Authors: Kenneth Cran
For the second time that evening, Jovaravich left the warmth of the guardhouse. Glancing down to the grounds, he saw someone running across the compound toward the main building, but because of the blizzard, he couldn’t see who it was, or why he was running.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jovaravich thought he saw something leap over the fence and into the camp. That was of course impossible, for the fence was 12 feet high and strung with coils of rusty barbed wire. Anyway, who’d want to break into a gulag?
The barracks door flew open and Radchek and Vukarin entered the storm. A frenzy of white obstructed the view of the yard and surrounding buildings. The guard tower stood somewhere off to the left, while Administration and the cluster of outbuildings were less than fifty yards across the compound. They couldn’t see or hear much of anything.
“
I swear,” said Vukarin. “I thought I heard shots.”
“There’s something out there,” Ormskovo said as he frantically entered the administration building. The blast from outside swung the naked light bulb on its cord and made the jittery Nierbanski jump out of his chair.
“
What’s the matter with you?” he said, catching his breath and clutching his chest. Shadows oscillated across the room before Nierbanski reached up and steadied the light. In a panic, Ormskovo ran to a window and tried to see outside. He was looking for Garkin, but he could not see him.
“
I’m telling you,” he said running to another window plastered with frozen white. “Something chased us. Garkin’s out there.” Shaken, the red-haired kid paced from window to window, but it was impossible to see much of anything.
Nierbanski wasn’t much older than Ormskovo, but he was, at least in his own mind, 10 times the soldier. In his estimation, the red-haired kid was nothing more than a drunken caretaker frightened by his own shadow. Nierbanski prided himself on being tough, resilient and focused. When he was rested, at least. He clenched his teeth and buttoned up his wool greatcoat. “You’re coming with me,” he said, but Ormskovo’s response was a look of horror.
“To hell with
that
,” he said. “You’re not an officer.”
Nierbanski huffed and shook his head in disgust. He grabbed his rifle and headed for the door. “Fine, stay here then.” He opened the door and left the building.
Private Alik Nierbanski fought his way through the blizzard, searched around the compound with great difficulty.
Goddamn the snow
. He couldn’t wait for spring. He couldn’t wait for the scent of muddy roads, sprouting grass and blooming buttercups. He didn’t like the smell of winter. Winter’s scent was sour sweat and vodka.
Nierbanski followed the footprints, but they were already rendered faint depressions by the storm. Ahead was the fence. To his left, the cellblock. “Who is that?” he heard someone yell. He shielded his eyes from the snow, then looked up and saw Jovaravich in the guard tower.
“Who are you?” yelled Nierbanski.
“
Who are
you
?” Jovaravich retorted.
“
Private Nierbanski,” he yelled back through the howling wind. “Fourth Infantry, Yenisey Zero-One. What’s going on?”
Jovaravich pointed down to the ground. “Somebody’s down there.”
Nierbanski looked where the man was pointing and saw a vague dark shape in the rolling white. He plowed toward it, rifle in his tight grasp.
Coming upon a body, Nierbanski at first couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. It looked like that corporal. What was his name? The man wasn’t moving at all, and it was clear as to why.
Garkin’s back had been squeezed in on his spine, as if the fingers of God somehow came down and
pinched
him. Nierbanski could make out two massive puncture wounds through the corporal’s coat. It looked as if he’d been stabbed. Or, Nierbanski thought with a sudden chill,
bitten.
He craned his neck to the guard tower and waved his hands to Jovaravich. “Sound off!” he yelled, and without asking why, Jovaravich grabbed the alarm handle and cranked it with all his might.
33
The wailing siren split the frosty stillness as Radchek and Vukarin burst into the barracks.
“
Get up, damn you,” yelled Radchek, hitting the light switch. Dirty bulbs flickered on, exposing the long room and rows of bunks. The groggy soldiers stirred as the siren outside continued to blare away.
“
Move, move, move!” Vukarin hollered as he ran down the line kicking and shaking bunks. Bleary-eyed soldiers leapt to the cold floor and began dressing.
Radchek pulled the luger from its holster, held it up to his face and peered out a window.
Nothing but the storm. The siren wailed on.
“What is it, lieutenant?” one of the exhausted men said as he slipped into his pants.
Vukarin slammed the soldier’s rifle into his chest and yelled, “Get out there.” He turned to everyone else and yelled, “All of you, out there now,” then grabbed the door and flung it open. “Move, move, move!” Rifles at the ready, the fatigued soldiers filed out of the barracks.
They entered the yard with the blizzard cutting into their faces. Hearing the commotion, Nierbanski turned away from Garkin’s body, aimed his rifle, then groaned with relief as he saw the soldiers run toward him.
But their reaction to him was different. Weary and still half-asleep, they saw a man through the broken pattern of falling snow with a rifle pointing in their direction. They took up defensive positions.
“Wait,” Nierbanski said, his arms outstretched.
The soldiers let loose a volley that tore into the private’s body, shredding his coat amid puffs of red. He was dead before he hit the yard.
Jovaravich stopped cranking the siren at the sight of orange gunfire through the blizzard. He saw Nierbanski fall, and the confusion escalated.
Through the window of the administration building, Ormskovo watched in horror as the soldiers gunned down one of their own. “No!” he screamed as he ran from one window to the next, fighting for a clear view.
In the cell block, Barkov stood up at the sound of gunfire, pressed his face between the bars and listened. His eyes were wide, unfocused, jittery. “Captain Radchek,” he blurted out to no one. “Captain Radchek, what are you doing?”
Across the narrow corridor, Nick and Talia listened.
And waited.
Outside, Radchek and Vukarin plowed through the men and stopped at the sight of two figures laying in the snow.
From the guard tower, Jovaravich yelled down “You killed him!” in a hoarse voice. Radchek ran to the bodies and saw the mangled back of Garkin. He was dead for sure. Grasping the shoulder of the other, he turned him over and saw the young face of Nierbanski.
A sickening sensation overcame him. He got up and faced the men. His body trembled at their ineptitude.
He was
furious.
But only for a second.
Surrounding Vukarin and the soldiers were what looked like a cluster of snowdrifts arranged in a semi-circle. Nondescript but large, Radchek found their perfect arrangement and proximity to his men disconcerting.
And then the white shapes began to move through the streaky blizzard, converging on their position. Radchek squinted, tried to make out what he was seeing.
It didn’t make any sense. It was a trick of light, an illusion caused by the storm. It had to be.
Snowdrifts don’t move
.
“Their senses are acute,” Talia said. “Even for cats.”
“
Even for bloodhounds,” was Nick’s quick reply. Then he looked around the cell, and it suddenly occurred to him where they were. “Oh, Jesus,” he said in a flat whisper. Barkov at once turned around and looked at him. Talia admonished Nick with a look, but he didn’t seem to care.
“
We’re sitting ducks in here.” Nick grasped the bars, testing them. One man’s strength wasn’t enough to compromise welded steel.
But what was outside the cell block had far more strength than one man.
In the yard, the sound came next, deep, powerful, threatening. It was as alien a sound as Radchek or Vukharin or any human being could have expected to hear in a gulag.
An animal growl.
Roars tore into the storm with mocking, chill-inducing bravado. Rifles poised, the soldiers turned in every direction, searching for the sound’s source. Vukarin spun around so fast, his cap came off and blew away in the wind. He saw nothing except for the storm. Yet he heard it. It was all around them. Surrounding them. He turned back toward Radchek, who appeared as a silhouette in the storm.
“Maksim-” he said, then was cut off by the sudden screams of his men.
Radchek watched the snowdrifts rise up. The first screams were drowned out by more roars. Then came the shooting. Flashes of yellow gunfire penetrated the storm. Disorganized, haphazard.
Panicked.
A bullet whizzed by Radchek’s ear and he hit the ground and covered his head. He looked up in time to see the snow before him splash with blood. Someone’s arm landed seconds later, and Radchek could only accept the fact that they had been ambushed.
Vukarin fired his pistol through the curtain of the blizzard, but his aim had no obvious target. “Regroup, damn it,” he screamed out. In the maelstrom of gunfire and screams and the blizzard, it was impossible to hear anything. He saw shadows lit by strobing gunfire. “Leonov! Darchenko! Pullitski!”
An awesome force slammed into Vukarin, breaking his ribs and knocking the wind out of him. Tumbling across the snow, he came to a stop near the blockhouse stairs and tried to catch his breath. His body suddenly burned with pain; he tried to breath but couldn’t. Rolling on his side, he caught a glimpse of something unspeakable through the staticky snow fall. One of the soldiers, he couldn’t tell which one, was crawling away on his stomach. He thought he heard the man crying, but then a mouth,
a mouth
, with huge teeth opened up in mid air and clamped down on his neck. There was a spray of red before a vortex of snow swirled up, obscuring his view. Vukarin didn’t wait to see the outcome. He inhaled, cried out at the pain of shattered ribs, then got up and climbed the stairs to the blockhouse.
From the guard tower, Jovaravich strained to see through the blizzard. Frozen snow blew from the roof, swirling in eddies that stung his eyes. “What’s happening?” he called out. It was impossible to tell what was going on, and yet he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Below, he saw erratic gun fire, heard screams and roaring animals.
Animals.
And then, an intermittent break in the streaking white allowed Jovaravich a quick look at the yard below. He saw, or
thought
he saw, two huge white shapes tearing a man to pieces. He saw red clouds blowing away in the wind. He saw great red blotches against white. “Mother of Christ,” he said, though no one could hear him through the wind. Shaking his head, he brushed the snow from his face, tried to make sense of it. In the rushing wind, the tower swayed and Jovaravich decided he’d had quite enough.
He reentered the guard house and slammed the door behind him.
Vukarin climbed the steps holding his ribs. He had to breath shallow; the sensation of shattered bone digging into his flesh was excruciating. Reaching the door handle, he doubled over, coughing and spitting blood. It was more than just broken ribs. He was bleeding internally.
Someone behind him screamed, and when Vukarin spun around, he saw gunfire flashes. Bullets ricocheted across the blockhouse wall, cratering the cinderblocks. Before he could duck, Vukarin felt the sting of a bullet hit in his gut. A splash of warmth washed over him, and then he went down.
Propped up against the door, Vukarin struggled to breath. The warmth of his own blood streaming across his torso was somewhat odd, but not entirely unwelcome. With surprising quickness, the blizzard began to cover him over as he sat there, unmoving, against the blockhouse door. All he had to do was open it up and go inside. He’d do that soon, very soon. As soon as he got his strength back.
Approaching him from the side, Vukarin didn’t see the great white beast until it was upon him. He turned his head and somehow wasn’t surprised at what he saw.
A lion?
A fucking lion
?
He felt an odd sense of relief. A lion could be killed with a single well-placed shot. Even from a sidearm, like the one in Vukarin’s fist. Sure, a shot right in the eye, then into the brain. Dead. That would do it all right.