Authors: Kenneth Cran
“Where is Talia?” At this point, Nick no longer cared what was in store for him. He knew he was already dead. He wanted to make sure she was okay. Somehow, he doubted it.
“Yes, the woman.” He leaned back, his gloved hands on his knees. “She will be shot as well. A traitor, to be sure.”
“She’s a zoologist. I forced her to get me to a town. She didn’t want to help. I had a gun.”
“Please, I lost my train of thought.” Barkov leaned forward, so close that Nick could smell his breath. “My mother was an artist,” he said. “I paint as well. I should like to paint still life’s. Gardenias perhaps, or even current bushes-” He shook his head, squeezed his eyes tight and started mumbling to himself. Nick scooted a little further away and then jumped when Barkov suddenly shrieked “Evidence!” He reached into his greatcoat pocket and removed Nick’s camera. Nick sighed, angry that he failed to ditch it.
“I don’t suppose I could see Talia, could I?” he said without a trace of hope.
Barkov smiled, huffed, then stood up and left the cell. “You can see her as much as you want,” he said, then slammed the door with a heavy metallic clang. He held the camera up again for Nick to see. “Evidence,” he said with a blank stare. “Evidence.” The click of his boots faded as he strode down the long hallway and left the building.
“Nicholas,” came a familiar voice. He turned and saw another cell across the corridor from his. Inside, Talia’s face pressed between corroded bars. Nick stood up, closed the blanket around his body and shuffled to the bars.
“Are you okay?” he said.
She nodded. “I was so afraid they were going to shoot you.”
“No. Not yet, anyway,” he said. Their cells were next to a little alcove. Perhaps it was a guard station at one point, but now it was just a storage area for crates and boxes. Individual cells lined both sides of the corridor, their rusted bars painting shadows from dim hanging lights. The whole place reeked of death.
“Kind of homey,” he said.
“Oh, Nick, I fear I’ve made a dreadful mistake.”
“Refresh my memory, sweetheart. What happened?”
“The tunnel collapsed. You were injured.” She bit her lip, afraid of what he was thinking about her. “I didn’t want you to die.”
“I would have done the same thing,” he said, then touched his sore head. His clawed arm had been bandaged, too. “Wish I had my clothes.” He alternated lifting his feet from the damp floor.
“Over there,” said Talia pointing.
Nick found his clothes and boots piled up in the corner. He dressed quickly. “Glad I was unconscious for the strip search. Uh, I’m afraid to ask,” he said slipping his pants on. “But where are we?”
“A gulag.”
“Any idea which part of Hell that would be?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He nodded. “Don’t suppose they fed you, huh?”
“Look under the bed.”
Nick did, and found a black steel pot and a hardened loaf of bread. Whatever the pot contained, he didn’t care. He removed the lid and was relieved to find some kind of stew. He ate it with his fingers. “Sorry,” he said with his mouth full.
“I did the same thing,” said Talia. “I think they mean to keep us alive.”
“I bet.”
He tore off a chunk of bread and gobbled it down. “Were you were awake when they drove us in here?”
“Yes. It’s a small compound, not in very good condition. From what I saw, it looks abandoned.”
“Abandoned? Really?” He scooped up a piece of meat with a sliver of bread crust and barely chewed before swallowing it.
“Yes, “ she said, catching on to the hope in his voice.
He licked his fingers. “Okay, in as much detail as you can, describe this place, what you saw, the number of buildings, guards, the height of the fence. And how many trucks and soldiers they have.”
Caverns, mummies and prehistoric cats be damned. Nick Somerset was in his element again. Talia saw his confidence and although she liked what she saw, it didn’t change the fact that even if they did escape, there were other, more perilous forces to contend with.
“Okay,” she said. “But Nick, I have a few concerns.”
“Me, too. Being shot is one of them.”
“No, I mean about-” She stopped, looked down the hallway in both directions.
“I think we’re it,” said Nick. “Your secret’s safe.”
“Whether it was killed in the tunnel, I don’t know. I suspect it wasn’t. But-” She paused, searched for the best way to say what she wanted to say next. “I can’t help but feel we’re missing the bigger picture here. Remember what I was saying about Beringia?”
“Honey, with all due respect,” Nick said, chewing on the last of the bread. “The last thing we have to worry about now are theories or cave men or pissed-off cats.”
* * *
“None of the men have seen him since,” Vukarin said in a low voice. He and Radchek were in a hallway inside the gulag’s administration building. Standing guard near the front door, Private Nierbanski tried to keep from falling asleep. Vukarin pointed at him and said, “He was the last to see him.”
Radchek shook his head, aggravated. “We’re in no shape to go out looking for him now,” he said. “Do you think he deserted?”
“Not a chance,” said Vukarin. “If anything, Parnichev was
too
eager. That’s why I sent him to the back of the truck.”
“
Okay,” Radchek agreed. “Go get some sleep. I’m going to radio in to Yenisey, let them know what our status is. We’ll gather up a search party in the morning.” He slapped Vukarin on the back, and the lieutenant headed for the door and exited.
Barkov strode across the deserted compound toward the main building. The sky was dark and snow was beginning to fall. A light breeze had picked up while the temperature dropped. An early winter storm was brewing.
He passed Vukarin in the middle of the yard. The lieutenant saluted and said “Good evening, colonel.” Barkov ignored him.
Slogging through the snow, Barkov tried not to look at his surroundings. The labor camp had long been forgotten, or so it appeared, and as far as he was concerned it should stay that way. The few men who remained were nothing more than undisciplined drunks, dying of their own ineptitude. Their vehicles sat clustered along the south end of the administration building, draped with camouflage netting and likely rusting into nothingness. The buildings, the few that remained standing, were crumbling or downright unlivable. Saggy, leaking roofs. Floorboards broken or missing. A perimeter fence that couldn’t keep a goat prisoner. And block houses that had but three functioning cells. If Siberia was Hell, Barkov reasoned, then this place was its prison.
He couldn’t wait to leave.
In the short time it took to walk to the crumbling administration building, the falling snow had increased in speed and density. Yes, a storm was brewing, he thought. What a godforsaken place to be during a blizzard.
“Me and Private Ormskovo are the only ones here,” said the big, bearded Corporal Garkin. He removed his long black coat and hung it on a hook.
“And Jovaravich,” Ormskovo piped in.
Garkin’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, yes, Private Jovaravich. He’s in the guard tower.” Garkin chuckled. “He’s
always
in the guard tower.”
Sitting down at a card table, Corporal Garkin stroked his bushy gray streaked beard. He was a grizzled soul too old to be a corporal. Next to him and sipping hot tea was a gaunt scarecrow named Yuri Ormskovo. No more than 20, the private sported a fiery red crown of hair and a mouth curled up in a constant if not dull smile. Both men had the ruddy complexion and sunken eyes of alcoholics.
“What’s happened to this place?” Radchek asked. He sat at a sagging table piled up with Angara’s sole radio set, an antique model in shoddy condition.
“We’ve been shut down two years,” said Garkin. He turned to Private Ormskovo. “What did they call it?”
Ormskovo struggled to remember. “Uh, re-assignment of-”
“Ah, yes,” Garkin said, cutting him off. “Re-assignment of resources, that’s it.” He smiled and his puffy cheeks crushed into his eyes, rendering them slits. “Truth is, this camp is just too far away from everything. Even for Siberia.”
“Why are you still here?” said Radchek.
“Caretakers,” Garkin said.
Radchek looked around the shabby room, shook his head. The administration building was as bleak on the inside as it was on the outside. Single wall construction covered with layers of tarpaper did little to keep the wind out. Dreary and naked low-watt bulbs strained to light the rooms, and they cast dense shadows everywhere. The place smelled of alcohol and vomit. Though he had questioned it at first, Radchek could now see why the army would assign a mere corporal to “guard” the remnants of the gulag.
Radchek took the radio handset and pressed the button. “Angara to Yenisey Zero-One, do you read? Over?” He listened, waited. Static. “Yenisey Zero-One, come in.”
Nothing.
“
Yenisey, this is Captain Radchek.”
Still nothing.
“Private Kurskin?”
Static.
“Kurskin, do you read me? Come in.”
Static.
“Kurskin, answer me at once. Over.”
Still nothing.
“Shit,” he said, rubbing his face at the same time so that it came out sounding like babble.
He strained to remember who else they had left behind. They’d only been stationed at Yenisey a month, but Radchek felt that he should know the names of all the soldiers by now. There were only two dozen of them. Perhaps if he wasn’t so tired.
“Uh, private-” he stopped, chastised his inability to remember. “Son of a bitch.” Then it hit him. “Private Mierkin. Private Mierkin, are you there?”
Static.
“Mierkin, come in.”
Another name came to him.
“Uh, Warnikov, do you read me?”
Warnikov didn’t reply.
Radchek considered Private Tobolisk, but assumed he’d be laying on his bunk, passed out.
“
Private Tobolisk, this is Captain Radchek, do you copy?”
Again, nothing but static. Had Radchek not been so drained, he might have done more than just pound the table.
“Uh, careful, captain,” Garkin said. “The radio’s fragile.”
The door flew open and Barkov entered. Nierbanski jumped from a semi-sleeping state and dropped his rifle on the floor. Whistling wind blew snow inside.
“Report,” Barkov said as he slammed the door. The walls shook. No one noticed Nierbanski pick up his rifle. Radchek faced the colonel with weary eyes.
“No response sir,” he said.
Barkov strode the length of the creaking floor to the radio op’s station. “What do you mean?”
“Yenisey isn’t answering,” said Radchek. “We’re only receiving static.”
30
Barkov grabbed the handset, depressed the button and spoke into the mic. “Angara to Yenisey Zero-One.”
Static.
“Angara to Yenisey Zero-One, are you receiving, over?” More static. “I know you’re there,” he said with a red face. Spittle shot from his mouth. “Answer me this second. That is an order.”
“Colonel,” Radchek said in a voice drained of energy. “There’s no one-”