Zrada

by Lance Charnes

  Carson slams the Ksyukha’s folding metal stock into the slab. The clunk rings off the walls.

  Phut.

  Boom. The shotgun blast sounds like a cannon.

  Carson dashes through the doorway, barks “Coming in!” to warn Galina, then crosses their now-shared room in a few steps. She dives through the next door, lands in a crouch, falls back into a flip, then comes up with her carbine ready. “Light!”

  Galina’s flashlight beam plows like a searchlight through the dusty air and turns the north wall into daytime.

  Stepaniak leans against a workbench leg on the right edge of the circle of light. The right side of his shirt is shredded and shiny from his armpit to his belt. Carson, squinting against the sudden glare, finds his suppressed MP-5 about a meter from his right hand. She scrambles closer, kicks it away, then backpedals, letting her Ksyukha fall loose on its sling. She draws her pistol and Fenix, aims both at Stepaniak’s head, and barks, “Sidearm?”

  His head slews toward her. “Don’t worry…dear Carson. I’m…in no condition…to fight.”

  The light circle shudders. Galina steps into the room slowly, flashlight in her left hand, shotgun wedged in the crook of her right arm.

  He shifts his focus to Galina. His smile looks more like a grimace. “Ah. You. We meet at last. Well done.” Back to Carson. “Well. What now?”

  Carson can barely hear him, and what she hears is slurred. This isn’t how she’d pictured this scene and isn’t sure she likes it. Wanting this moment and having it are two very different things. “You dumb asshole. Why didn’t you just do the deal we made?”

  Stepaniak tries to laugh but chokes instead. “Stas reminded me…we needed…more money. Had to have…the art.” He leans to his left to drag his right hand and arm closer. The effort makes him grimace. “Stas is dead?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You…you did it?”

  “Yeah.”

  He nods slowly. “I hoped…hoped he wouldn’t kill you.”

  “Then why’d you send him after me?”

  “So you could end him.” He tries another unsuccessful smile. “It worked, dear Carson. Now we can deal…you and me. And her? You will…will introduce me…to your friend?”

  Carson can’t help but laugh. “Galina, this is Stepaniak. The bandit.”

  “Hmpf. Not pleased to meet you.”

  “Hah.” Stepaniak peers up at Carson. “This one has…spirit. Like you did…when we met. I…always admired that. I…do still.”

  “Where’s the picture?” Carson won’t let Stepaniak try his bullshit on her again.

  “Here.” He waves his left hand upward. “You have…have the money?”

  “Not anymore. Some Russians want your head on a stick. They have it.”

  He frowns. “Not the militia?”

  “They want your ass, too. Russians got to me first.” The slab vibrates through the soles of her boots. What’s that about? “Where’s your money?”

  Stepaniak scowls at the floor. Then he tilts his head to his right. “There.”

  Carson swings her light in that direction. It lands on the rucksack Galina gave her about a hundred years ago.

  Rifle fire crackles outside. Carson and Galina exchange glances. Spetsnaz doesn’t have anything to shoot at…do they?

  “Dear Carson. Did your Russian friends…bring company?”

  The thumping of a heavy machinegun bounces through the building.

  Carson’s pretty sure what’s happening. If she’s right, they’re all out of time. “Galina, get out of here. Now.” She jerks her light to the room’s west wall, picking out another door. “Where’s that go, Stepaniak?”

  “To the chicken shed…Full circle, yes?”

  An explosion outside. The rafters creak and shake.

  Carson shines her light on Galina, then sweeps it to the door. “You heard him. Get out. Hide where you can. They’re looking for him and me, not you.” Galina looks pinned in place, shock all over her face. “Fucking move!”

  “Yes. Yes.” Galina stumbles toward the door, but pauses as she passes Carson. “I will find you.”

  “Go. Be safe.”

  Stepaniak groans as he tries to rearrange himself. “It’s the militia, yes?”

  “Yeah.” What do I do? How do I get out of this?

  “Dear Carson…please don’t let them take me.”

  Carson’s about to lunge for the knapsack when she hears him wheeze his plea. She stops, moves her light to his face. She never expected him to give up like this. She’d always figured he’d talk or shoot his way out of everything. But there’s no fight left in his eyes.

  She steps in front of him. His head is a bit slow to follow her movement. He looks up at her with a dazed but not unpleasant expression. “Be safe, dear Carson.”

  Before she can second-guess herself, she puts two rounds into his heart.

  Doors break open. The clatter of running boots fills her ears. Shouts.

  A tsunami of soldiers crashes over her.

  Chapter 33

  SATURDAY, 14 MAY

  Galina steps out of the farm building into a war.

  Armored vehicles roar everywhere, their heavy machineguns thumping. Militia soldiers swarm the area from the west and east. Shooting, yelling, grenades.

  She slips between the building’s north wall and the screen of trees next to it and makes herself as small as she can. All the pictures from Ilovaisk stream through her mind—the Russians closing in on her foxhole, the burning lorries, Misha contorting as the flames devoured him… She curls in a ball, sobbing, “No no no God please no not again no…”

  A few minutes later, the assault ends as suddenly as it began. Galina’s all cried out. She wipes her eyes and nose on her sleeve, then crawls to the building’s end to see what’s happening. Militiamen carry or help their wounded to a collection point somewhere in the dark. A pair of militiamen dump a Russian’s body off the square building’s roof like it’s trash. Officers shout commands and try to collect their men.

  Then two soldiers carry Tarasenko toward a BTR with extra antennas on it. A command vehicle.

  Is she alive? Galina can’t tell. She’s covered with blood and her shirt’s half ripped off. Galina’s first reaction is to attack, to shoot the men and try to get her to safety someplace. But there are too many militia tarhany to try anything rash like that.

  Other than the dead man from the square building’s roof, she doesn’t see any Kacápskyi. Did they get away? Are they hiding? Are they all dead? She hopes they’re all dead; serves them right. Not that she wants the militia to win. Maybe if the militia killed the Russians, other Russians will come destroy the militia. They both lose. She wins; Ukraine wins.

  One by one, the armor and lorries snort themselves alive and stampede off to the south. She knows exactly where they’re going: Kuteinykove, their home base, less than twenty kilometers south and east.

  The dead farm goes quiet. Only the wind rustles the trees and whistles through the gaps between the buildings. She sits with her back against a tree trunk, hugging the knapsack. Trying not to cry and struggling to decide what to do next. She hears Tarasenko’s voice from an hour ago: If things go south, take off. Try to get to the car and go home.

  She walks carefully to where the militia left the dead Kacáps. They took his rifle, field gear, and boots. He’s now just another broken corpse in a nation full of them. She stares at him for a long while. The dead don’t scare her anymore; she pities them. Except dead Kacápskyi.

  Galina spits on him, then trudges toward the highway and the Octavia.

  She risks taking the highway that skirts Kuteinykove, but the kolorady at the militia checkpoint just wave her through even though it’s well past midnight and nothing except Russian convoys are supposed to be moving. Maybe it’s a sign.

  I should stop and look for Tarasenko.

  She’s dead. They want her body for a trophy.

  Is she d
ead? I saw her head move. She’s strong, hard to kill.

  Even if she is alive, what can you do for her? She told you to go home. Listen.

  Galina reluctantly keeps driving.

  She pulls into her farm’s driveway at the cusp of sunrise. Everything looks the same. Of course it does; she’s been gone, what, two days? It just seems like forever. Friday lasted a month.

  Galina steps into the morning chill without her sweatshirt. She hoped it would wake her up, but all it does is make her cold and distracted. She starts to unlock the side door into her house, but stops—she doesn’t want to go inside yet. She doesn’t know what she wants to do.

  So she drifts across her back yard to her field. Little green spikes poke out of the ridges, encouraged by the last few days of rain. She automatically squats, pinches dirt from the nearest furrow, then sniffs it. Moist, rich, strong. It’s not the soil’s fault that she can’t make a living farming, that she had to cook in the Dontsement company cafeteria in Amvrosiivka to make ends meet. The soil’s kept her alive (but only just) since the cement factory fired her when she wouldn’t sign that stupid declaration supporting the rebellion.

  There’s no future here for her or for Bohdan. They made their decisions, but it didn’t work out. Now it’s time to start over. If they can. If this place will let them go.

  Two hours later, Galina’s washed, changed clothes, and packed her things and Bohdan’s into the new car along with what little else is worth taking to their new lives.

  The car idles at the junction of the road leading north from Olhynske and the T0507 highway at the south edge of Amvrosiivka. If she turns right, she goes to Russia (nothing she’d ever do). If she turns left, Kuteinykove is the next town. Her plan is to go straight and stop at the grocery store next to the Amvrosiivka bus station. There she can buy food and drinks for the long drive ahead to Shakhtarsk to free Bohdan, then west to free them both.

  She can’t force herself to go forward.

  Galina can still see the money in the knapsack she hid under the luggage, the pile of yellow notes with the fancy glass door on the front and the bridge on the back. More money than she’s ever seen at one time. Certainly more money than she’s ever had in her hands. Far, far more than she needs to free Bohdan. Many times more than they need for the trip to Krakow, to get a flat, to live until they find jobs. They don’t even need jobs with all that.

  The money Tarasenko gave her is already too much. But it’s at least real, not some fairy story, not a number she can’t comprehend. She focuses on that single bundle of yellow notes.

  Why did she give me so much?

  Galina remembers the argument they had on the church steps in Komsomolske. How they promised each other they’d keep going until the icon and the painting are where they belong. That hasn’t happened yet. The icon’s gone; she’d checked when she got to the car. The Kacápskyi must’ve taken it before the militia attacked, just like they took the other money.

  She hasn’t kept her promise. Neither has Tarasenko. She’s got an excuse. What’s mine?

  What happened to Tarasenko? Does she need my help?

  Does she want my help?

  Galina wipes her eyes on the tail of her sweatshirt, then fishes the stack of cash out from under the seat. She holds it up to remind herself it’s real.

  I have the money. It’s mine. No one can take it from me.

  She looks both ways on the highway.

  Which way do I go?

  Chapter 34

  The first time Carson comes to, the entire world is shaking. The noise is worse than a metal band in a small bar. Her wrists and ankles are tied. Every square inch of her hurts like hell. When she finally pries open her eyes, the red-lit interior of some kind of armored vehicle surrounds her. Half a dozen militia troops fill the space.

  One says, “Hey, this one’s awake.”

  Another says, “Not for long.”

  Something hard whacks her on top of her head.

  The next time she comes to, everything’s black.

  Am I blind?

  The idea slices through the jumble of pain and memory fragments clogging her brain. Someone’s been using her head for drum practice. She tries to see her hand in front of her face (her wrists are untied—bonus), but can’t.

  She rolls onto her back. It takes a lot of effort and shoots fireworks into her eyes. The floor beneath her is cool, slimy, and rough. Slimy and rough?

  She’s naked. Aw, fuck.

  Okay. They beat the shit out of me and stripped me. What else did they do?

  Her crotch doesn’t hurt any worse than the rest of her, which isn’t saying much. She can’t check for blood if she can’t see. Don’t go there. Don’t. Go. There. Deal with it later.

  She lies there, letting her brain drift. Not that she can stop it.

  After however long, she manages to roll onto her hands and knees without blacking out. Some time later, she works up enough courage to try to stand. Bad idea; she stays upright only because she’s next to a ribbed steel wall rough with rust. Her groan echoes.

  When the blind whirlies pass, she works her way around the room, estimating dimensions with her armspan. It’s two meters wide, two meters and change deep, with a steel door grafted onto one side. The air’s cool and damp. A shipping container? The floor feels like dirty plywood. A plastic bucket sits in a foul-smelling corner near the door.

  Getting up and moving around partly clears her head and settles her stomach. Everything still hurts, but it’s under control…sort of. Carson starts stretching and bending slowly, probing for any bone or joint damage. Her balance is off and her head throbs when she touches her toes, but everything still seems to work. Knee lifts are excruciating. Bicycles are okay in short spurts, but getting vertical again is tough. Doing wall sits is like rubbing forty-grit sandpaper on her back.

  Her attempted warmup doesn’t last long. Once she keels over a couple times and wades through several waves of pain, she settles on walking for now.

  While she paces circles around the room, her own brain becomes her worst enemy. You failed, it tells her. You failed the museum, you failed Allyson, you failed Heitmann, you failed Galina. You failed. You failed.

  Her brain doesn’t stop there. You’re blind. A hit you took broke something. You’re useless if you can’t see. The anxiety mixes with the hunger from last night’s small, crappy dinner to tie her stomach into a bow.

  I’m getting too old for this shit.

  Is Galina okay? Did she get away? Do they have her too? Is she here? The militia shouldn’t know about her unless Rogozhkin told them, which she doubts. Somebody was shooting at somebody at the ex-farm, and the only people around to do it were the spetsnaz and the militia. That’s a big clue that the two aren’t on speaking terms. So unless Galina got caught in the crossfire, she should be okay.

  There was a lot of crossfire. Lots of soldiers. Lots of ways to get hurt. Please don’t let her be hurt. Galina doesn’t deserve that.

  Carson will survive. She won’t enjoy it, but she’ll make it.

  Where am I, anyway?

  The caged light in the ceiling is a miserable yellowish compact fluorescent bulb, but when it blinks on, it’s like a supernova exploding above Carson’s head. Her pupils are as dilated as they’ll ever be; the sudden light’s physically painful. She slams shut her eyelids and braces herself against the wall opposite the door.

  She can definitely see light and dark. When she pries one eyelid open a fraction of an inch, she can make out the rust stains on the walls through the glare. The relief almost buckles her knees.

  The door squeals open.

  She cracks both eyelids. A militiaman stands in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, staring at her.

  Carson doesn’t even consider covering herself. That’s what this tool wants—for her to be ashamed or frightened or both. Fuck him. She’s been naked in front of guys almost since she can remember. Small apartments, single-wide trailers,
shared bedrooms, tiny bathrooms, a steadily growing number of brothers, European parents…naked’s no big deal. Even though she’s dirty, covered with bruises and scrapes, starving, still woozy from what may be multiple thumpings, and feels like absolute shit, she will not let this chirp see her defeated.

  Carson leans into the far corner, crosses her ankles, crosses her arms (making sure she doesn’t cover her nipples), and stares right back, hoping her squint looks like attitude. The trooper’s eyes sweep up and down between her throat and her knees, pausing at strategic points.

  Some seconds later, she says in Russian, “I won’t dance until you put in a pole.” It comes out as a feral growl; she hasn’t said a word in hours and hasn’t had anything to drink for longer.

  The trooper snorts and shakes his head. He drags in a short three-legged wooden stool and sets up a regular-sized ladder-back wooden chair just outside the door. Then he stands aside so another man can stop in the doorway.

  Carson recognizes this one. He’s the officer who showed up at the chicken farm after Stepaniak’s stunt. His older-pattern Russian camo is clean and fits well. He stands straight, like he had in Amvrosiivka a decade ago. She gives him credit—his eyes don’t go too far below her collarbones.

  She rasps, “Go ahead and look. Everybody else has.”

  His eyebrows arch. “You speak Russian?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Just so you know, you’re not getting special treatment. We strip all our prisoners. It makes them more…cooperative.”

  “Especially in January.”

  He gives her a pale smile. “They become very cooperative in January.” He waves toward the stool. “Please, sit. We need to talk.”

  The stool’s built for a six-year-old and is next to the bucket. No way is she sitting on the damn thing. “I’ll stand for now. Standing feels good.”

  “Suit yourself.” He settles on the chair and crosses his legs. “I am Mashkov, Dima Artemovich. Colonel in command of the Makiivka Brigade. What do I call you?”