by Darcy Fray
The assailant landed just inches away, face to face with Fletcher. The two men shared a fraction of a second’s eye contact. The intimacy of the moment was not lost on Fletcher. War had introduced him to the absurdity of it all. Killing another human, a complete stranger. And for what? At the orders of another, who’s taking orders from another and so on. Who’s at the top of the heap? Or is it just a sick circle?
The assailant was the first to move. He looked in the direction of the gun. It was just out of reach of both men. He turned back toward Fletcher and wrapped his gargantuan hands around Fletcher’s throat, pinning him to the floor. With only one operable arm, there was little Fletcher could do to ward off the attack. He struggled for oxygen as he tried to free himself from the two hundred and eighty pounds of solid muscle bearing down on him.
Everything happened so quickly that Gordon had barely turned around by the time the two men had hit the floor. He froze the moment he saw Fletcher struggling beneath the behemoth of a man. He had allowed himself the luxury of relaxation the moment he had come under Fletcher’s watch, but he too felt the effects of the adrenaline surge almost immediately. The metallic taste in his mouth had become far too familiar. Gordon’s mind seemed to separate from its own logic core; his hearing dulled and his limbs felt as if they were under the control of someone else. He looked down at the gun on the subway floor. It seemed a universe away.
The goth-girl cellist shouted something in Russian at Gordon in a vain attempt to pull him out of his stupor. She could see his friend was hanging onto life by a gossamer thread. She dropped her beloved cello to the floor, rose to her feet and kicked the gun toward Fletcher. The assailant was so focused on Fletcher’s neck, he didn’t even notice the girl’s movement. As fortune would have it, the gun slid directly next to Fletcher’s good arm. In one fluid motion, he snatched the weapon, held it to the assailant’s temple and fired the kill shot. Blood and brain matter painted the entire side of the subway car and the full weight of the assassin landed squarely on top of him. He gasped for air as he shoved the dead body to the side. He brought his hand up to his throat; he was lucky his trachea hadn’t been completely crushed.
The sound of the second gunshot brought Gordon straight back to the present. He ran to Fletcher’s side and helped him to his feet. He felt ashamed. If the girl had not interceded, his friend Fletcher would be dead right now.
“I froze.”
“Time to thaw. Put one hand here and here.”
As directed, Gordon grabbed Fletcher’s lifeless arm at his wrist and just above his elbow. The goth-girl retrieved her cello, regarding the scene before her with a befuddled expression that conveyed both atrocity and admiration.
“Now flex my elbow at a ninety-degree angle, hold my wrist firmly and rotate my lower arm in towards my chest.” Fletcher gritted his teeth as Gordon obeyed his instructions exactly. Thankfully, his pain was masked by the adrenal cortex hormones coursing through his veins.
“Alright, mate, this is the bad bit. Rotate my arm out to the side...slowly.” Fletcher closed his eye in anticipation of the pain. It wasn’t his first dislocated joint reduction, so he knew the most painful part of the procedure was about to begin. Gordon hesitantly rotated out Fletcher’s arm, until it was just past ninety degrees to his chest. They both heard a loud pop as it slid back into the pocket. The relief was immediate. Fletcher couldn’t help but smile.
“Right as rain.”
“You’re bleeding.” Gordon pointed to Fletcher’s shoulder wound from the first gunshot.
Fletcher looked down at his bloodied shoulder. “Nothing. ’Tis but a flesh wound.” Fletcher walked over to the homeless drunk sprawled out across the opposite bench. “Don’t mind if I do.” He grabbed the bottle of cheap vodka that dangled precariously from the man’s relaxed grip, took a hearty swig and set the bottle back down next to the inert form.
“He’s a sound sleeper, that one.” Fletcher shifted his gaze to the goth-girl cellist, who had essentially saved his life. Gordon could see she was already well under his spell. Even covered in brain matter.
“And you, love, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Fletcher got down on one knee, lifted her outstretched hand to his lips and gently kissed it. She didn’t understand a word of English, but understood Fletcher just fine. Her blackened eyes sparkled under his direct gaze. She handed Fletcher a few bunched up tissues from her jacket pocket. As the train slowed to a stop, he wiped the assailant’s blood from his face.
“I believe this is our stop.”
The subway doors opened and the two men exited the subway car.
Fletcher scanned the station, expecting to find the dead assailant’s partners, but instead found an elderly couple and a few drunk young men returning home from an evening out. He didn’t let Gordon see it, but he was relieved. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take at the moment. His adrenaline was waning and all he really wanted was a hot shower and a bed.
“Stoi!” shouted the goth girl. She rose from her seat, picked up Konstantin’s journal from the floor and rushed toward the closing door. Gordon hurried to meet her, but barely grasped the corner of the splayed open journal which sat suspended between the closed doors. He ran alongside the now moving train and tugged on the corner of the journal as hard as he could, only managing to tear away a single page.
“Dammit.” Everything was going wrong all at once. He was beginning to feel the unfamiliar, crushing weight of failure. But then Gordon looked down at the paper, and the numbers popped off the page as if they were inhabiting a dimension of their own. He had felt this eureka moment before, and it had won him a Nobel Prize.
“Forget about it. I know her type well,” Fletcher said, recalling his equally ballsy daughter. “The journal is safe with her. We need to get out of Moscow, stat.”
“A map,” Gordon responded cryptically with a wide grin on his face.
“You okay, mate?”
“A map. I need a map.”
Fletcher pulled a small tablet device from the pocket of his parka. “Where to?”
“Latitude 61 degrees 52 minutes, longitude 94 degrees 10 minutes. Where is it?” Gordon held the paper for Fletcher to see. Konstantin had recorded the weight of the pyramid as 0.61529410 kg. Konstantin had probably stared at the numbers hundreds of times in his life and to him, all they represented were a basic measurement. Gordon didn’t even need to hear Fletcher’s response; he already knew the answer. He felt as if he was speeding down a one-way street at the speed of light. At one with the universe.
“Tunguska. Well done, mate.” Fletcher patted him on the back, cringing as an arrow of pain shot up his bloodied shoulder.
•••
Dimock, PA - State Rt. 2023
Bathed in moonlight, a man emerged from the backseat of a black Lincoln Town Car. He glanced down at his phone and double-checked the coordinates: Latitude: 41.7324281° Longitude:-75.9570169°. He stole a quick glance at his surroundings. The uninterrupted countryside seemed to extend to the edge of forever. In a different life, it was the kind of place he could see himself retiring: fishing, hunting, breathing. It made no sense. Why here? A question that would remain internalized. Questions get people killed.
Resigned to the task at hand, he grabbed the combo-locked, titanium Zero Halliburton briefcase from the backseat. He entered 6-1-6 and snapped open the two bolt latches. Unceremoniously, he pulled the black pyramid from its foam-fitted encasement and tossed it into the heavy bramble that lined the rural route.
He stepped back into the idling car and never looked back.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Convergence
Rysevo, Russia - Farmhouse
THE MORNING SUNLIGHT colored the inside of her eyelids a bright rusty orange, gently rousing her from her deadened slumber. Disoriented, Harper awoke to find herself in a small bed in an unadorned bedroom. She looked down at her wrists and ankles, where bruises marked the location of her former restraints. The crippling head pain from the choppe
r had lessened considerably, but her mind still wasn’t clocking in at its usual speed. She looked around the room. Bed, side table, window.
A plastic jug and an empty paper cup sat atop her bedside table. Dehydration had already established a foothold; her tongue was practically glued to the roof of her mouth. She eagerly poured herself a cup of water and guzzled it down, allowing the overflow to dribble down the front of her dirtied t-shirt.
She arose from the bed and walked to the door that she felt certain would be locked. The old brass doorknob rattled under her hand, but held firm. Next, she approached the large window, from where she appraised her surroundings. Her bedroom was perched at the top of an old blue farmhouse. A blanket of snow extended for miles around the house and beyond that, an immense forest. The nearest sign of life was a gray plume of chimney smoke floating up above the trees, miles away.
She examined the aged wooden-framed sash window. Its lock was welded in place. Not insurmountable, but from this height a broken ankle or leg was almost guaranteed, with the distinct possibility of incurring a far greater injury.
She ran down her options. Yelling for help was pointless, and besides, she felt oddly at ease considering her current predicament. She knew she was the bait at the end of the hook and that her father and Gordon were the intended catch of the day. Without her, her captors would have nothing.
A mechanical sound drew her attention away from her escape plans. She looked around the spartan room. From the opposite upper corner, a small white security camera panned with her movements as she traversed the room. She hated the feeling of being watched, especially by strangers. She waved at the camera, smiled and flipped it the bird.
Moments later a slender, fine-featured man dressed smartly in a patterned wool sweater and flat-front corduroys entered the room. Fifty-something, with a close-cropped haircut and black framed modernist eyeglasses, he looked more like an architect than a would-be kidnapper.
“Peter,” the man said, touching his chest as if to confirm his curt introduction. “Are you in any pain?”
“I have a headache. And I’m hungry.”
“Yes. The fentanyl will do that. I will see that your pain and hunger are both resolved immediately. I presume you know why you are here?”
Harper nodded her head.
“I’m sure you’ve considered escape,” Peter said, gesturing toward the window. “Please be assured that a jump from this height will render you incapable of walking. And crawling through a foot of snow in minus ten degrees Fahrenheit - dressed as you are - will give you a life expectancy of approximately thirty-seven minutes.” As if to accentuate Peter’s point, a gust of wind whistled through a small crack in the frame.
“Why are you doing this?”
“We simply want to speak to your father and Dr. Gray. We have similar interests.”
“Who are you? And how did you know I would be in Gordon’s office?”
“I’m afraid I can’t answer the first, and the second...well, let’s just say, great minds think alike.” He smiled warmly. Oddly, she felt unthreatened … almost safe.
“And when you’re done with me and my father?”
“Assuming no one makes any rash decisions, I see no reason why we can’t all coexist. It’s a very big world.”
The words offered Harper little comfort. If one were to look up the word “rash” in the dictionary, a picture of her father would surely accompany it.
“Enough chit-chat for now. After you’ve eaten, we can resume our discussion.” Peter turned and walked toward the door.
“I need to use the bathroom.”
“Certainly.” He opened the door and spoke quietly in Russian to someone in the hallway. He re-entered the room accompanied by a woman who could surely bench-press their combined weight.
Where Peter was warm, the woman was ice cold. Her colorless eyes and toneless face revealed no emotion whatsoever. She was certainly the bad cop to Peter’s good. “This is Nika. She will escort you to the toilet. Should you require anything further, simply knock on your door and she will assist you.”
As Peter left the room, Nika reached for Harper’s upper arm, taking a firm grip as she steered her out the door and down the hallway toward the bathroom.
The hallway had a completely different feel. With its rustic decor and worn furnishings, it was a true Russian farmhouse. Nika’s perch, a simple wooden chair, sat directly outside the bedroom door.
Any sense of comfort Harper had felt in Peter’s presence evaporated under Nika’s cold grasp. Their silent walk felt more like a death row processional than a walk to the bathroom. When they reached the door at the end of the hall, Nika entered directly behind Harper. Harper turned to her, offering a weak smile, as if to suggest she would be fine on her own for a minute. Nika answered with a frosty stare. Clearly she had no intention of leaving her side. Harper looked around the bathroom. Bath, shower, medicine cabinet, small window, toilet, sink - definitely not kiddie-proofed. Possibilities. Resigned to the fact that Nika wasn’t going anywhere, Harper unbuttoned her jeans.
“Can you at least turn around?” Harper asked.
Nika was a woman of few words. She maintained her rigid stance.
Harper shrugged her shoulders. She would have an audience. She pulled down her jeans and sat on the cold porcelain. She hadn’t urinated in over twenty-four hours, but even her dehydration and stage fright couldn’t stop the flow. The situation was so uncomfortable, Harper instinctively began to hum nonsensically in order to cover the sound of her urination.
Wiping was the most humiliating aspect of it all. She felt like a two-year-old. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands and hung her head in shame as Nika escorted her back to the room.
She missed her dad.
•••
Dimock, PA - Louden Residence
The dryer buzzer startled Nancy Louden. She had just closed her eyes in anticipation of grabbing a much needed quick catnap, and the jarring sound nearly brought her to tears. She hadn’t fully realized the important role sleep played in maintaining her mental well-being, until the birth of her seven-week-old baby girl, Skye. She and her husband George had been operating on only three to four hours a night. They lovingly referred to it as boot camp, and resented friends whose babies managed to sleep for six or seven hours right from the get-go.
“Darn it,” she whispered under her breath as she ran to silence the machine. She held her breath for a moment in anticipation of the inevitable wail.
“Waaaaaahhhh.” Sure enough. Tears would do no good. She put on a smile on and went to retrieve her little bundle of joy. Perhaps she could coax her back to sleep with a little rocking and a lullaby?
Skye calmed immediately once she was in her mother’s arms. Nancy touched her nose to the top of the baby’s head. No other scent compared...well, except for maybe the smell of the freshly baked blueberry muffins that drifted in from the kitchen. She had been strict with her dieting since giving birth, but every once in a while she just needed a freshly baked treat. She chuckled to herself, realizing the buzzer for the oven was just about to go off as well. For whatever reason, she and Skye were not meant to sleep this morning.
As the last thirty seconds ticked down on the oven timer, Nancy walked with Skye over to the photo-covered refrigerator door, from where she removed a picture of her husband. She held up the photo in front of Skye. She swore it brought a smile to her little angel’s face, but at this early age that expression was more likely due to the passing of gas.
As the last five seconds ticked down on the oven timer, a brilliant blue pulsing light washed over the room. It was mesmerizing. A fraction of a second later, the entire two-bedroom house shook to its very foundation. And then nothing. The light and sound vanished as quickly as they had arrived. The room appeared untouched, but both Nancy and Skye were gone. The photo of George lay on the ground next to where they had been standing.
The oven timer beeped, echoing through the vacant house.
One hund
red and twenty-eight men, women and children - the entire population of Dimock, Pennsylvania - disappeared into thin air.
•••
Moscow, Russia - Irkutsk International Airport
Fletcher and Gordon’s uneventful journey aboard a small four-seater Cessna, began on a private airstrip just outside of Moscow and ended at Irkutsk International Airport, a two-and-a-half-hour drive from Tunguska.
Fletcher had made arrangements to have a four-wheel drive vehicle available for their use upon landing. Gordon smiled when he saw the maker -- it was a brand new matte finish army green Lada Niva, with all the bells and whistles one could hope for in an off-road vehicle. Certainly, it was a world away from the old Lada he had passed on to Dr. Batkin. He wondered how Dr. Batkin and the missus were making out with his father’s old beater. His father. He quickly turned down a different corridor in his busy mind. No time to be distracted. After the subway incident, Gordon resolved to stay strong, focused and present. He owed it to Fletcher and to himself.
Though worlds apart, the two men had become close - Fletcher was even mulling over the idea of introducing Harper to Gordon after their return to the States. It was a first for him -- he had never considered another man worthy of his beloved Harper. She had introduced her father to many potential suitors over the years, but he had always managed to find dozens of flaws with each of them. Though fiercely independent, Harper valued her father’s opinion above all else and whether she knew it or not, that played a role in the demise of each failed relationship.
