The Volk Advent

by Kristen Joy Wilks

I was loath to sell them to the angry young men my contact told me of. What were their plans? Who would bleed when these old guns fired again? What would they destroy using the fragile crates with the swastika burnt into their graying wood? No, I would care for these myself. And so I hauled every crate and rifle out to the forest to burn. I waited for darkness on Christmas Eve.

  Every soul in the village would be at home feasting on fish, borsch, and cabbage stuffed with millet. No one would see the explosion. Who would guess the reality after everything was burned and gone.

  I laid a fire in the center of the pile, providing plenty of wood and a barrel of used oil. It would take some time for the flames to ignite the explosives. I had time to walk away. But flames have their own kind of power and I paused in the watchtower of the castle wall to watch.

  That was when I saw the plane. A small bush plane, the kind that was not supposed to fly after dark. Surely it was off course and desperate for some place to land. I had piled up my past in a small clearing in the woods. The open spot and the light of the fire would draw the pilot.

  I waved my flashlight like a lunatic, but the plane did not avert its course. I rushed into the forest, although surely my presence would not stop the small craft. As the plane approached the meadow, the whole pile blew skyward.

  I buried them in the forest. The mother and father and pilot. I carried the little girl and her pup to Melora myself. The animal ran into the forest when Melora took the child. The girl had hit her head badly. I poured money into the orphanage and bargained for Melora’s silence. If not on behalf of our failed love, then perhaps for profit.

  I hid a few things away, the little girl’s dolls, the woman’s Christmas gift from her husband, the man’s business things. I left the music with the child, though; perhaps the familiar songs will ease her grief.

  Now I, too, have a stash of secrets. I rushed to destroy secrets left from a time of war and have found a skeleton of my own to hide away. Innocent casualties in a time of peace. It has come full circle then. I am my Grandfather’s shame, all over and again.

  I sat alone in the silence for a long, long time.

  This explained why the older Volkov had dug the tunnels. He’d actually owned a real dragon’s horde, Nazi treasure, something he absolutely had to hide.

  Chobo trotted up and sat at my feet. I noticed how my hand trembled as I reached out to stroke her head. “Barbie?” I whispered.

  Chobo barked and lunged to slurp my face.

  I stared at her, not moving to defend myself. My name was Hailey. Hailey Barnett. Faina Smith had always sounded made up, because it was.

  No wonder Chobo was so much fatter and fluffier and goofier than the Siberian huskies in town. She was a malamute, the local dog of the native tribes in American Alaska.

  I bent and retrieved the small photo album from the trunk. I opened the warped plastic cover to a picture of a little blonde girl and her furry pup.

  Chobo was my dog…and Kirill Volkov had killed my parents.

  11

  Chobo Forgets All She Knew About Playing Fetch

  Like rusted metal gears clicking into place and grinding forward with a lurch, everything that was wrong about me suddenly made perfect sense. That first terrible year of struggling to understand Russian.

  Ms. Melora had said I hit my head in the accident that killed my parents and was therefore too stupid to comprehend the simplest comment.

  No wonder I hadn’t understood Russian, I wasn’t Russian at all. They had even given me an American name, well half of an American name. Smith, Faina Smith.

  Chobo/Barbie gave a rumbly howl and lumbered off down the tunnel.

  I pressed the palms of my mittens against my forehead as each terrible little piece of the puzzle snapped into place. My dreams, all those awful dreams about the storm and the blast and smoke choking my lungs and the blood, dark on the snow.

  Kirill Volkov must have carried me to the orphanage still dazed from the crash. He’d lost my puppy in the storm and left me with Ms. Melora.

  No wonder Liev’s dog had always given me her loudest, most pitiable howl when he’d come to visit. She had launched herself upon me and covered me with dog slobber the only time Ms. Melora allowed her inside. Chobo knew, but I’d believed my mind was broken and unreliable.

  Had Kirill Volkov truly thought that saving me from the wreck made everything OK? He’d stuffed me away in that terrible place, all to guard his secret, his mistake. The wealthy old hermit had killed my parents. It was an accident, a stupid and senseless error, but he had killed them all the same. And now he was dead.

  I stumbled forward and rifled through the trunk. I yanked the ID out of my mother’s purse and tore through my father’s briefcase looking for anything with his name lettered across the top. No one could ever find these things. I had to hide them, destroy them. For now, the man who had killed my parents was dead, and if anyone guessed at what he had done, they would convict me of murder for sure.

  I couldn’t carry everything. But the Barbies and most of the paperwork didn’t point specifically at me. They could have belonged to any American girl and her hardworking Dad. Without my mother’s ID, the purse wouldn’t be a danger either.

  I tucked a few of the papers, my mom’s ID, the small photo book, and Kirill Volkov’s diary under my arm and let the lid on the trunk thump shut. I dropped my armload of evidence and hoisted the lid open again. I tossed the key inside and snapped the padlock shut.

  An ache settled under my ribs as I gathered up the papers and ID, but I turned my back on those few precious mementoes and hurried down the frozen corridor.

  I could hear Chobo wooing at someone far down the tunnel. The indistinct sound of a male voice answered her. She must have found Liev.

  I forced my legs into a run. The evidence had to be destroyed. I could not let Liev find me and my armload of secrets.

  I jogged around a corner in the tunnel and heard the slap of something hitting the icy floor. I glanced back. A furry blur charged down the tunnel from behind.

  “Go home, Chobo.”

  The furry rocket just kept coming. She barreled into my chest, leapt up to slurp my face, and whirred around to thunder back the way she had come. Just before she rounded the corner, Chobo skidded to a stop and trotted back. She sniffed at something that lay on the tunnel floor.

  Oh, no, my mind screamed at me to do something. Chobo’s probing nose flipped the journal over and gave it a good sniff. I hustled toward her, but Chobo was quick. She snatched up Kirill Volkov’s diary and pranced away, obviously thrilled to have grabbed something I desperately wanted back.

  “Come, Chobo, bring it here.”

  Chobo plopped her head on her paws and stuck her behind up in the air, wagging. I took a step toward her. She bounded away and looked back, a doggy smirk on her furry face.

  As she pranced away I shouted out the only command I had ever seen her obey. “Snack time!”

  Chobo turned, crouched in the tunnel, and growled around the journal. She did not drop it. Instead, the furry thief bounded away with her head high and her tail curled over her back at a jaunty angle.

  Right then, I remembered what an abysmal failure Barbie had been at fetch.

  I snatched up the fallen papers and hurried down the tunnel until I found the stair. Close to the top, I remembered seeing a drain next to the faucet that Kirill Volkov would have used in the summer to water his overgrown garden. I tore the papers to shreds and stuffed them and my mother’s ID down the drain.

  I flipped through the photo album trying to take mental snapshots to save. My parents loading up our stuff in the small plane. The pilot, giving us a lecture on the history of Siberia. Barbie/Chobo thundering all over the floor and the seats and our in-flight snack. I bit my lip and stuffed the photos down the drain as well.

  Then I slipped back into the tunnels and hurried after my ill-mannered dog. Liev might have raised her all these years, but she had been my puppy. Chobo would want to show me that she ha
d the journal. She would find me so that she could prance just out of reach with the prize held proudly in her jaws. This time she was not getting away with it. At the first hint of a woo wooo woooo, I would tackle that fat puffball and destroy the evidence of Kirill’s crime.

  If I didn’t, I was headed for a Siberian prison just as surely as if I had actually killed the man.

  12

  My Television Debut Goes Horribly Wrong

  I couldn’t find Chobo. I wandered the tunnels long enough that my plan changed from “locate fat, thieving dog” to “find the surface before this underground maze turns me into a raving lunatic.”

  Finding the surface was almost as difficult. There didn’t seem to be that many actual tunnels. I mean, who could afford to hack at the permafrost long enough to create an unnavigable maze? There was one main corridor and a few smaller offshoots, but it got twisted around so much they all looked the same.

  Finding the stairway to the surface seemed about as impossible as teaching Chobo an actual useful-type command.

  It wasn’t, though. I found the stair and the rotating wall, eventually. But I hiked long enough that I had actually begun to thaw, which was the Siberian version of getting all hot and sweaty.

  I slid my mitten over the frosty wall until my hand sank into the slight depression. I put my shoulders and back behind the action and shoved. With a crack and a growling groan, the stone wall scraped across the icy floor. I sagged against the heavy wall to catch my breath and then trudged up the stairway.

  The courtyard was empty except for a large lump of fur sprawled near the center. After a moment, the furry heap rolled back and forth, scratching its back on the ground and making happy sounding snarls and woo woo woos. The mound of fur tossed a book into the air, caught it, leapt up, ran around in a circle, flopped down again, and from all appearances decided to take a nap right on top of Kirill Volkov’s incriminating journal.

  I narrowed my eyes and evaluated my quarry. Was it better to sneak up on Chobo, or launch a sprinting attack? I decided on the best of both worlds. I crept over the empty courtyard, walking on my toes and placing each valenki with care.

  Chobo’s tail paused its wagging and she froze, apparently listening.

  I thundered forward. Before the heavy hound could dance away, I flung myself through the air and landed smack on top of her. The air wooshed from both our lungs.

  I groaned.

  Chobo had started her howly greeting and the noise that resulted was a kind of woo wooooooipe yipe yip.

  I hardened my heart, wrapped my arms around her furry neck and seized the book.

  Her teeth clamped down and the woooyip turned into an enthusiastic snarl. I threw my whole body into the attack. I slammed Chobo onto her side and grabbed the book with both hands.

  She scrambled to her feet and jerked back on the book, snarling and wagging and dragging me across the tiles of the courtyard on my stomach. Icy chunks sneaked through the gaps in my coat. I twisted and flipped. Chobo yanked me forward with several strong jerks. As the icy bits hit my skin a chill swept through me. I scrambled up and surged forward. I landed on the furry miscreant. Yip! Finally, I shoved my mitten into Chobo’s mouth and pried her teeth open with my hands.

  Both Chobo and I fell back, panting.

  I crammed the journal into the deep outer pocket of the coat and sucked in several shaky breaths. I brushed the ice and snow off my mangled furs and looked up. My gaze met the flat, golden eyes of a large, gray wolf.

  He didn’t growl or howl or snarl. Instead, he crouched low and eased forward with a lean and graceful confidence that told me that Mr. Fluffy here knew exactly what he was about.

  I backed away, but a soft noise behind me sent shivers zipping up my spine. A glance back showed another wolf, tall and lean. Three more wolves slipped into the courtyard and took up positions on either side of us.

  Finally, Chobo noticed that something was up. She didn’t woo or wag or prance around. Chobo’s fluffy tail drooped and she hunkered down behind me.

  “Chobo!” I shouted. “Snack time!”

  Chobo lifted one corner of her lip in a feeble snarl, then tucked her tail and bolted.

  My shouted commands drew the attention of the wolves.

  Chobo made her escape while the wolves ghosted nearer.

  “Good, good. I like your energy, girl, but you’re standing too tall. These slavering beasts are about to tear you limb from limb. Show me just a touch of mind-numbing fear and a dash of terror, all right?”

  I jumped at the sound of the strange voice.

  The wolves slunk closer.

  I stomped my feet and clapped my hands, trying to appear as threatening as possible.

  They backed up a pace.

  “No, no, no. Try cowering a bit. I want the audience to feel your fear, to imagine the snarls of wolves in their ears and to feel the crunch of teeth against their bones. Take two!”

  Finally, I spotted him.

  Rhys Adaire, standing next to a camera man who filmed safely from the wall above. Wow, so this was what he had wanted to pay me to do. I was glad I’d had the sense to say “no.” Although it looked as though this guy hadn’t let my refusal sink in too deep.

  “If you could lower a rope from the wall or make a loud noise or shoot them all with tranquilizer guns, that would be really helpful, Mr. Adaire.”

  “Nonsense, girl. You’re doing fine, just fine. Their trainer has everything in hand, I assure you. We worked everything out days ago. This is perfect…except. Jean Claude, see if you can do something about her hair before we do the chase scene.”

  I tried a different tack. “It’s not even dawn yet. Why don’t we take a break until the lighting is better?”

  “No no, the real attack happened at night. This is perfect.”

  The filming continued. Apparently they had the proper equipment for shooting at night.

  I swallowed. My throat felt small and tight.

  The wolves ignored Adaire. They crept closer and I noticed that all seven pack members had joined the party.

  Something brushed the back of my neck. I screamed and flinched away.

  Someone yanked me back by my braid. A harsh rasp and tug against the tender hairs at the base of my neck was followed by the empty blowing of wind against my bare skin. A thick, blonde braid fell into the snow at my feet.

  I cried out again, this time in anger. That was a terrible mistake.

  For when they heard the tears in my voice and the unmistakable sound of pain and distress, the wolves attacked.

  13

  Not Recommended For the First Time Pet Owner

  Eurasian wolves do not make good pets. Even though these animals had been coddled literally since their birth, bottle fed and everything if the stories in town were true, at the end of the day they were still wolves. An apex predator does not blend well into the schedule of one’s home. An apex predator, well, they have plans of their own.

  My yelp of horror as the TV guy cut my hair was just the show of weakness that the wolves had been waiting for. I was their Christmas feast.

  They lunged forward, low and snarling. Anyone who has witnessed a dog fight will tell you that it looks terrible, but most of the time the dogs are just fine. When dogs are simply scuffling, they bite all over each other’s head and neck, sounding ferocious. It is a show of force and rarely results in bloodshed. But if a dog means business, it will bite at its opponent’s legs and belly, because that is how true injury occurs.

  The wolves went straight for my legs.

  I was not cool with that. I leaped back kicking and striking out in any way I could. They got a hold of my valenki boot, but I yanked it free and scrambled back.

  The TV guy was not as fortunate. He gasped in pain. He’d fallen when I slammed backwards.

  Rasia Volkova was running toward us.

  I bent and seized the TV guy under the arms.

  Rhys Adaire screamed into the crisp morning air, somehow thinking that someone, somewhere
had control over the roving pack of wolves. “Jean Claude! Where is that trainer? Call them off. Call them off.” What had he imagined would happen during the big reenactment?

  I yanked Jean Claude toward the revolving wall.

  Rasia dropped several of the wolves with a tranquilizer gun and rushed to help me.

  “This way.” I muttered through clenched teeth.

  Instead of accusing me of murder, she slipped Jean Claude’s arm over her shoulder. Together we ran for the tunnel. I yanked Jean Claude through the gap while Rasia shoved him from behind.

  The wolves had regrouped and she turned to shoot another dart. They rushed forward.

  “Don’t, just come.” I grabbed her arm and pulled, but I was just a breath too late.

  Rasia screamed.

  I heaved on her arm, not caring how it must hurt. The wolves had her leg and lunged back. I yanked harder and Ms. Volkova paled. I stopped, but she shook her head. I ground my cheek between my teeth and heaved back on her arm. She stumbled through the gap and I slammed my shoulder against the small depression in the wall. The wall ground back into place.

  The wolves yipped and scrambled back.

  Our breathing echoed in the darkness. I clicked on my flashlight.

  Rasia was shaking.

  Jean Claude looked much too pale.

  I knelt on the icy floor of the tunnel to examine him. I ran the light over his injuries, not too bad considering the source. He had puncture wounds around his ankles and a small amount of blood had soaked into his socks.

  There was blood on the floor beneath us.

  A chill slid across my skin as I turned to Rasia Volkova. She didn’t look up.

  I ran the light down her limbs looking for the wound. Her heavy winter pants were shredded from thigh to ankle and the fabric was black with blood. I yanked off the thin, orphanage sweater beneath my furs. Buttons fell to the floor like dice in a game of chance. I straightened Rasia’s left leg. She continued to tremble, but didn’t make a sound. She should have been screaming. The girl must have been in shock. Blood continued to seep into the permafrost. The back of her thigh was shredded.