Bjorn’s and Olga’s eyes met.
“Lyktstolpen...” Olga said again, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand and shaking her head with abandon.
Tears shone in her eyes.
Bjorn held her awkwardly by the shoulders.
“You knew?” she asked.
“Not exactly...” he mumbled. “The Russians only told the Americans and the Germans.”
“Those pigs!” sobbed Olga. “I was the one who gave them the key. And they didn’t even tell me...”
“Russian anarchism...The Brothers...what is it...Karmanazov, right?” Bjorn tried to joke.
“Karamazov, Lyktstolpen...” Olga muttered, looking around the elevator.
The lift soon stopped. The doors opened. Before Bjorn and Olga spread a dimly lit space reminiscent of the laboratory of a pharmaceutical factory. There were rows of tables and chairs, shelves and metallic cabinets along the walls, a huge portrait of the same dog, now accompanied by two excited families with flasks, and...Olga saw a window with a pre-dawn sky and a pale full moon. The sky was real, the moon behind was too. Tears welled up in Olga’s eyes again.
“Bjorn! We’re above ground.”
Bjorn paid no attention to her, but entered the workshop. It was empty. He approached a large steel case with wide doors and opened it: it was a refrigerator stuffed with dog legs, all of them skinned. Olga hurried over. They stared silently at the piles of dog legs. It must be here in this workshop that they manufactured the product that made all those Chinese families so happy.
“Bitch’s paw.” Olga suddenly remembered a forgotten Russian curse.
Bjorn slammed the refrigerator shut. Olga rushed to the door of the workshop and tried the handle: locked. She ran to the window again: the third floor. Not so high, but the glass was too thick to break.
“How do we get out of here?” she said, thumping the glass. The moon was melting, giving way to the sun.
Bjorn slid open the door of a tall cabinet. Inside were stacks of cardboard boxes bearing the image of the dog. One box wasn’t sealed. It contained the familiar flasks.
“The elevator only goes down. But where’s the toilet?” Bjorn looked around.
“You need to go?” Olga grinned nervously.
Bjorn saw four narrow doors in the corner. He opened them and peeked inside. Behind two of the doors were toilets. The third was a small cabinet stuffed with packs of labels for the flasks. The fourth contained mops, a stepladder, and plastic buckets.
“Nothing!” Bjorn slammed the door angrily. Then he looked up, and suddenly stopped. There was a large air duct on the ceiling above the door. The wide silver-gray pipe branched in the middle, ending in two intake vents.
“Wait a second...” Bjorn grabbed the stepladder. He opened it, climbed up, and hit the pipe hard with his massive fist.
The silvery metal bent under the impact.
“Wow!” said Olga. “I get it! I see!”
She grabbed one of the mops, unscrewed the handle, and tossed it to Bjorn.
“Here!”
Bjorn pounded on the pipe and brought it down to his level; then he worked the long mop handle into the gap between the sections and yanked as hard as he could. The pipe sections came apart easily. Metal crashed down.
“You don’t get claustrophobic, do you?” Bjorn asked, jumping off the stepladder.
“I don’t know...I used to be afraid of heights...”
“This...isn’t very high.”
He picked Olga up, lifted her like a feather onto the ladder, gave her a push — and she crawled into the duct.
“How is it in there?” he asked, glancing at the window.
“Dark,” Olga replied from the duct. “Come on up!”
She crawled ahead cautiously.
Bjorn climbed the ladder and slid into the duct after Olga. The support bracket holding the duct shook under their weight but held fast. Olga crawled ahead. The vent was wide and warm. There was no air moving in it — most likely it was used only during work hours to ventilate the workshop. It was stuffy. So far, there was only darkness ahead. Olga crawled carefully forward. Bjorn crawled after her.
“Darkness...but we should, should...” Olga muttered in fright, trying to calm herself. “Lyktstolpen...you should have gone in first...I mean, you’re Lyktstolpen, so...you’ve...you’ve...got a light bulb in your head...”
“What?” Bjorn asked in a loud whisper.
“Nothing — so far!” she replied.
He squeezed her ankle encouragingly.
Olga had crawled about fifteen meters when the duct veered left and came to a small grate though which a dim light entered. She cautiously brought her face closer to the grate. She could see a large room, crammed with tall wooden crates prepared for shipping. All of them were stamped with the dog’s head logo. In the middle of the room were two forklifts.
“Crates, and inside — boxes, and in them — little bottles...” Olga thought automatically, looking around the room, “and in the bottles — juice...juice from bitches’ paws...how wonderful...”
Bjorn crawled up from behind, his hand touching Olga’s legs.
“What’s there?” he whispered.
“A warehouse of some kind.”
“Any people?”
“No. We’ve got to break the grate.”
“Then we’ll have to switch places,” he said, beginning to turn around.
Olga wiggled backward. Bjorn tried to crawl over her. They were squeezed tight, surrounded by warm metal. Bjorn’s massive chin poked Olga’s chest. He tried to wriggle his large body free.
“We’re getting stuck!” Olga panicked and squirmed against Bjorn. “Come on, Lyktstolpen...come on!”
Bjorn twisted and struggled, his weight making the duct shake. Olga groaned and, writhing like a worm, slithered back. Bjorn stretched toward the grate, grabbing it with his hands, straining all his muscles.
Suddenly Bjorn froze. He heard people speaking Chinese. Olga heard them too. She stopped dead between Bjorn’s legs. Bjorn saw two Chinese workers in orange uniforms. Chatting together, they strolled across the room and stopped near the forklifts. They went on talking, and then one of them left. The other made a tour of the room while he inspected the crates.
“He’s looking for us,” Bjorn thought. “Or maybe — he’s just looking?”
The man examined the entire room, climbed into a forklift, and turned it on. He drove over to a crate, loaded and lifted it, and carried it out of the room. Just then the duct began to buzz silently. Air poured through the grate onto Bjorn’s face: the air intake had started up.
“Jeez...They start their work day early...” Olga whispered.
The air flowed through the duct, blowing on their overheated bodies. The forklift returned empty, picked up another crate, and left again.
“When he’s taken out seven more crates he’ll be right under me,” thought Bjorn. “Wait till then, break the grate, jump down, and attack...”
Olga touched Bjorn’s hand. He squeezed back and lifted a finger: hold on! She nodded, and squeezed his wrist in reply. With his face pressed to the grate, Bjorn followed the forklift’s progress. It moved at a snail’s pace, removing crate after crate. The first. Second. Third. Fourth. “Dislodging a thin grate held by four screws isn’t hard,” Bjorn thought...“You just have to wait.” The fifth crate. The sixth. Bjorn readied himself, pressing his palms again the grate. Sensing what he was about to do, Olga tensed, carefully raising her knees. Preparing for the last second, Bjorn closed his eyes.
Suddenly, voices could be heard: Chinese spoken very fast. He opened his eyes: guards dressed in blue with machine guns ran into the room. They were followed by the same worker in orange and a blond European wearing a light suit. He issued a command in Chinese, and Bjorn recognized him. It was Michael Laird.
“Oh, damnit...” Bjorn whispered.
“What is it?” Olga whispered.
“It’s bad, very bad...” Bjorn answered in barely audible Swed
ish, his lips pressed against the grate. “Very, very bad...”
“What?” Olga tugged on his leg.
Laird lifted his attentive face. His cold gaze fastened on the grating. A nasty grin stretched across his handsome lips. He pointed at the duct.
Bjorn shrank back, but it was too late. He began to retreat, turning over on his back and pushing Olga with his huge feet.
“Back! Back!”
“What? Where?”
Olga rolled around in the duct.
“Back, back!” His feet shoved hard.
Olga wriggled backward. Below, something clanked a couple of times, apparently settling in place. Bjorn kept on moving away from the grate, pushing Olga. His movement made the duct sway.
“Faster, faster!”
A roar came from below, followed by a buzz. Four thick, long drills, piercing the metal like paper, drilled into Bjorn and Olga’s bodies. Olga screamed wildly. One of the drills entered her knee, another passed easily through her palm. The third entered Bjorn’s stomach, the fourth slipped along his hips, slicing through them. Bjorn bellowed in pain, trying to get away from the drills. Olga couldn’t stop screaming. Their bodies jerked in the air duct. The fifth drill went into Bjorn’s chest, the sixth into his leg, the seventh and eighth entered Olga’s shoulder and chin. Olga’s cries turned to choking sounds, and the drills whined, digging deep into their flesh. Blood sprayed from their twitching bodies, filling the air duct.
“The Brothers of the Light don’t drink sake!!!” Michael Laird’s voice thundered down the duct.
Bjorn shuddered.
And opened his eyes.
Below, the forklift was approaching the eighth crate. Bjorn flattened himself against the grate. The screws cracked. The forklift picked up the crate. Bjorn rammed the grate down. Three screws flew out of their holes; the grating hung on a single screw. Bjorn pushed off of Olga with his feet and tumbled out of the duct, falling chest-first on the roof of the forklift. Roaring with pain, he grabbed the roof by its edge and swung himself down to the floor. The Chinese driver gaped at the white-haired giant who had fallen from the ceiling. He let go of the controls to reach for the can of Mace attached to his belt, but he wasn’t fast enough: a pale fist as big as his head punched out his squinty eyes, propelling him from the driver’s cabin. Bjorn limped as quickly as he could over to the fallen driver, lifted his arm, but didn’t hit him. The driver lay motionless with an expression of surprise on his slack lips. Bjorn straightened up.
“Olga!”
She stuck her head out of the duct.
“Jump!”
Olga tumbled awkwardly over the edge of the air duct and fell shrieking into Bjorn’s arms. He caught her like a doll and gently set her on her feet. She glanced at the driver lying on the floor. Blood trickled from his nose.
“...You did that?”
Bjorn nodded and limped toward the door.
“What’s wrong?” said Olga, running after him.
“I bumped my knee...It’s nothing.”
“You know how to fight?”
“No. My brother knew how...”
The door out was next to the warehouse entry, and they looked in. In the distance, near the crates, Chinese workers were pottering about. The morning radio could be heard. Olga cautiously opened the other door: only an empty hallway.
“We need to get to the first floor.” Bjorn stepped into the hallway. “There’s got to be a staircase somewhere.”
“Or an elevator...” Olga muttered.
They moved along the hallway, which turned to the right, then forked. At the fork they stopped. Red characters and an arrow pointed right.
“This way!” Olga decided, running ahead.
Bjorn limped along behind. Voices approached. They rushed back and took the left turn. Thankfully the hallway turned left again — and led right back into the very same warehouse with the open gates. Around the corner, though, close to the gates, Olga noticed a small elevator door and indicated it to Bjorn with her eyes. He gave her a thumbs-up.
When the workers turned back toward their crates Bjorn and Olga rushed to the elevator. They pressed the button. The car was on the fourteenth floor, coming down. An outcry arose in the warehouse. Olga and Bjorn heard the workers chattering loudly in Chinese. They must have discovered their unconscious comrade.
“Damn...” Bjorn muttered.
Olga pressed her cheek against the elevator’s steel door.
“Come on, come on sweetie...”
8, 7, 6...
The workers’ voices came nearer. They were headed for the entry.
Bjorn and Olga froze.
5, 4, 3, 2...
Around the corner they could see two worried workers talking in Chinese.
The elevator stopped, and the doors opened on a narrow car containing two Chinese in white rather than orange uniforms. With a shout, the workers from the warehouse suddenly caught sight of Bjorn and Olga. The men in white stared, uncomprehending. Bjorn barged into the elevator, brandishing his fists. Olga squeezed in behind and fumbled for the buttons. Men in orange ran shouting after them. Olga pressed a button and the doors began to close. Bjorn slugged away at the white-uniformed Chinese, while the ones in orange raced up and grabbed Olga’s T-shirt. Screaming, Olga elbowed them; her T-shirt ripped, she kicked, the shirt tore, the doors shut, and the elevator moved upward. Bjorn was hammering the guards in white so hard that the elevator shook. Thrusting her fist past Bjorn’s, Olga struck them too, making contact a couple of times. Bjorn roared and the Chinese fought back silently.
“King Kong!” flashed through Olga’s head.
A blow sounded, another, a third. Both Chinese sank to the floor. Breathing heavily, Bjorn examined the elevator buttons. His expression was completely wild, not at all normal. His cheek was scratched, and a drop of blood was quivering on it.
“Where? Which way?” he muttered, trying to understand the direction the elevator was heading in.
“Up.” With a trembling finger Olga wiped the drop of blood from his cheek.
A nervous shiver ran the length of Olga’s spine. Her teeth chattered.
“Fifth, sixth...damn it! Where’s it going?” Bjorn pushed a button.
The elevator continued upward.
Olga was shaking. Standing in her torn T-shirt, she held herself tightly by the elbows.
“What is it?” Bjorn was upset, looking at her.
“N-n-nothing...” her teeth clacked. “Goosebumps...”
Bjorn pressed the button again. The elevator kept on going up.
9, 10, 11, 12...
The Chinese sitting in the corner hiccoughed and stirred weakly.
13, 14. The elevator stopped. The door opened. A spacious hall with several elevator doors spread before them, lit by a wide window through which Guangzhou could be seen awakening beneath the rising sun. Bjorn and Olga leapt out of the elevator. Bjorn pressed the lowest button to send the unconscious guys in white uniforms down to the ones in orange, and the elevator doors slid shut. There were five elevators in the hall — four small ones, including the one they’d arrived on, and a large one bearing an emblem on its silvery-blue doors: two Ice hammers flanking a crimson heart. There was no other way in or out.
“Down, down!” Olga dashed to one of the smaller elevators. It began to hum quietly. 1, 2, then 3 lit up.
The elevator was coming up.
Bjorn went to another one. It too started upward. The third also. Three elevators were quickly rising.
“They’re coming after us,” Bjorn realized, looking at the floor numbers.
Olga pressed the wide button of the large elevator. It opened: it was spacious, super contemporary, clad in silvery light-blue mirrors. The two of them entered. There were only two buttons on the panel: one blue and one red. Bjorn pushed the red button — the elevator didn’t move. He pushed the blue one — the doors closed and the car rose smoothly.
“Up? Why are we going up again?!” Olga angrily slammed her fist against the butto
n panel.
Shrugging his powerful shoulders hopelessly, Bjorn stood staring vacantly at the buttons. There was no floor indicator in the cabin. The elevator kept going up and up. Finally it stopped. The doors opened. Olga and Bjorn froze: right in front of the elevator stood Michael Laird with a trim gray-haired older man. They were surrounded by four brawny blonds.
“Thank the Light!” said Laird with a smile. “I knew you’d make it.”
Olga and Bjorn stared at him, nonplussed. Bjorn came to first. He hit the red button. But the elevator didn’t budge.
“There’s no way back!” Laird’s impassive smile spread.
One of the strong blond men lifted a long-barreled gun. Quickly and silently, he shot twice. Clutching their chests, Bjorn and Olga fell back onto the silvery floor of the elevator cabin. The blonds pulled them out and placed them on a greenish-blue rug at the feet of Laird and the old man.
“Two,” Laird spoke. “You knew, Shua.”
“No, Ev, I didn’t know. It’s just that the Brotherhood needs two part-hammereds now.”
“Only two.” Laird nodded in agreement and shuddered. “The power of the Light tames the meat.”
“The power of the Light moves the meat aside and brings Eternity nearer, Brother Ev,” the old man said quietly.
Laird began to tremble. His face took on a helpless expression.
“Eternity!” His lips grew pale as he spoke the word. “The Eternity of the Light!”
The old man took him by the hand and squeezed.
“Rely on the Ice,” he ordered in a voice that was stern and yet at peace.
A Third of a Meat Day
On October 16, 2005, at 18:35, an enormous twelve-deck, blue-and-white cruise ship with a picture of a flaming heart on its massive deckhouse left the port of Hong Kong. Aboard the ship were 2,490 Brothers and Sisters of the Light. They had all been acquired by the Brotherhood in the Country of Ice and over the course of two days had gathered on the vessel. Eight identical ships were already on their way. But not because the brothers and sisters from the Country of Ice turned out to be the most disorganized — simply because Hong Kong was only 160 miles from the site of the Transformation. Other vessels with brothers from other countries were sailing to the secret location by their own routes.
Ice Trilogy Page 74
