The Sniper on the Rooftop

Mikoyan, Gurevich Socialist Republic
January 1940, Winter

If there was a season people would dislike, winter might be the most picked ones.

Most field workers would certainly agree. Aside from the temperature, winter always brought discomfort, triggered disasters, hindered mobilization, forced many businesses into long breaks, reduced crop yields, and plenty of other reasonable complaints.

But because she was born in December, Zima Davidovich Trotsky, didn't have much choice but to consider this season special.

Rozhdestvo—the great holiday for the Orthodox Covenant—was also celebrated during this time. Which meant she would get extra presents from everyone. There would be double celebrations—Rozhdestvo and her birthday—family and friends would gather, and they'd share warm stories with one another. It was truly a lovely atmosphere.

At least, that was how it happened for the past four years. Unfortunately, this winter was a bit different.

It was still one o'clock in the afternoon. But the sun couldn't be found anywhere because of the snow. The streets were covered by white blankets, and so were all the buildings around the city. Nothing could be seen from miles away, except for the soft whistle of January wind.

Zima listened to that cold silence from the attic of a house while peeking out the window. Like most buildings in Mikoyan, the two-storied house was no longer intact. It looked like a soldier who had been executed by machine gun. The windows were shattered, doors crushed and lying on the floor, front wall had collapsed, interior was full of holes, while blood stains and bullet casings scattered everywhere. The condition was truly tragic. Only the attic where Zima was hiding remained untouched—for now.

Of course, the house seen better days, as the other buildings. At least before the tragedy from two weeks ago.

Zima still remembered everything clearly. She was standing in front of a bookstore, looking at a novel that caught her attention, when she heard a rumbling noise. From the west, dozens of enemy bombers broke into Mikoyan's airspace and, without any warning, obliterated the city in an instant.

That attack was followed by a charge of companies of armored vehicle and infantry through the western gate. With no preparation and under constant pressure, the evacuation of civilians became harsh. Because of that, many became casualties—whether from bomb strikes, artillery showers, or being caught in crossfire.

The lucky ones were evacuated through the eastern gate and taken to nearby city of Petlyakov. However, quite a few chose to stay behind and voluntarily helped the military defend the city—at least to buy time until reinforcements arrived. One of them was Zima. A small-framed girl who had just turned sixteen. Unfortunately, her birthday wasn't celebrated with candles and prayers this year, but with explosives and terrorizing screams.

"I'm sure he's shooting from that floor," Zima murmured, bringing her face closer to the window. Her eyes narrowed sharply as she aimed at a building in the distance.

"Uh!"

But she immediately pressed herself against the wall when a bullet was fired her way, zipping just above her head.

"That kid's really pumped up, huh. But his accuracy needs a bit more work. Looks like that rifle doesn't have a scope."

Once again, Zima peeked around the window edge. Just as she had suspected, she got shot at.

"Alright, I can't aim at him from here. He's too persistent."

The girl turned toward the window one last time. There was no hope left there, she's been compromised—multiple times.

"Guess I have to relocate now. Or maybe just engaged in close range."

Zima reconsidered her options for a minute, then decided the later one. She got up from the floor, slung her Mosin-Nagant rifle over her shoulder, crept toward the attic door, then jumped down to the lower level.

There were a few Fascist soldiers who were already dead. Their stiff bodies lay irregularly along the corridor, sprawled all the way down to the ground floor. The front part of the house was no longer intact—probably from tank fire. But there were still a few feet of wall left. Taking cover behind that wall, Zima observed the situation outside. She pulled a rifle scope from her waist pouch and scanned the target building in the distance.

"I can't see him from here," the girl said, pulling the scope away from her face. "Which means he can't see me either, right. I can sneak over there without being detected. Then eliminate him at quietly."

Once again, Zima looked through the scope. Every corner seemed safe.

"Alright. Let's move."

She made her way along the front yard of the row of buildings to the left of the house where she had been hiding. It didn't take long before she reached the front door of the target building, which was an apartment. The door was still there, slightly ajar. The cold wind slipped through the crack, producing a threatening whistle.

Zima took a step inside, slowly.

***