Siberius (12 page)
Authors: Kenneth Cran
“And the colonel?”
Vukarin took a deep breath and said, “It’s within your right to relieve him of his command. His actions are not those of a rational officer. Or even a sane man.”
“Barkov would shoot me on the spot,” said Radchek.
“
He’s crazy, but not that crazy.”
Radchek rubbed his eyes. “I’m afraid, Gavrila, that you don’t know how
crazy he is.”
Vukarin waited for more, but it didn’t come. “What do you mean?” he said.
“He has one thing on his mind,” Radchek said. “And that’s to leave Yenisey. And Siberia.”
Vukarin searched for some logic behind it all. He turned toward the trees and saw the men returning. “What do you know about him?” the lieutenant asked.
“I know that he was transferred to us after some incident involving another officer. I don’t know anything beyond that,” said Radchek. “I’m a captain.”
Vukarin looked down at the field radio in his hand. “What about Corovich?”
“I’ll tell the colonel what’s happened.” Radchek brushed the snow from the map and folded it up. “No matter what, though, Corovich and his men are on their own for now.”
* * *
Barkov tread through the deep snow, his body consumed with hunger and exhaustion. He pledged to himself that he would not eat or sleep until the American was caught. Somehow, what his body craved, his mind brushed off. Separating himself from physical needs kept his focus, increased his resolve.
At a stand of birch trees, Barkov stopped and stared up into the night sky. For reasons he couldn’t fathom, he broke down in tears. Leaning against a tree, he sobbed, his body shaking with overwhelming grief. Sinking to the snow, he held the birch trunk as if it were his wife, Karina.
As quick as it came, however, the pain was over, and Barkov snapped out of it. He wiped away the tears, grabbed a handful of snow, and smashed it into his face. He did this again and again until his skin was red and raw. Leaning up against the trunk, he inhaled lungs full of air, and then methodically exhaled steam into the frosty night. His eyes focused on the peeling white bark of the birch tree in front of him.
That’s when he noticed them.
Several feet up the trunk were two gashes 12 inches long. Barkov reached up and fingered them. They were clean, not more than a few days old. A few feet away, another birch tree had the same markings. He turned in the opposite direction. Another tree, and another set of gashes. Beyond that, another. And another. And another. All had double gashes, like crude number 11s, dug into the bark.
He backed up toward the tree line and the edge of the clearing. The towering forest surrounded him. Snowflakes no longer fell, they swarmed. There was something not right about this place with its hacked number 11s. Something evil, in fact.
Without knowing why, he ran back to the convoy as fast as he could.
14
Corovich awoke to the sound of rushing water. Lying across the steering wheel, his bloody forehead pressed up against the shattered windshield. He reached for the dash and pushed himself back. The truck was now at a steep angle, the seat back almost parallel with the ground, and Corovich found himself supporting all his weight with his arms. The sound of the water was disorienting, but numbing cold in his feet and legs forced his attention. He tried to clear his head, but he had suffered his second concussion of the day, and the fuzziness in his brain was not going away.
He wiped blood from his eyes, blinked hard a few times, and focused on the truck cab. Through the broken side windows and dash vents, a steady flow of frigid water filled up the interior to the bench. Chunks of ice bunched up outside the partially-submerged cab, while smaller shards floated in one window and out the other. Soaked to the bone and shivering to stay warm, Corovich reached for the door handle, found it and pulled it up. It didn’t budge. He pushed against it with all his might, but a dizzying wave overcame him and he had to stop. The dashboard and windshield were stained red, with little bloodcicles reaching down from the steering wheel. He tried to catch his breath, but half-submerged in the freezing creek, found it impossible. He had to escape, and the only way out was through the broken windshield.
Clearing the glass with his gloved hand, Corovich climbed through to the hood. Most of it was under water, with chunks of broken ice piled around it. Across the frozen creek’s surface, Corovich could see the gentle slope of the opposite bank.
Pulling himself onto the ice, he felt some relief that it was thick enough to support his weight. He tried to take hold of the manic shivering racking his body. He had to get to the convoy if he was to survive. Belly-crawling across the frozen creek, his waterlogged trousers and coat began to solidify in the freezing temperatures.
As he reached the opposite bank, nausea dug its fingers into him, but he took deep breaths and staved it off. Standing up, Corovich found it hard to focus on anything. The world vibrated like a drum roll, and sounded very near to one, too. He reached for his gashed forehead, but instead found a cold slick. The wound had frozen in the sub Arctic night.
Corovich glanced back at the crashed 6x6. The cab was half submerged, the creek frozen around it. The rear tires leaned against the wall of the ravine, while the frame was bent at the midpoint. The truck was a total loss.
Stumbling up the gentle slope of the bank, Corovich held his head and stopped at a birch tree. Leaning against it, he searched the woods ahead for the convoy. Though he faced the direction in which he saw the headlights, there was nothing but empty woods. He took a few more steps, stopped, and leaned against another tree. He wished he hadn’t thrown the radio from the window. He wished he hadn’t been so careless navigating the woods. He even wished he hadn’t been the one to spot the plane up in the trees. That way, Barkov never would have sent him up to see if the pilot was still inside, thereby preventing his fall, his injury and his subsequent promotion.
Corovich’s eyes garnered some measure of focus, and it was then that he again saw the headlights. They were still small, yet their placement
in front of
the nearby pine trees was puzzling. A second pair emerged, followed by a third and fourth. All side-by-side, all masked by Corovich’s blurry eyes. He squinted, tried to understand what he was seeing.
“Hello,” he cried out in desperation. “It’s Corovich.” He waved his hands over his head, but then collapsed to the snow and vomited. On his hands and knees, he looked up toward the lights. They were moving this time, he was sure of it.
They were coming toward him.
“I’m here,” he said. “Please, come get me.” Again he tried to stand, but the cold was taking its toll and his legs were dying. He fell face first back into the snow.
In the frigid night air, Corovich struggled to stay awake. He no longer felt cold, and a strange calm overcame him. He was freezing to death, but it wasn’t a great shock. What was shocking was how much he didn’t care. If he could smile, he would, because in the end, it wasn’t such a bad way to die. He hated pain. And this wasn’t painful. Not in the least.
There was a sudden, odd sensation in his calf that Corovich at first couldn’t place. Working through the numbness, though, he sensed that his flesh was being pierced, but by what he did not know. As he lay there in a sub-zero daze, he did not feel the crushing pressure on his upper thigh, did not see the snow spray with blood. He sensed his whole body lifting off the ground, then being thrown against a tree. His pelvis broke from the force, but to the numb Corovich, it wasn’t painful. He shook his head, tried to see, but his vision was but a narrow iris surrounded by fuzzy black. He felt himself being pulled in three different directions, but did not feel his legs separate from his hips.
Sensing the warmth of his own blood across his cold skin, Corovich clenched his teeth as he began to regain consciousness. His body started to thaw, not from heat, but from pain. He screamed as loud as he could, but a chorus of animal roars drowned out his own voice.
And then his eyes went dark, but not from unconsciousness. Something clamped down over his face, wet and rotten. Ivan Corovich, recently promoted to corporal, was fully conscious as that something stabbed into his skull and removed his face.
15
The sun rose over the rocky outcroppings 30 miles to the east. Low clouds piled up on the horizon, but holes had begun to form, allowing morning light to penetrate unfiltered across the snow-covered vista. At this time of the year and this latitude, the sun would stay close to the horizon. At higher latitudes, it wouldn’t escape the horizon at all, leaving the landscape under a six-month veil of night.
Outside the cabin, the sound of sliding wood was followed by a heavy thud, and then the door was kicked from within. A few more kicks gave way to one forceful one, and the door to the cabin wrenched open. Talia was the first one out.
“See,” she said, exiting. “There’s nothing here.”
“
You sure?” Nick peeked out from the doorway.
Talia turned and looked at her cabin. She frowned and her shoulders dropped.
“What?” said Nick. When he joined her, he saw the reason for her distressed face. “Jesus, that was close.” Like the funhouse Nick loved at Cedar Point amusement park back in Ohio, the entire structure leaned 15 degrees to the left. The cabin was now in the shape of a rhombus. Nick walked up to the door and ran his fingers over the gouged wood. It looked as if someone had taken a hatchet to it.
“
Incredible,” said Talia with scientific detachment. She walked to the east side of the cabin and found a section of the snow she had piled up there was now gone, dug out to expose the cabin wall. Gouges in the logs bore witness to an incredible force, and when Nick saw them, he was thankful the wall had been there in the first place.
Talia pressed her hands up against the wall and pushed, but it was stout. She pushed again with a little more force, but it didn’t budge. Nick joined her, and when they pushed together, the wall moved. Though it was only a fraction of an inch, it was enough. The cabin couldn’t withstand another attack. Talia stepped away, wiping her hands on her pants. “That’s going to take some time to fix.”
“Okay, lady,” said Nick as he slid between her and the wall. “Spill it.” Before Talia could answer, he added, “Or is it still not safe to talk?” Nick’s sarcasm stemmed from frustration. Talia had insisted on no talking after the attack. But it was daylight now, and they presumably were safe.
But safe from what?
She looked at him, her face statuesque not only in beauty, but actual movement. It wore on Nick.
“
That wasn’t the Red Army last night,” he said in a desperate need to break the silence.
“
How observant,” said Talia, then made her way around the cabin.
Nick followed her, huffy and excited. “Well what the hell
was
it?”
“
What do you want to hear, Mr. Somerset?”
Nick kept pace while she continued to study the damage. “How about the truth?” he said.
“The truth.”
“
Good place to start.”
“
Do you even know what that word means, Mr. Somerset?”
“
What are you talking about?”
“
I somehow doubt you have any inkling as to what truth is.”
“
Hey, I just want to know what the hell did all this.” Nick spoke with his arms wide open, lending some scale to his words. Then he stopped in knee-deep snow, placed his hands on his hips defiantly.
“
Well, what do
you
think it was?” Talia said, then walked back toward the door, turned, and waited for an answer. None came. She went back inside.
Nick stood there, stupefied. He had fought the Germans during the war, with a smattering of Italians for good measure. This was something different, though, something that didn’t fit into the grand scheme of his experience, and to say that it troubled him was an understatement. An
animal
had attacked the cabin last night, that was obvious. A bear or something. Big and powerful, it had actually moved the cabin off its dirt foundation. The question was not only
what
had attacked, but
why?
Nick had to consider that whatever had been outside was willing to exert a lot of energy to get to a food source. That food source was most likely he and Talia.