The Cross and The Sickle

by R. D. Zimmerman

  “I'm so hot in this clothing,” she said. “But we must not waste time. We must save the documents.”

  “Documents?” demanded Nick. “What documents?”

  “They prove that the Tsar is dead! Lord have mercy!”

  Without further word, the hunched woman turned and scurried on, black cloth dragging in the dirt behind her. Overwhelmed by the whole situation, Nick followed, holding the match high in one hand, cupping it and protecting it from the draft with the other. His eyes shifted from the tunnel floor back to the dry wooden match, whose diminutive flame offered no more than a few moments of light. He tried to catch up with Elizaveta and his brusque movements nearly extinguished the match. He slowed.

  “Come, come.” Elizaveta, sure of the way, did not pause. “I'm so hot,” she said again. “This is not a dress to flee in.”

  The tiny flame stabilized and they moved on. Nick held the match by the very tips of his fingers.

  Elizaveta's breathing became more labored with each moment. One hand grasping the tin box, the other pressed to her chest, she was forced to slow her pace. At the end of each long-drawn breath a momentary pause was followed by a high-pitched squeal. Nick, his attention focused on Elizaveta, did not notice the match burning down to his skin.

  “Ouch!”

  He dropped it reflexively and the match went out before it hit the ground. The tunnel again dissolved into blackness. Nick fumbled for another match.

  “Just a second,” he said.

  Elizaveta, trying to regain her breath, did not respond. His fingers in the matchbox, Nick could tell that there were less than a dozen matches remaining. As he took one out and searched for the flint, they heard a muffled cry in the distance.

  “Olga!” said Elizaveta, trying not to sob.

  Paralyzed, Nick and Elizaveta strained to hear something, anything. There was nothing but absolute silence until, finally, the stillness was shattered. Shattered by a muffled discharge of a gun somewhere behind them. Filling the caves around them, the blast grew louder and louder like the deep, reverberating grumble of an approaching sonic boom. Then it burst into their tunnel and a harsh gunshot painfully pierced their ears.

  “Olga!” cried Elizaveta. “My dear one!”

  Nick couldn't light the match. He could hardly bring his two hands together. He shook beyond control. Olga. Was she dead? His eyes welled. He jabbed at the matchbox. The match caught fire and Nick looked up. Tears rolled over and down Elizaveta's cheeks. She hugged the box to her body and moaned.

  “Such violence! What has the world come to?” She crossed herself and trudged on. “Follow me,” she said despondently. “There is another way out. I'll show you. Then you must return at once to the other Americans.”

  “But what about Olga? She might need us.”

  Nick raised his hand too fast and the match went out. Elizaveta was a few feet away from him when he lit another. She had taken her headdress off and was gumming it in her mouth. Her hair, damp with sweat and sparkling like silver, hung in disarray. When the material was wet, Elizaveta twisted it into a knotted mass.

  “Maybe we should go back,” began Nick. “I mean—”

  “Light this,” she said, not paying any attention. “It's not a torch, but it will last longer than a match.”

  “Olga might need our help.”

  Elizaveta held up the twisted scarf. “Light this,” she said impatiently. And then, “What is done back there is done. We must save what we can.”

  Nick took the wetted scarf and held the match to it. It resisted, then reluctantly caught fire with a dull red flame. The foul smell of the burning cloth filled the passage.

  “No time to waste.” Elizaveta mumbled, “Oi, I'm so hot.” Then suddenly she froze. “What was that?” she demanded. “Did you hear something? An animal?”

  Nick was still, concentrating on what lay beyond in the black. “I don't hear anything.”

  Elizaveta shut her eyes and patted her chest. “Thank God. Come, follow me.”

  He headed after her as she hastened onward. They came to another tunnel, traversed it, and continued on a narrower, rougher one. Scrambling over the rock-strewn floor, Elizaveta's breathing worsened. She dragged the air in and out of her body, coughing at the end of each deep breath. The wheezing became constant and her movement slowed.

  They approached a small boulder blocking the passage. Elizaveta lifted her long black gown, placed a foot on the rock, and stepped on, then over the boulder. It proved too much. She leaned against the side of the tunnel for support.

  “Rest for a minute.” Nick reached out to support her.

  She placed a hand against her chest and struggled to speak. She eyed the boulder with fear.

  “That's… that's not supposed to be there,” she muttered.

  “Rest.” Nick tried to remain calm.

  He searched in one direction, then the other. Nothing. A rough underground passage that led nowhere in either direction. Nick didn't have the courage to ask if they were lost.

  She started off again without warning.

  “Just take it slow,” chided Nick.

  Several minutes later the passage split and Elizaveta hesitated at the junction. She strained to see down one tunnel, mumbled to herself, and shook her head in disgust. She hobbled over to the other tunnel. The arched opening was wide and low. Again Elizaveta shook her head. She hurried back to the first tunnel.

  “Light,” she demanded.

  Nick stepped up behind her, unraveled a bit more cloth, and held it to the entry. Elizaveta took one conclusive look in.

  “Nyet. Nyet.” She shook her head.

  Without a second thought she entered the tunnel with the arched opening. Nick was right behind her.

  Dust whirled around their feet as they entered this cave, and Nick realized that he could no longer hear the reverberations of their movements. Apparently they were now in a much larger cavern, and as the floor sloped downward, the roof vaulted out of sight and the walls disappeared.

  Elizaveta raised her eyes and began wheezing again. She groped for support and Nick hurried to her side.

  “I'm not sure,” she gasped.

  “Just get your breath. You'll be okay. Don't worry.”

  Elizaveta clutched the little tin box. Her irregular breathing became more desperate and gurgling sounds emerged from her throat.

  “It's… oi… it's so hot!”

  “Stop. Don't move. Don't talk.” said Nick. “You're okay, Elizaveta. You'll be fine.”

  She began to quiver and sway. Her eyes closed in pain as she tried to breathe. She drew air in with great difficulty, making high-pitched squeals as she did so. Nick took her under her arm not a moment too soon. She could no longer stand.

  “Li…ght! Light!” she managed to say, opening her eyes.

  Nick held the burning headdress in front of her face. “Right here, Elizaveta. Here's the light.” he said, trying desperately to convince her. “Come on, Elizaveta, the light's right here!”

  But she couldn't see it and she fought harder for air. “Light! Light!” she screamed, though her voice was barely audible.

  She spun from lack of oxygen, her face shriveled in pain, and her eyes fell shut. All at once her strength vanished. Holding her, Nick dropped the burning material to the ground. Her head fell listless to the side and only Nick's support prevented her from collapsing. She was heavy, and he strained to lay her gently on the ground.

  “Elizaveta!”

  She was lifeless and there was no response. One arm behind her, one arm in front, Nick labored as he lowered her.

  “Elizaveta!” he screamed. “Goddamn it, don't die on me!”

  Just as he got her to the ground, the material became unraveled and burst at once into a bright, powerful flame. And in that last pulse of light, Nick realized that he and Elizaveta were not alone in the subterranean cavern. Lurking in the shadows was an unrecognizable four-legged creature the size of a dog. Foam liberally dripped from its mouth and most of its
hide was eaten away.

  Terror so severe rushed through Nick that he too was unable to breathe. As Elizaveta's headdress burned out and the vast chamber dissolved into absolute blackness, the room reverberated with the deep, mad sound of an animal ready to attack.

  XXIV

  The shot startled them both so much that neither Olga nor Yezhov could tell who had been hit. Embraced in a struggle over the pistol, it had discharged and now they clung to one another mortally afraid to learn the truth. They stood rigid and tense in the blacked-out Church of Saint George, their hands desperately holding on.

  The gun fell to the floor.

  Olga was the first to relax her grip and Yezhov knew. The sound of bubbling liquid erupted from her throat, followed by several terse, pitiful moans. Her grasp on Yezhov tightened again, seemingly an automatic reflex as if she were pleading to life for life.

  The strength vanished.

  The bullet hole aiming upward in her chest was initially dry, the skin charred. Then the blood began to flow. At first a mere trickle, it soaked through her clothing and began to warmly seep onto Yezhov.

  Olga was dead by the time Yezhov lowered her to the ground. His hand, sticky with her thick blood, laid her head gently down. Reaching into his rear pocket, he took out the butane lighter one of the American guides had given him. He lit it and saw: glistening red blood staining her thick blond hair. Olga's eyes remained open and stared, immobilized, at nothing.

  Yezhov pulled away in revulsion. He sensed warm liquid not only on his hand, but on his chest and stomach too. Examining himself, he saw the stains where Olga had hugged him. Frowning with disgust, he returned to Olga's body and used the lower portion of her dress to make himself clean.

  He felt a pang at the very bottom of his throat and in his mouth tasted the nausea that had overcome him. He located the extinguished torch on the other side of the church and scrambled toward it. With the butane lighter he lit the torch and it burst into a whirling flame. Under this brighter light, Yezhov saw that the Church of Saint George had lost its regal air of piety. Icons were broken in half, candelabra thrown on their sides, and Olga's body, not the resplendent iconostasis, was the focal point.

  The shock passing, Yezhov placed the torch in a holder and went to the door through which Miller and the old woman had fled. He opened it and, beyond, saw nothing but random and wild tunnels continuing into the darkness. It was useless. Yezhov knew he'd never be able to locate Miller and catch up with him. And even if he did, he'd never be able to find his way back out again.

  A sense of reality returning, Yezhov realized what needed to be done if he wanted to salvage anything. Indeed, it occurred to him that he might accomplish more than he had ever intended. He crossed back to the other side of the room and picked up the pistol. Holding it by two fingers, he used the dead woman's dress to wipe the gun completely free of fingerprints. Careful not to leave any fresh prints of his own, Yezhov rubbed the gun until it was shiny and then tossed it on the ground near Olga.

  He stood and, looking down at her, was not filled with remorse but with acceptance. He was surprised at himself. She was the first person he had killed, and after the initial shock, her death meant nothing to him. An expenditure, that's all she had been. And now that he had determined how to handle the affair, he was quite pleased. He jabbed the tip of his shoe into the side of her body. Yes, she was dead.

  The blond woman had screamed about documents and Yezhov hastily searched the church for anything possibly related. Kicking aside a few icons, throwing open the Holy Gates, he found nothing. They had to be important papers, of that he was sure, for the young woman had given her life for them.

  There would be time for a thorough search later, though. It was more important to get the other matter underway. He would backtrack his way out of the catacombs where, once on the surface, he would telephone Colonel Mayakovsky. The search for Nick Miller was certain to begin right away and would continue, both in the caves and in the city, until the American was apprehended.

  Pleased with himself, Yezhov straightened his clothing, adjusted his glasses, and gathered his briefcase. This would be very beneficial for his career. He was going to give the Kremlin precisely what it wanted: a valid reason to arrest Miller. Colonel Mayakovsky and the Kremlin would eventually learn the real truth. That would be after Miller had spent a few days in prison, however, and after the U.S. government and the Western press had learned of the charges. And even if the Kremlin wanted to, Yezhov was certain that by that point they would not be able to back down and admit an error of such gravity. Rather, they would most likely laud Yezhov and generously reward him for his services to the Fatherland. All the Kremlin wanted, after all, was a legitimate reason to arrest the American and Yezhov was simply going to give them more than they had ever anticipated: an employee of the United States government to put on trial for the murder of an innocent Soviet citizen.

  Light. As the creature's growl grew closer and closer, all Nick could think of was light.

  He felt his pockets. Nothing. The ground. Nothing. The matches, where were the matches?

  He touched his shirt pocket again and found them. His body too tense with terror to shake, Nick reached into the pocket, took hold of the box of matches, and lifted it out.

  Throaty, animal snarls filled the cavern. Louder. Closer. Its sound reflected off the tall ceiling and bathed Nick's ears from all directions.

  This had to be a dream. A deathly nightmare. Not even an ember of light. Only something stalking, closing in on him.

  Nick struck a match. A small cluster of fire filled the room, so bright that it caused Nick to squint and it caused the creature to hesitate. It was right there before him, some five or six meters away.

  Without turning away from the animal, Nick groped to his side. He felt the fat at her waist. He reached higher and sensed a flabby breast. Higher still he found her face. He jabbed at her, poked her.

  “Elizaveta!” he demanded. “Elizaveta!”

  She was lifelessly quiet.

  The dry match burned swiftly. Nick dumped the box on the ground before him. He fumbled for another one and lit it from the flame, the hissing noise causing the creature to flinch.

  Nick grabbed his shirt sleeve and ripped it. Wasting no time, he tore it all the way to his shoulder and held it over the small fire. Slowly, surely, a warm yellow flame overtook the shirt sleeve.

  “Elizaveta, damn it all!”

  Still nothing.

  At the brighter light, the creature took a hesitant step backward. Then it froze. A deep guttural growl emerged from the animal's tortured body. It opened its mouth and quickly, sharply, snapped in the air. Turning its one eye that was nothing more than a black, rotten hunk of dried blood toward the light, the creature resumed its forward movement. On its three good legs, it moved one step. Two steps.

  “Elizaveta!”

  Breathing hard and fast, Nick ripped off his other sleeve in a series of frantic movements. He lit it and stood. Holding a mass of burning material in each hand, he searched the cavern for a rock or a log or any kind of weapon. The stone room, however, was clean and smooth, totally free of debris.

  In a famished growl, the creature whipped its head from side to side. A thick string of rabid saliva flew from its mouth like water from a fountain. As the animal began to tolerate the light, it moved yet closer.

  Nick stepped between the creature and Elizaveta. Balls of fire in each hand, he knew only moments remained before these, too, burned into blackness. Reflexively, Nick took a challenging step forward. He held the fire toward the creature's face. It froze and turned the blind eye toward the flame. Before it could move again, Nick charged forward, swung back his foot, and kicked. He caught the animal, unable to see out of its rotten eye, in its fleshy throat. The creature stumbled to the side and gasped and growled. Nick threw a ball of material at it. The animal turned away and Nick charged again. He kicked, his foot sinking into the side of the animal's head.

  Thick, black
fluid spurted from the animal's head. In one last act, it snapped viciously into the air. Part of the flame struck the remaining fur, and hairs shriveled into putrid, oily smoke. Weak and defeated, it cried out, the first doglike sound it had made. Like a helpless puppy, it yelped in pain and stumbled from side to side.

  Nick could not stop. He kicked his heavy shoe again and again into the soft side of the dog's head. Then the dog's cries ceased and it stumbled and fell to the ground. Unable to control himself, Nick jumped on the dog's head, stomping it underfoot, crushing it until the dark fluid ceased pumping from the body.

  His face ashen, Nick moved away from the dog's carcass. The burning material in hand, he turned around. There lay the other black body on the cavern floor.

  “Eliz… Eliz… Eliz… a… veta…”

  One step at a time, he recklessly plodded to her side and sunk to his knees.

  “Elizaveta, can you hear me!” he cried.

  He nudged her, shoved her, but she did not respond. Then, ever so slightly, he could see her chest rising and falling.

  Squeezing her arm, he said, “I'm going to get help. I'll be right back.”

  Around her neck was a piece of material, and he tore it loose. Nick lit the cloth—it burned in a cool, steady flame—and he made for the cavern's opening some forty feet away. When he reached the entry through which they had come, he turned around. Elizaveta lay there, unconscious, in the center of the cavern. The dog's bloody body lay not too far from her.

  Nick clutched at his chest, which felt tight—tight as if a piece of wet leather were wrapped around his lungs and shrinking with every minute. He turned right, leaving the cavern behind. Was this the way they had come? He stumbled along. He had to get out of the catacombs.

  Olga. Was she dead? And what about Elizaveta? Would she die, too? Die in that cave alongside the mad dog? He had to escape the caves. He had to find help for Elizaveta. He needed daylight and fresh air.