stop," Ilyin groaned once they'd gotten several hundred meters beyond the village outskirts.

Breathing heavily, Angeloff nodded. He pulled the bleeding lad toward a burned out troop carrier and sat him back against a wheel. Then he plopped down next to his wounded private. Ilyin stared ahead. So did Angeloff. Minutes passed in a thick, shocked silence. A light breeze kicked up, cooling the sweltering men but bringing the stench of death and corruption to them.

Angeloff lifted an eyebrow. "Well. That doesn't happen every day."

Ilyin chortled. "So, what now, corporal?"

"You mean, what do we do?" Angeloff pondered a moment. "They'll just put us at the front again if we go back to our own lines. I won't do that. You?"

"Not after this, no."

"We could throw ourselves on the pity of some other village."

"They hate us."

"So, we find the Ukrainian forces and surrender. I don't think Granny will hunt for us in a prison camp."

Ilyin turned pale. "And if she does?"

Angeloff hauled himself up and helped Ilyin back to his feet. "Then God help us."

* * *