I saw a car pull up by the house. It wasn't the same Lada that had driven Simon to the station, but the other one. I hadn't even noticed it was missing. Big Sasha climbed out.
My heart leapt. I ran toward him. "Charlotte? Is Charlotte with you?"
He stared at me, puzzled. He started in Russian, then caught himself and switched to English. "Why? She is here, no?"
"No! She isn't here!" I felt like hitting him. Tears pricked at my eyes. "She was with you last night. You saw her last. Where is she?"
He laughed a bit. "Yes, she is with me last night. But she is sleeping when I leave in morning."
"Well, where the hell did you go?"
"I go to Vladimir. I visit Mama."
I couldn't hold back anymore. "You have to know where she is!" I cried, throwing myself at him, pounding at him with my fists. "You saw her! Where is she?"
He brushed off my punches as though they were gnats. "I don't know!" He called out something in Russian.
Alyosha and Little Sasha pulled me off of him. I fought them as best I could, screaming and flailing around, but they were much stronger than I was. They picked me up and carried me inside, depositing me on the sofa. I collapsed into tears.
Masha came in and sat next to me, patting my arm and murmuring something in Russian. "It will be okay," she finished in English. "All will be okay very soon."
"No, no it won't!"
"Here, I get you water."
"No, I don't need any water!" I snapped.
"I know you worry for your friend," she said. "You do not need to worry."
I sobbed harder.
She got up and came back a few minutes later with a steaming mug. She offered it to me wordlessly.
"What is it?"
"Type of tea. It make you calm."
"No, I don't want to be calm. I want my friends. I want to go home—"
"Drink!" she insisted.
"I don't want it!"
Alyosha and Sasha got involved again. "It is good for you, Jean. You must drink," Alyosha pleaded.
"You are too…" Sasha waved his hands, indicating my state. "You need be calm."
"No! I said I didn't want your f—"
With that, Alyosha and Sasha pinned down my arms, and Masha grabbed my nose. Eventually, I needed to breathe, and once I opened my mouth, she poured in the burning hot drink.
"I hate you!" I screamed. "I hate you, and I hate Russia! Where’s Charlotte? Where—"
I felt dizzy. I couldn't think. I couldn't even see properly. My vision turned black and white, then constricted, like an old television set turning off in slow motion.
I lost consciousness.
* * *
I am not sure how long I was out. I came to slowly, seeing the others come in and out of the house as though through a dense fog. I couldn't move or say anything to them. For the most part, they ignored me.
I heard a loud popping sound next to me and saw a syringe out of the corner of my eye. No, I wanted to scream. No, no, no…
My arm was carefully wiped with iodine. It's green here, I thought, a hysterical laugh welling up inside me. How strange. I felt the smallest prick on my arm. I expected to pass out again, but instead, I was able to move within moments.
"Th-thank you," I said, my voice croaking. I turned slowly as I was still stiff.
And there was Zhenya, packing up a kit full of needles and glass ampoules.
"Zhenya, what’s going on here?"
"I said danger," he answered.
"Help me," I said quietly, tears threatening to pour from my eyes.
He left.
* * *
I checked my phone, nearly dropping it in haste. There was no word from Charlotte, but I did have a text from Simon.
i arrive in Moscow. i find Charlotte. all is good.:)
I froze and had to force myself to keep breathing. Not withstanding the terrible grammar, Simon would die before he'd ever use a smiley in a text.
I realized with a shudder that he might actually have.
I tried to call him. No signal.
"I knew I shouldn't have let him go to Moscow by himself," I muttered.
I heard footsteps by the front door. Shoving my phone in my pocket, I tried to approximate the position I passed out in.
Alyosha’s and two other voices I didn't recognize were talking close by. It was about me; I could tell. I prayed my year of Russian lessons hadn't been in vain as I desperately tried to make out what they were saying.
"…she'll be…until morning."
"Should we… her on the bed?" That was Alyosha.
"No, best to leave her." Then there was something more I didn't understand at all.
A girl asked something.
"Ask Zhenya," answered Alyosha.
"Zhenya doesn't even want to do it anymore," the girl complained.
"He's the leader."
"He's gotten too old. He doesn't…he doesn't know anything about the world today."
There was a slap, followed by harsh words by both Alyosha and the other boy.
"Don't talk that way. He likes her. I like her too. But he won't…he knows how important this is. It is my…it is time to… When you turn twenty-one, you will also…"
My brain began to hurt. I only caught parts of the sentences, and couldn’t make sense of what I could translate. Or I refused to make sense of it.
Once they left, the cold logical part of my brain took over. I took inventory of what I had with me. I had a cell phone, nearly fully charged, but with almost no signal. I didn't have any weapons. I did have 4,000 rubles, which was well over a hundred dollars.
It was dusk outside, so in a couple hours it would be well and truly dark. I would stay on the couch, feigning unconsciousness until then. Then, I would grab my purse and a bottle of water and make my way towards Pokrov. I knew it was only about two or three kilometers away—about a mile. I could walk a mile. No, too risky. I'd take a car if it were unlocked, and drive to the station. Once there, I could hide out until the trains started again in the morning.
I didn't have a chance to put my plan into action until after midnight. No one had been in the dacha for a while, and the voices I occasionally heard outside seemed far away. I prayed no one would be guarding the door, but I needn't have worried. They thought I was passed out, after all.
I slipped out the front door and made my way around to the front. Sasha's Lada was unlocked, of course. I got in and found the keys tucked behind the sun visor. It made sense; after all, who would steal a car out here?
Me, I guess.
I buckled up, put the key in the ignition, and turned on the engine. As soon as I hit the gas pedal, it cut out.
I tried again with the same result. I checked to see if the emergency brake was on—
I got a good look at the gearshift. It was a manual transmission. Shit.
A light came on upstairs in the dacha.
I climbed out of the car, fumbling awkwardly. I sprinted towards the road, heart pounding in my chest. I didn't even bother to use my cell phone light until the potholes became too deep and I felt in danger of stumbling. Checking the road ahead of me slowed me down, but I knew if I fell, there would be no way I could escape.
After a few minutes, I didn't hear anything behind me. I slowed down to a brisk walk, feeling my way carefully along the road as it was riddled with cracks and large chunks of asphalt. At time, it was slow going, but I forced myself to keep a steady, safe pace, instead of running for it.
I hadn't made it much farther when I heard shouts from back the direction I'd come. Shit. I picked up the pace, jogging as fast as I dared. I had no idea how close to the village I was.
I heard a car on the road. I froze. If it were someone else, maybe I could pay him or her for a ride, but if it were them…
It was coming from the direction of the dacha. I hid.
The white Lada slowed as it passed the log I was crouched behind. The driver was leaning out the window. I held my breath.
"Jean!" It was Zhenya.
I stood up. "Zhenya, please don't make me go back there. Please take me to Pokrov. Please…" I babbled.
"Go in car!" he said.
I climbed into the passenger's seat, and we took off down the road.
"You have money for train, yes?" he asked.
"Yeah. And a taxi too."
"Do you have money for plane?"
I paused. "What?"
"Can you buy ticket back to America when you are in Moscow?"
"Uh…I have a credit card, so yeah, I guess."
"Okay. You buy ticket. Soon. You fly to America tomorrow."
"But I—" My job. My friends. My apartment. I suppose my life was more important than any of those things. "Yeah, okay."
"Promise!"
"I promise, I promise. I'll fly home tomorrow." At this point, I wasn't particularly keen on staying in Russia any longer anyway.
"Good, because they will follow. It is not safe."
Zhenya drove slowly, swerving around the worst potholes.
"Can't you go any faster?" I asked, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. I kept casting nervous glances behind us.
"You want I should break car?"
I didn't say anything, just stared out into the pitch darkness. Seeing how thick and limitless the forests were at night made my skin crawl.
I tried several times to start a sentence, but lost my nerve. Finally, I asked, "What are you?"
"Who? Me?"
"You. And them. All of you."
"We are not all the same. Some of us are—takiye." Again that word: "like that".
"Okay, so what is takiye? What are you like?"
He shrugged. "I don't know how it will be in English."
"Are you vampires or something?"
He made a big show of rolling his eyes. "Jean, vampires are not real."
"But, you actually drink blood? At the party; that wasn't tomato juice."
"Yes. Well, sometimes. Only for—do you have word "ritual"?"
"Yeah. Okay. So what is this ritual for?
"For Alyosha. So he will be, how you say, without death."
"Immortal?"
"Yes. Always young, always healthy."
"So like…you can't kill him."
"Oh, no, you can kill him with pistol or with knife, but not with illness. Not with age."
"So he will always look twenty-one?"
Zhenya nodded.
"So, have you had this ritual?"
Again, he nodded.
"Um, so how old are you? I'm guessing not twenty-something."
He hesitated. "A little over one hundred. I remember Russian Empire." He paused again and chewed his lip. "I was only sixteen. It was problem. Now, I look sixteen for always. Now, we wait until man is twenty-one. No problems at this age."
"Christ," I whispered. I wasn't sure if I was more bothered by the fact that I was or had been attracted to a hundred-year-old man, or by the fact that he was in the body of someone so young.
"They need three people for ritual," he continued. "Alyosha liked you, but…man will do much to be without death."
I angrily wiped at my eyes, as tears threatened to pour. "Alyosha. Jeez. What an asshole," I said.
Zhenya laughed a bit. "Maybe, yes."
"So, you drink blood and are immortal. That sounds kind of like vampires to me."
He turned to glare at me. He seemed offended. "Jean, do not take your stupid American ideas from your Hollywood films and come here to tell us what we—"
We stopped suddenly, my head whipping forward and then back. I thought we may have crashed, but Zhenya had slammed on the brakes a moment before we hit a large tree that had fallen across the road.
Swearing violently, he pounded the steering wheel. He took a deep breath. "Okay. We run."
I couldn't tell how long we'd actually driven, but we had been going so slowly that it wasn't enough time to give us a large head start on the others. And I had no idea how far I walked before he showed up.
"How far to Pokrov?" I asked.
"About kilometer."
A kilometer. We could make it, just barely. We just had to be faster than the rest.
Zhenya helped me over the log and led me around the worst parts of the road. He seemed to know the way well, and I was feeling a bit optimistic.
Unfortunately, the sounds and shouts in the distance behind me kept getting closer. Maybe I was imagining it, but Zhenya's face looked grim in the dim light of our cell phones.
"Faster," he said.
I didn't know how they could have gained on us so quickly. I glanced back toward the way we'd come—of course. There were two cars. They'd driven the other one and parked it directly behind the Lada.
The noise and pounding footsteps seemed to be gaining on us. Everyone was so much faster than me. Even Zhenya kept getting ahead, and then paused in frustration for me to catch up.
"We must go in woods," he said eventually, once the steps seemed to be right on our heels. He pulled me into the forest on one side. "No light now." He turned off his cell phone and motioned for me to do the same.
"I can't see," I complained.
"Shh!" he said harshly. "I will help you."
We picked our way over roots and through the thin birches with their whip-like branches. He either knew the path well or could somehow make it out in the dark. Behind me, the other Russians were calling my name.
"Jean!"
"Jean! Do not run! We only want help you!"
I ran faster, getting a spike of adrenaline. I was able to keep pace with Zhenya for a while, running along side him.
"Jean, wait. Let me go first."
And that was when I went flying. My toe had caught under a thick root, and I landed face first in the damp earth. My foot was still stuck under the root, and my ankle throbbed.
"Are you okay?"
"I think so." My hands were scoured with grit. I brushed them off and inspected my right knee. It, too, was embedded with rocks and dirt. Then, I turned my attention to my left ankle.
It was a bit painful and warm to the touch, but I thought it would be fine. As soon as I stood up; however, I found out to the contrary.
"I think it's twisted," I said.
"What?"
"It's hurt. I can't walk."
He sighed. "I carry you."
We walked a little farther with him holding me in his arms. He couldn't run that way. We stopped and shifted so he could carry me piggyback.
I still slowed him down a great deal, however, and he had to pause to shift my weight every minute or so. The wet leaves hit me in the face as we ran through them, scratching my cheeks.
The others, who had seemed so close already before I tripped, were now visible when I turned to look. They were shadows, flitting from tree to tree in the dark forest. I couldn't tell which movements were theirs and which were my imaginations.
We likely only had a matter of minutes before they caught up.
And then, just up ahead, I could see that the woods ended. Rays of streetlamps poured towards us through the birches. I'd forgotten how much shorter a kilometer was than a mile.
Relief washed over me. I started laughing uncontrollably. Zhenya held up his arm for a taxi. In Russia, a taxi could be any car that happened to drive by. It was the middle of the night, but it was a fairly busy street. All the same, we walked backward toward the town, keeping an eye and an arm out for any car.
A black mud-spattered Soviet style car eventually drove by and stopped for us.
This was a conversation I could follow well.
"How much to Pokrov Station?" Zhenya asked.
I couldn't hear the driver's reply, but it must have been reasonable because Zhenya motioned for me to come over by him.
The driver said something more, and Zhenya frowned.
"He says train does not start until seven, and it is now three."
"Can't we hide there?"
He shook his head. "Station will be where they think we are. They will be
there."
I poked my head in the window and tried my best Russian. "How much to Moscow?"
He laughed. "Moscow is a big place, girl. Where in Moscow?"
I paused. "Domodedovo," I said, naming the airport just to the south of Moscow.
"Three thousand," he said. That was about a hundred dollars.
"Two thousand," countered Zhenya.
"This is not the time to be bargaining!" I cried.
"Two thousand five," said the driver.
I could hear rustling in the forest behind me. "Good, I'll take it. Okay," I said quickly.
"You have money. Passport?" Zhenya asked.
"Yes, yes—wait, you're not coming with me?"
"I can't."
"But won't the others be angry with you?"
"It is not problem. I am much older than they are. It will be okay."
"But…" I paused, trying to find the words. I glanced from the car to the woods and back again. "Come with me to America?" I asked quietly.
"You know it is not that simple."
"I can try to get you an invitation for a job or as a student. We can get you a visa. It'll take a while, but it's possible."
"No, Jean. You know by then it will be too late."
"Zhenya, I—" I started over. "Thank you."
He squeezed my hand. "Go now. Be safe."
"You too." I hugged him tightly and climbed into the back seat of the car.
The taxi driver pulled away, and I turned to watch him through the rear window. He waved. I watched him until he disappeared.
I heard screams from the woods as we drove off toward civilization.
The Black Womb
By Michael McGlasson
As a medical doctor, making decisions based on life and death, such as when a patient is dying from an incurable disease that has ravaged his body and taken away his ability to make rational choices, bears down on the soul like a dense and odious mantle of despair that cannot easily be removed. But like most healers of pain and discomfort, when choices on life and death must be made in order to save a patient, I reflect back on what is commonly known as the Oath of Hippocrates, the ideal expression of proper conduct for a physician, gleaned from the hearts of Panacea and Hygieia, the goddesses of the Greek cult of healing, health, and the elixir of life.
Dark Light Book Three (Dark Light Anthology) Page 13