The Bridge of Silver Wings

by John Wiltshire

  Before the unconscious man’s companions could object, Nikolas had squared up to them, his eyes, to Ben’s way of thinking, full of warning that should be heeded. Apparently the other two hunters agreed, and the testosterone levels lowered a little as the tall, good-looking one spat, “What the fuck?”

  Nikolas stepped away from the downed man and explained patiently, “I believe he wanted a closer view of the ground.”

  § § §

  Lighting a fire was absurdly easy given the magnesium block and cotton wool the girl, who they now knew was called Emilia, had provided. Nikolas moved everyone away from the shore where mosquitoes and black flies would cluster later that evening, and into the shelter of the forest, the recovering hunter slung between his friends, groggy and unresisting. Within half an hour, they had a substantial fire going, and all the men had stripped to their underwear, their outer clothes hung to dry. Emilia and her grandmother undressed beneath the space blanket and huddled together, watching the flames, the grandmother plaiting the girl’s damp hair into an elaborate braid.

  Nikolas came over to where Ben was sitting with his leg stretched out. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine. How are your knuckles?”

  Nikolas tried to hide his smirk, rubbing his bruised hand, amused.

  Ben sighed, but it was a sound Nikolas decided to take as approval for his slightly hasty admonition of the man who had, effectively, caused the crash and Ben’s consequent injury. “We need to move, Nik. We can’t stay here.”

  Nikolas agreed with him entirely and sat down alongside him, their thighs touching. He handed Ben a boiled sweet with a smirk. “Supper.” Ben appeared happy to take the offering in the spirit it was intended. “We’ll have opposition when we tell them we have to move. They’ll want to stay here.”

  “They can’t, Nik. We were miles off course. We banked just before we hit, and there’s no wreckage. If we stay here we die.”

  “I know. But, trust me, no one will thank me when I tell them. Babushka will do whatever I say, I think. The granddaughter will follow her. It’s the others who’ll object. I’ll take the bag with the supplies and hide it. We’ll collect it when the four of us leave.”

  Ben eased his leg, leaning heavily on Nikolas. To his evident surprise, Nikolas put his arm around him, shifting so Ben was wholly propped against his bare chest. Finally, when he could speak through the pain, Ben insisted, “We don’t split the group. Everyone comes with us. Everyone gets out alive, okay?”

  “It’s their fucking fault I’m sitting here in my shorts, Ben. I don’t care if they come with us or not.”

  “Well, I, for one, am enjoying you in your shorts. And we leave no one. I’m not kidding. It’s my way, or I won’t back you. We’ll all stay here.”

  Nikolas ran his fingers through Ben’s hair, combing it absentmindedly. “You’re extremely annoying. But you’re my better half—the conscience I don’t have. We’ll do it your way then.” They sat together companionably for a while, Nikolas’s arms around Ben, his chin lowered onto the dark hair. “How long were we flying before we crashed would you say?”

  “Four hours or so.”

  Nikolas chuckled. “Is that by your stomach clock? I’d think that plane could fly at maybe three hundred miles an hour, so we’re twelve hundred miles from the city.”

  “Closer to our destination then.”

  “But it was only a tiny place we were heading for with a small airstrip and camp. We can’t find it. We must follow the rivers back south.”

  “They won’t be able to do twelve hundred miles, Nik! At best, we’d do twenty miles a day. It would take us months.”

  “We don’t have two months. It’s September. We can sit here during the day with a fire now, but in two months time it’ll be below freezing, even during the day. We’re not dressed to survive here in November. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  Ben took Nikolas’s hand, apparently examining the damage to the knuckles. “How did you? Survive, I mean.”

  “I was young and fit, and I was very popular. Now, you must dress and keep warm, and I’ll go find you a better dinner than I’ve just offered you.” He eased Ben back to lying and went to fetch dry clothes. When he’d dressed Ben and was back in his own clothes, he eyed the two younger hunters for a while then sighed and went over, his hand extended to introduce himself as Nikolas Mikkelsen. It hardly seemed worth remembering yet another pseudonym. One day he would forget entirely which man he was pretending to be. He preferred to concentrate on this thought and not on his slip with the popularity comment.

  The men turned out to be Jackson Keane, a lawyer from Chicago and his paralegal, Lucas Fisherton. The other, the one holding his head, they informed Nikolas, was Sean Sands—an ex-cop from New York. While he was at it, Nikolas decided to introduce himself to the others, but when he held out his hand to the father of the missionaries, the old man kept his back and only nodded his head. “Jonas Terry and these are my sons, Ruben and Samuel.” Nikolas gave him a curt nod and turned back to the three men in camouflage equipment.

  “I’m going to get dinner. Would anyone care to accompany me?” He heard a faint snort from Ben at the pseudo aristocratic politeness but ignored him—he could have added the “sir” to his introduction, but restraint was his middle name. Jackson, the tall man who was clearly the leader of their small faction, glared at him and gestured angrily toward the lake.

  “Our weapons are in that plane, buddy. Everything. Couldn’t you’ve salvaged one fucking rifle! She gets to rescue her knitting needles, and our guns are at the bottom of the friggin’ lake!”

  Nikolas pursed his lips. “I’ll take that as a no then.”

  “I’ll go with you.” The youngest Terry, Samuel, stepped forward. His father seemed annoyed and told the other brother to accompany them. It was clear from his face he didn’t trust Nikolas. Or perhaps his youngest son. Before he left, Nikolas went to the women and squatted by them.

  He looked Emilia in the eye and asked quietly, “Can I trust you with something very important?” She nodded, eyes like saucers at being addressed so. “Sit with Ben. Don’t let him get up and walk around. Can you do that for me?” Before she could reply, showing his complete faith she’d assent, he turned to Ulyana Ivanovna. “We’ll need water boiled. Use the tin. Keep the fire high.”

  Then he rose and went back to Ben, cautioning in Danish, “Keep the girl by your side. I don’t trust these men.”

  Ben countered with, “Keep the oldest brother by your side. I don’t trust that boy.” Nikolas laughed and raised an eyebrow, eying the youngest Terry thoughtfully, just to annoy Ben, and then he gestured to his two helpers and jogged off into the forest.

  § § §

  Three hundred pounds and then some, when Sean Sands hit the ground, he’d gone down. Hard. He was taking a long time to recover. His jaw ached, for sure, but his ass hurt more where he’d landed on it, and his back was so screwed he could hardly hobble to take a fucking piss.

  He closed his eyes to the pain as the dark stream hit the ground, picturing the blond maniac beneath it, soaking, begging, and mouth open, taking it in.

  Sean was a desperate man.

  He was a man out of his comfort zone.

  He had spent thirty years as a cop in New York using and abusing the power of a gun and a uniform to project an aura of something he wasn’t, venting his considerable ire on the Hispanics and niggers that crawled like vermin out of every crack in the Brownsville sidewalks. Gradually the illusion had shattered under the weight of a lifetime’s consumption of junk food and beer, his belly weighing him down as much as the chip on his shoulder. Forced to retire, he’d been reduced to taking a security job, but he’d found his feet again—metaphorically, he hadn’t seen them for real in many years—working for Simpson, Ashurst & Dunn. Sliver by sliver he’d reformed his broken façade.

  He was Head of Security now and had younger men to do the physical work. Had a big desk in a corner office with a walnut
sign on the door confirming that Sean Sands was back in business. In a chair behind a desk all day, Sean’s belly had continued to grow, the chip calcifying upon his shoulder like crystal growing in a solution of his own bile. For Sean now worked for lawyers. He had to breathe deeply every time he thought about it or said “yes, sir” to scum he wouldn’t piss on if they were burning. Lawyers. For fuck’s sake.

  Roiling in the injustice of it all, he’d been imploding—made a few mistakes, pissed off the wrong people—when he’d been offered the chance to set up hunting trips for the firm. He knew about guns, right?

  He did now.

  He’d discovered the orgasmic delight of six point five pounds of custom-built perfection loaded with hollow points. This was hunting in the corporate age. GPS, ATVs, camo pants with a seventy-two-inch waist. This was projection of power with a capital fucking P.

  But now his power was at the bottom of a lake.

  Now he’d been confronted by power of a very different kind.

  He hadn’t even seen it coming. Hadn’t even seen the tall man move, but then he’d been gone, out cold, waking with a sore ass, and a tooth somewhere the wrong side of loose.

  He’d taken punches before. It wasn’t like Sean didn’t know what a fist to the face felt like.

  And the guy was big, so it wasn’t like a little pisser had taken him down, but the man was a fag! The blond fuck was banging the pretty boy! He, Sean Sands, had been taken out by a cocksucking, assjacking fag!

  Sands zipped up and adjusted his gut above his belt, keeping his back to the group around the fire. He could hear Jackson and Lucas talking quietly, the old hag muttering in gibberish to the little mute.

  Sands had the blond’s measure. The guy hadn’t punched him ’cause of the crash, no siree. Punched him for pretty boy and his leg—put Sean on his ass ’cause he wouldn’t be getting his boyfriend’s ass for a while.

  Christ, he’d never looked at a fucking woman like that, and there was nothing wrong with his sex life. Sure, he was having a bit of a dry spell, was carrying a bit of weight on him. That blond fucker could do with some damn weight on him. See if pretty boy touched him then, hundred pounds on his belly.

  Well, he’d made a bad mistake with that punch. Lots of gutter punks back home made that mistake, too. The Russian cunt couldn’t watch his back all the time. Couldn’t guard pretty boy all the time, either.

  This was a big place.

  Lots of things could happen to fags in a place this big.

  § § §

  Nikolas wasn’t particularly worried about finding game, and he knew very well how to catch and kill it. The problem he foresaw was how to keep everyone fed whilst on the move. He couldn’t lay trap lines or spend a great deal of time preparing and cooking food if they were to make any kind of progress during the day. But they couldn’t walk if they didn’t eat.

  Very quickly, they came upon signs of deer, bark on spruce trees with telltale vertical shreds from rubbing, and the ground littered with fresh droppings. He spent the next hour carefully preparing a spring trap on the trail leading to the tree and on to the lake where the deer had presumably gone for water. Then he ushered the brothers back into some thick scrub to wait. The young men had stayed silent as Nikolas had worked, but now they wanted to talk. Nikolas wouldn’t allow it. Their voices would carry as much as their scent, and they had to remain downwind and silent. The hours crept on. Both of the brothers dozed off in the late afternoon sunshine. It started to cool, and night was beginning to fall. Finally, Nikolas heard sounds of the forest waking. He continued to wait patiently, sometimes thinking about what lay ahead and making plans, but mostly thinking about Ben and his leg.

  Suddenly, there was a squeal and huge amount of scuffling. He shot out of the bushes, ignoring the other two who’d woken abruptly, and found he’d snared a small wild boar, not a deer. It was just as good. He slit its throat and let it bleed out. He’d have saved the blood and made the others drink it for the iron, but he didn’t think food would be a problem for them until the winter came. The thought of still being in these forests in a Siberian winter did nothing for his mood. He butchered the pig and gave the pieces to the other two to carry, and they made their way back to the temporary camp. They’d been away nearly four hours by the time they returned. He navigated them back with the compass and for the last mile by the light of the fire.

  He was more than a little impressed to discover Ulyana Ivanovna had gathered an extensive and impressive collection of wild plants, which she’d cooked in boiling water. Some she’d used on Ben’s leg as antiseptic, and some she’d saved for them to eat. She dismissed his praise with a laugh and grumbled there were advantages to being old and from Siberia. He agreed. Jackson Keane and Lucas Fisherton finally decided to help, perhaps motivated by the sight of the large hunks of pork, and they erected a spit over the fire. Soon, the small group of survivors was sitting around, watching the fat spatter out onto the wood, listening to it sizzle and salivating over the thought of the roast meat to come.

  Nikolas ushered Ben a little further away from the fire so they could enjoy some privacy in the dark then resumed his position sitting behind Ben, supporting him. Ben was obviously tired and in pain, but when passed some meat, ate it all quickly.

  After a few minutes, he ventured quietly, so as not to be overheard, “I’ve been thinking that—”

  Nikolas put his palm gently over Ben’s mouth. “I’m not going to leave you here. Don’t bother to say it.”

  Ben moved the hand. “You know it makes sense. You’d travel fast and light that way. Take all the others out. I’ll join you when I’m fit. I’ll be fine; you know that.”

  “That may be, Ben. I don’t doubt your ability to survive here, no more than I doubt mine, but I’m still not going to do it. If I doubt anything, it’s my capacity to be without you now.”

  “What if I can’t walk twenty miles a day?”

  “Then I’ll carry you.”

  “Jesus. I weigh more than you. Get real, Nikolas.”

  “I’m not discussing this anymore, Benjamin. Leave it be. If we can’t all go then we’ll all stay.”

  “You’ll condemn everyone to a slow death for me then?”

  “I’d kill them all one by one and feed them to you to keep you alive. You don’t want to cross me on this.” Ben, he knew, would take this as just more of his bullshit. He let him continue to think so, and carried on distracting him, kissing his way slowly around Ben’s ear and down his neck.

  Nikolas knew Ben was still in a great deal of pain. He could feel the tense concentration Ben was giving to the slow touch of lips on his neck. He clearly needed more distraction. Nikolas slid his hand around to Ben’s lap and then into his shorts. Ben wasn’t hard. This didn’t happen too often. It was quite nice, in its own way, Nikolas decided. He shifted position and fondled Ben gently, like a precious thing and not the usual way he handled him at all, which was more ferocious and all consuming.

  In the total dark of the Siberian night, they had almost complete privacy, and eventually Ben responded, arching back a little into Nikolas’s arms as Nikolas built the pressure for him, forced the need for release. Then Nikolas slowed his strokes once more, brushing his thumb over Ben’s weeping slit, the rough calluses and abrasions from the hunt scraping over the sensitive head, making Ben moan faintly. It was louder than they could afford, even so, and Nikolas stilled his hand with a very quiet chuckle.

  Ulyana Ivanovna rose from her place with Emilia and threw armfuls of sweet spruce onto the fire and, newly cut, it immediately smoked thickly. She announced, to no one in particular, for only Nikolas understood her, “This’ll keep the biting things away.” It also crackled loudly, and enabled Nikolas to continue to pleasure Ben, kissing deeply into his neck as he did, biting gently, and licking.

  Usually by now they’d have been in a frenzy of desire, both twisting and turning, taking and giving, but with this not possible, they found a new sense of intimacy, Nikolas getting just as much
pleasure from the slow handjob as Ben obviously was. Ben twisted his head around so their lips met, and that was all he apparently needed for he erupted over Nikolas’s warm fingers. He shuddered as he came, Nikolas holding him tightly until it was over. When he sensed Ben go completely slack, he brought his hand up to his mouth and slowly, with great relish, licked Ben’s spill from his fingers. Ben hissed at the sight, and Nikolas bent down and kissed him once more, just to share the pleasure. He felt Ben relax in his arms. Future nights, he’d have to prepare shelter for him and a softer bed, but for tonight he intended to be Ben’s shelter and his bed. He’d fed him and now he was keeping him safe. He reckoned he owned Benjamin Rider six years of care.

  This was his domain, and it was a very good place to start.

  Everyone variously drifted off to sleep or lay awake and watched the fire. Nikolas stayed awake. He was planning. Although he’d told Ben he’d walk everyone out together, he was seriously considering not taking the Americans with him. Ulyana Ivanovna, he had no concerns about. She was Siberian. The girl had earned her place. Ben, of course, stayed with him. But the other six men he didn’t trust and could see no use in them except as mouths to feed. The cop alone had eaten more than he and Ben put together. He had no ethical problem leaving them, but he knew Ben would. It would be convenient if they wandered off and got lost…He idly considered making this happen, but couldn’t face the thought of the nagging he’d get the whole way back from his other half when his role in their…absence was discovered.

  He sighed and got more comfortable against the tree and pulled his jacket higher over Ben as he slept. He could feel the rucksack between him and the tree, all their equipment safe. He dozed, not asleep, hearing everything, but allowing his brain to power down for a while so he could function the next day.

  § § §