Operation Blue Jay : A Countryhumans Alternative History

Chapter 6

America was not one for peeping through windows. Quite the opposite. She had always valued privacy to a certain extent. But here she was, crouched down and peaking over the window-ledge of the cabin, breath fogging the glass as she peered inside. She surely looked like a murderer and-

"You are one." A snide voice remarked, accent muddled. America still recognized it, and groaned.

Whipping her head towards Confederate, she snapped. "Will you leave me alone for five minutes?!"

The long-dead country was leaning against the building, arms crossed and black boots shining. America squinted, confused. Confederate turned her head with a sharp smile. "Am I incorrect?"

"I-" She cleared her throat. "Your uniform... it's different."

Confederate looked down at her neat black uniform, then scoffed. "No."

"Yes it is."

"You're crazy."

"I fought a whole war with you! I know what your uniform looks like! It's gray, not-" She huffed, deciding to ignore the other in favor of peering through the window again. It was a kitchen, and a fairly bare one at that. But America could see the glimpses of life in it- the mismatched chairs that surrounded the table, the alcohol that sat on the counter, the papers that were pinned to the wall. And of course, the object of her infatuation: a telephone. On a small table against the far wall, in front of a different window, was a telephone, its shiny surface acting as almost a siren's call to America. It could all end tonight. All she would have to do was call Canada and give him the verbal code. She could finally find peace in the sweet silence of death.

But in order to do that, she risked dealing with the people who lived here, and she was willing to bet that the Soviet Union was one of them. Why was he living in the middle of nowhere? She hadn't a clue. Perhaps this was the base of the rat army. Yes, she could smell it. That distinct scent of mold. It clung to her nose most days, whenever she dared to remember the darkness of the church cellar with its charcoal smeared walls and dripping pipe.

America shook the memories away, turning away from the window and leaning against its frame. The moon was glowing... it always seemed to glow. But it was obstructed slightly, with dark clouds slowly invading its space. It was going to rain soon. She swallowed, throat dry as she felt her pocket, scissors still hanging heavy in the worn fabric as they sat next to France's amber brooch.

"Are you scared?" Confederate sneered, lifting the brim of her black military hat. Her white hair was in a bun now. It had never been before. America averted her eyes from the cackling woman, the unease that always seemed prevalent in her mind increasing ten-fold. "Afraid to finish what you started?"

"..."

"Afraid to f*ck off and die so everyone's lives can improve?"

"..."

"Wow, you really are just as selfish as your-"

"F*ck off."

She took a deep breath and forced herself towards the window, it opening with a horrible screech. She groaned, fighting against the urge to cover her ears at the high-pitched noise. She stood, palms digging into the wood of the window-frame. She slowly crawled through the opening. It was clumsy and felt clunky, like her limbs would not quite cooperate with her. She landed with a thud on the wood floor. The room spun slightly, and America closed her eyes, breathing deeply in an attempt to combat a flare up of her near constant nausea. After a moment she collected herself and slowly stood, limbs shaking as she stumbled towards the telephone. It was so close. She was so close. She could taste it. Feel it. She longed for freedom, she always had. It was a shame that it could only come through death. Her shaking hand plucked the handset from the switch-hook, bringing the receiver to her ear in an almost reverent manner. She could hear her breaths going through the transmitter, could feel her hands growing numb as she slowly dialed his number. It-