by Tigner, Tim
Alex waited for a swing toward Yarik’s right and then shot forward and crouched down on his own right knee. He used the bat in his left hand to block the rack’s return while channeling all his own momentum through his right arm into that club as it crashed down on the giant’s leading left shin. Even as he heard the crack of snapping fibular bone, Alex felt the searing pain of moose prongs ripping into the back of his skull. Fortunately, he had pre-programmed his moves and continued his planned combination without hesitation or loss of momentum. Ducking his head, Alex dropped the left blocking club and brought that hand down to join with his right on the thick end of the offensive club. Then, still crouching on one knee, he spun his shoulders 180 degrees and brought the thin end of the club up and around to impale the giant’s stomach with all the force he could muster. There was a mortal squish and then Alex rolled to the side as Yarik crumpled forward and fell on the rack in a heap.
When Alex regained his feet the sight that met his eyes was sickly sweet. Yarik had impaled his chest and throat on the moose rack as he fell. Though his corpse now wept rivers of blood, the giant himself had not made a sound.
Alex averted his eyes and walked over to close the door. He was shaking, but not from the cold, and his head was pounding like the stage at Riverdance. What now?
A fire seemed to be the first priority. He needed to absorb energy. Fortunately, the hearth and kindling were right there. Alex managed to get a healthy blaze going in no time. That done he looked around the cabin for a source of water but of course there was none. There would be a hand pump outside for use during the warmer months, but nothing for the winter; this was a seasonal place.
He did find a mirror in the kitchen cupboard, and brought it back in by the fire to try to survey the damage. He could not see the entire wound on the back of his head, but the portion the mirror exposed was a scary sight. In addition to boasting a beautiful collection of dirt and stubble, his head and shoulders were covered in blood, and part of his scalp seemed to be hanging there like a hairy red post-it note. Alex desperately wanted to give in to his body’s screaming desire to sleep, to push the proverbial snooze button. Instead he had to face the sad, irrefutable fact that he was in serious need of medical attention.
He found a dishrag and bound his scalp as best he could to stanch the bleeding. Then he turned his attention to the grisly task of searching the whale of a corpse that was beached and bleeding in the foyer. Alex was delighted to find some strips of venison in one pocket, as he was craving meat. Then he found what he thought was a frozen fish in another, but recoiled in disgust when he saw what he had pulled from the corpse’s pocket. It was a human hand. What kind of a sick creature had he killed? Did Yarik collect hands the way Indians had collected scalps? A moment later Alex understood, and he looked down on the relic in a very different light. Andrey. Fingerprints.
He set the hand reverently aside and continued the search. One pocket contained a couple of clips of ammunition. Alex retrieved the bloody pistol from the porch but found that the axe had ruined it. You couldn’t win them all.
Returning to the pockets Alex extracted a plastic tube that looked like it would hold a long cigar. It bore a stenciled fourteen-digit sequence with “Ferris” written just below.
As he read his name, Alex felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. Now he had his own number. He took a minute to memorize it and then tossed the tube into the fireplace. He started to smile but then winced at the pain this caused. Man, did he have a headache.
Alex kept searching the dead giant’s pockets. He found a wallet, a plastic bag, foreign and domestic Soviet passports, and a ring with a plastic identity card and three sophisticated metal keys. He pocketed everything.
Alex restocked the fireplace with logs and then went to the kitchen. He found four large glass jars, the kind Russians used to pickle cucumbers, tomatoes, and anything else their garden produced. He took the jars outside and packed all four tightly with ice and snow. Then he set them in front of the fireplace, threw some tea leaves in each, and sat down to eat the remainder of the smoked fish he had poached earlier that day.
Alex drank his fill of tepid tea and then some more and more again. Then, leaving two jars of water by the fire to warm, he began searching the cabin. It was time to face up to the fact that with a head wound as serious as his was, he was going to have to venture out in search of help.
Alex desperately wanted to sleep, but he knew that if he went to sleep as wounded, exhausted, and depleted as he was, he would most likely slip into a coma and die. The setting on the other side of the cabin door also offered him nothing but death, unless he could first find what he needed. Even then his odds of survival were probably just one in ten.
One of the first treasures he uncovered was a bottle of aspirin. Thank you, God! And then, as if in a personal answer to his other prayer, he found the prize he needed most: a map of the surrounding area. Stored in a box of fishing tackle, it was large in scale and showed little but mountains and lakes. There was a star to the side of one lake, presumably marking his present location. Many of the other lakes had notes penciled in on them, references to the type of fish and the best fishing locations. Alex could not care less about that. Fortunately the map also contained one thing that might save his life: a road.
At the closest attainable point, the highway to Novosibirsk appeared to be just ten kilometers away. He could run that far in forty minutes, in good conditions on flat land. But the land wasn’t flat, the conditions were as bad as conditions could get, and he was two steps from death’s door. Alex reckoned it would take him anywhere from two hours to eternity to get there.
He returned to the fire and reinspected his head. The bleeding had stopped. He used a jar of water to wash his wound as best he could. Then he rebound it with a fresh towel and sat down to eat some dried venison and drink a jar of tepid tea. He studied the map while he tore through the food, knowing full well that it would probably be his last meal.
Despite the gravity of the situation and his resolve to complete his quest, Alex found his head bobbing on his chest. He desperately needed to sleep and he could not fight it anymore. Maybe just a few minutes…
Alex pulled the bearskin rug before the fire and collapsed onto it. No sooner had he closed his eyes than they sprang open again in shock from a mighty crack. It was just the fire. His eyelids had begun dropping again, along with his adrenaline and life expectancy, when his eyes came to rest on Andrey’s hand. First it shocked him one way, then another.
The strength and dedication of his fallen comrade seemed to flow into Alex, and heard Andrey’s final words once again: “Don’t you fail me Alex! Don’t you let my children down!”
Alex found the means to force the Reaper’s sleep to wait. With labored moves, he stood up and got dressed again, choosing the best of the clothes from his and Yarik’s wardrobes. With that accomplished there was just one thing left to do.
Alex threw more logs on the fire, arranging a couple of them on the top like a platform. Then he took Andrey’s hand and consigned it to the flames with a prayer of thanks and a blessing for his friend’s soul. Andrey had given his life to the mission; Alex could do no less.
Fully aware that this was either the bravest or most foolhardy thing he would ever do, Alex bid farewell to the warmth of the fire, screwed determination firmly to his heart, and strode back out into the stormy Siberian night.
PART III
Chapter 43
Academic City, Siberia
When Major Maximov showed up unexpectedly for the third time in as many weeks, Vasily felt his lungs shrivel within his chest. Was he about to find himself all alone? First Igor, then Yarik … now Victor? It couldn’t be. And it wasn’t. In fact, this time the news was just the opposite.
“Yarik’s alive.” Vasily repeated. “How is that possible?”
Major Maximov smiled. “Three people parachuted from the plane before it exploded. They found tracks and harnesses.”
“Is he o
kay?”
“They think so, but they can’t be sure because they don’t know where he is. The team investigating the crash site found eight bodies, none of which was his, so they’re assuming Yarik was among the three jumpers. One of the jumpers had a problem with his parachute and didn’t survive the fall. We don’t know who he was—the wolves didn’t leave much—but he had hair.”
“Where do they think Yarik went?”
“He ran off in pursuit of the other survivor. The details are scant. According to the senior officer at the scene, the few remaining tracks indicated that a heavy jumper set out in pursuit of a lighter one. Judging by the tracks both men appeared healthy. That’s all they know.”
“How’s the search and rescue going?”
“There isn’t one. The trail was already a day old when they got there, and the terrain was too rough to follow them in a jeep. What’s more, the location is too remote for helicopters to service it efficiently—there’s no place to refuel. The government is not going to make that much fuss over one man, even a general. Yarik is on his own.”
“So we just sit tight and wait for him to call?”
“That’s all we can do.”
“For how long?”
“Could be days. There’s nothing out there. But you know Yarik, he’s no doubt enjoying himself.”
“Yes,” Vasily said. “No doubt.
Chapter 44
Siberian Outback, Russia
Anna was feeling good for someone so cold and tired. She was aglow with the contentment of a missionary, and her own physical discomfort was more than offset by the echo of yesterday’s grateful voices. Her mobile clinic made a difference in people’s lives, and they weren’t nameless, faceless people either. She got to look them in the eye, hold their trembling hands, and share in their relief.
It was just before seven in the morning now, and dawn had not yet broken. She and Vova were driving home in their ambulance, with a hundred and fifty kilometers still to go.
They had driven down to the village of Krasnoe the morning before, bringing medicine to its invalids. The line of those sick and suffering had been a long one for a village of that size, and neither she nor Vova had the heart to turn anyone away. By the time they finished passing out pills and giving shots the blizzard was upon them, and staying the night was the only option.
A couple of Krasnoe’s grateful residents had made them comfortable, but Anna still wished she were home. She had not prepared for an overnight stay and she really wanted to brush her teeth and soak in a tub. As it was, and assuming the roads had been dutifully cleared during the night, she might have just enough time for a quick shower at home before reporting to the hospital. Mondays were always busy. She could not be late.
Sitting there jostling along in the passenger seat, Anna’s thoughts drifted back to a nagging comment she had heard two nights before. It had come from the peanut gallery, the row of babushkas that habitually lined the benches before her apartment building. The war widows congregated there like crows on a telephone wire. She had come home early from visiting her own mother and as she passed through the granny gauntlet one of them had asked, “Where’s you man, Dear? It’s Saturday night.” The broader meaning of the question had not escaped her. Ouch.
Her impending spinsterhood had obviously been a topic of lengthy discussion there on the bench. Anna had brushed it off with her usual retort, “I just haven’t found the right one yet,” but the comment had struck a nerve. She was twenty-eight and still single with no prospects in sight. That was unusual for someone who was not unattractive or otherwise undesirable.
Ironically enough, she had met Vasily at the hospital Friday with the specific intention of avoiding the gaggle of grannies. Now she wondered if that had been a mistake. Sure, they would have chewed it over like a herd of camels at a peanut butter factory, and of course, they would be asking about The General every time she came home thereafter—peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth—but at least the taunting would stop.
Another unforeseen side effect of her preventive medicine was worse than the contamination she tried to prevent. Her date with Vasily had come to Akchurin’s attention. It was as if the goddess of gossip were punishing her for bypassing the bench, for circumventing her altar. Anna couldn’t win.
The ambulance braked suddenly and Anna looked up with the realization that she had been dozing. “What’s up?”
“Thought I saw a body by the side of the road, although it might have been a bear,” Vova replied, backing the ambulance up carefully. “Probably a drunk that got hit by a car, Dear, although I can’t imagine where he would have been drinking. God knows we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
It seemed everyone was calling her “Dear” these days. Anna didn’t like it because it made her feel that people did not take her seriously. Not that she should complain: with a last name that meant bunny rabbit, it could be worse. And she couldn’t get upset with Vova; he was great.
Vova was her age, modestly attractive, and had a heart as big as Buddha. He was also very gay. While this might be her loss on one hand, on the other it made him an ideal companion for these outreach trips. It was important to Anna to have a man along both for safety reasons and to help with the larger patients. His sexuality actually proved to be a bonus as transportation hang-ups like last night’s blizzard were as common as the cold in rural Siberia. She couldn’t imagine being stuck in a situation like that with Ruslan, for example.
Vova stopped the ambulance by the dark mound and they hopped out. The arctic blast nearly blew Anna back into the vehicle as she pushed at the door. Unless this guy was dressed as warmly as Professor Petrov had been, there wasn’t much hope for him—not that things had gone particularly well for Petrov either.
The mound was a man, and he did indeed appear to have been hit by a car. Anna had seen enough blood to know what it looked like even when caked and frozen. She rolled him over to check for a pulse and found a weak one. “He’s alive. Let’s get him in the back.”
With some effort—the man was wearing a lot of clothing—she and Vova managed to haul him onto a stretcher, which they then lifted into the back of the ambulance. They both hopped in after him and quickly pulled the doors shut behind.
Their patient was wearing what appeared to be a sleeping bag on top of his other winter clothes. It was obvious that he had not planned to use it for sleeping, however, because he had cut holes for his arms, legs, and face. There must be a story behind that.
After Vova removed the bag Anna began cutting away at the man’s hat, which was stuck to his head by a thick matting of congealed blood. “Looks like his injuries were caused by an animal attack rather than a car,” she said, examining an ugly, deep gash in his head.
“And the smell of vodka is conspicuously absent,” Vova added.
The man’s eyes suddenly sprang open and he sat up. “What? Where? Where am I? Who are you?” Anna thought he sounded afraid.
“Lie down and relax,” she said. “You’re safe, but you need to rest.”
“Where am I,” he repeated with more force, ignoring both her words and Vova’s attempt to nudge him back into a lying position.
She would have been frightened if he didn’t look so pathetic. “You’re on an ambulance. We’re doctors.”
“An ambulance? Why aren’t we moving?”
Perceptive guy. “We can’t drive and look after you at the same time. But now that you’re awake, we can get moving again.” She nodded to Vova.
“Maybe I should strap him down Anna, so he doesn’t hurt himself while we drive.” Vova nodded as he spoke.
“I’ll take care of it,” she replied, using a tone that she knew he would not argue with.
“Where are we headed,” the patient asked.
“Academic City. It will take us about two hours,” Vova shouted back from the front.
At the mention of the city a look of concern flashed across the patient’s face. Then, as Anna moved to give him a shot h
e grabbed her wrist with a speed that was unexpectedly fast for someone in his condition.
“What’s that,” he asked, looking her in the eye.
“Antibiotics.”
He released her arm.
“I would also like to give you pain killers and a sedative.”
“Pain killers would be most appreciated. No sedative though.”
“All right.” She would crank up the pain killers—he could clearly use them—and the effect would be the same.
“Thank you. And sorry about that. I’m … I’ve had a bad day.”
Anna smiled but did not reply.
He continued. “Do you happen to have anything to drink?”
Anna poured him a cup of tea from her thermos, and then on instinct pulled a couple of apples out of her handbag. Without further comment she started tending to the wound on his head.
He smiled at her then gulped down the tea. She refilled his mug while he started on the apples. When they were gone he turned to her as though they were having tea in her kitchen and spoke. “You’ve been very kind to help me. Thank you. I was beaten up by the KGB, but managed to escape before they took it too far. If they find me again, I’m afraid they’ll spoil all your fine work.”
His last few words faded, as though he was getting very sleepy. That scared him and he seemed to fight it, but he was beyond fighting. “It’s just the pain killers,” she whispered, and lowered him gently back onto the stretcher.
Anna strapped him in for safety’s sake, gave him a couple more shots to help fight shock and inflammation and went back up to sit in the passenger seat.
“KGB got him, eh,” Vova said. “The animals.”
Anna just nodded. The KGB were supposedly there to help Russia’s citizens, but unfortunately help was defined by a very specific subset of Russians.