The League of Night and Fog

by David Morrell

  He didn’t dare analyze—he had to act. Snow stung him harder. It covered the ground, preventing him from judging where he could safely place his feet. He knew that a sprained ankle would be disastrous, but he couldn’t worry about it. He had to keep scrambling down the slope, to reach cover before his hunters arrived.

  He stayed well away from the trail that he, Erika, and the woman had made in the snow. Though the storm was quickly filling in the tracks, they were still apparent enough to provide a direction for his hunters. Of course, the men wouldn’t stay in a group. Down in the forest, shots had come from the left and right as the men spread out, trying to outflank their quarry. Obstacles might force them to converge, but wherever possible, they’d keep far away from one another. Saul would have to maintain a considerable distance from the tracks he’d made coming up. His plan was to descend well away from his hunters, get below them, turn, and stalk them from behind, taking them out, widely separated, one at a time.

  If he could control his shivering. His shirt and pants were shockingly cold, the wind excruciating. His hands stiffened, his fingers losing sensation. He slipped on a snow-slick slab and tumbled, bumping his arms, his legs, and his back over rocks, jolting to a halt against the trunk of a pine tree at the bottom of the slope. Branches drooped over him, protecting him from the streaking snow. He lay on his back, exhausted, struggling to catch his breath. His vision grew fuzzy. With agonizing effort, he forced his eyes to focus, his body to respond. He sat painfully up, pushing at the pine limbs, about to stand …

  And halted when he saw motion, a dark figure creeping upward past scattered storm-obscured trees.

  The figure—a man, his dark Windbreaker and trousers evident now—stopped often, aiming his handgun from side to side before him, then glancing right, toward what must have been another member of his team, though Saul couldn’t see the other man. The cold metal of the handgun must be painful in his grip, Saul thought. His fingers might not respond if he tries to shoot.

  But with an inward groan, Saul changed his mind. The snow gusts lessened briefly, just long enough for him to see that the man wore gloves. He remembered the woman’s description of the hiker-priest. That man’s left hand had shown a pale circle on the middle finger where a ring had recently been removed. Saul began to wonder if that ring would have matched the bright red ring he’d seen on the left hand, middle finger, of each of these men as they’d stalked up the lane toward the farmhouse.

  He remembered something else the woman had said—that the hiker had shown unusual caution about his hands, wearing gloves whenever possible. Just as these men had taken care, even in summer, to carry gloves in their Windbreakers. Were these men associated with that hiker? Were they priests, just as the woman suspected the hiker had been?

  Priests who carried guns? Who stalked him like professionals? Who were obviously prepared to kill? It didn’t seem possible! The woman must have been mistaken! What would priests have to do with the disappearance of Erika’s father and of Avidan? Religion and violence? They were incompatible.

  The wind changed direction, lancing through the pine boughs, stinging his eyes. He shivered, envying his hunters for the jackets and gloves they wore. The repeated impacts of his tumble down the slope had numbed his joints. He felt caked with ice. No time. Don’t analyze! Just do!

  His hunter crept closer. Saul eased behind the tree trunk. Pressed against the ground, he saw his hunter’s shoes and trouser legs pass next to the tree. He imagined the man scanning right and left, then up the slope.

  But the shoes paused. They turned as if the man were looking at this tree. Saul clenched his teeth in dread, expecting to see the man peer beneath these boughs and fire.

  Instead, the shoes shifted forward again, the man proceeding upward. Saul wriggled after him. The gusts increased with such intensity that the man became obscured.

  It had to be now! Saul rose to a crouch and lunged. The force of his attack jolted the man to the rocky slope. Saul landed with a knee on his target’s spine, grabbed the man’s head, and jerked up with all his might. His hunter’s spine snapped just before his larynx gave. Despite the shrieking wind, Saul heard the sickening double cracks. His hunter trembled, whistled through his teeth, and suddenly stilled.

  In a rush, desperate not to be seen, Saul dragged the body down beneath the cover of the pine boughs. He fumbled to peel off the corpse’s leather gloves. His own fingers—swollen and numb—didn’t seem to belong to him. Putting the gloves on his hands was even more difficult. He had to cram his fingers beneath his armpits, trying to warm them into flexibility. But his armpits too were achingly cold, and he knew he was close to the danger point. If his temperature dropped any lower, he’d lose consciousness.

  For a disorienting instant, he fantasized about the heat of Israel’s desert. He reveled beneath an imaginary blazing sun. Abruptly he became aware again of the terrible wind, of the snow-shrouded slope. Appalled by the symptoms of altitude sickness and hypothermia, he compelled himself to strip the corpse of its Windbreaker and put it on. The jacket’s protection was minimal, but compared to his thin shirt, the added layer was luxurious.

  He scurried to the edge of the pine boughs, glanced to his right, toward where the remaining two men would probably be creeping upward, and darted forward, reaching the spot where he’d attacked. He pawed through the snow and gripped the pistol his victim had dropped. But his first finger refused to obey his mind’s command, wouldn’t squeeze into the trigger guard. He slapped one gloved hand against the other, trying to make them pliant, his efforts useless. From the wrist down, he had no sensation.

  He shoved the pistol beneath his belt and retreated down the slope, stopping when he reached a dense line of trees. Using them for cover, he stalked toward his right, toward the other men, trying to get behind them. Soon they’d notice that the man on their left flank was missing. They’d investigate. In his weakened condition, without the advantage of surprise, he’d have little chance of subduing both of them together. He had to confront them singly, before they realized they were being hunted.

  Flakes streaked harder. After what he judged was fifty meters, he came to fresh footprints in the snow. They led upward. He followed, emerging from the trees, suddenly unprotected. Above, amid a squall, he saw the back of another dark figure. Mustering strength, he lunged. By now, the gloves had returned some warmth to his hands, making them flexible enough that he could grip the pistol, though his fingers still weren’t agile enough to fire it. He slammed its barrel savagely against the crown of the figure’s head. The tip gouged deeply into bone. Hot blood pelted his face. The figure moaned. Saul struck again, with greater force. The figure toppled, shuddering. Saul struck again. And again! He couldn’t stop himself. He struck, pulping bone until in a crimson drift the man lay quiet.

  Saul pivoted toward his right, straining to see the third man. He rushed along the slope, squinting through gusts, desperate for a glimpse of dark slacks and a Windbreaker. But fifty meters farther, he still hadn’t found his quarry.

  Has he already gone up the slope? Did I pass below him?

  Saul glanced toward the crest, unable to see it in the storm. If he’s above me, I’d have passed his tracks! No, he has to be farther along this hill!

  But twenty meters farther, still failing to glimpse the man or his tracks, he came to a sudden stop. A terrible suspicion filled him with panic.

  They wouldn’t have stayed this far apart. I made a mistake. The first man I killed—he wasn’t on their left flank! He was in the middle! Somewhere behind me along this slope, the third man, the one who was really on the left flank, must have noticed he’s alone! He’ll find the marks in the snow where I killed his partner! He’ll find the body! He’ll search for me!

  Saul whirled to stare behind him, appalled by the unavoidable trail he’d left in the snow. All the third man had to do was follow the footprints till they led him to … ! A handgun cracked, a bullet nipping Saul’s sleeve. He dove to the snow and rolled down the
slope, ignoring the impact of rocks beneath him. The handgun cracked again, its bullet kicking up snow. Saul reached the bottom of the slope and scrambled to his feet, hearing a third crack from the handgun. He didn’t dare stop, didn’t dare let the man pin him down. With his frozen hands, he wouldn’t be able to return fire. The man would merely circle till he had a clear aim and shoot Saul from a safe distance.

  Saul raced on. Exertion in this unaccustomed altitude made him afraid he’d vomit. The trees became more frequent, less far apart. He charged down a farther slope. The man wouldn’t follow directly along Saul’s tracks but instead would stay to the side, to avoid a trap. Counting on that strategy, Saul veered away from the man, scrambling through a gap between boulders. He saw a dead branch projecting from a drift and yanked it free. He ran back up the slope, in the direction from which he’d come, hoping a line of bushes would conceal him. At the top of the slope, he angled back toward the man. His intention was to make a wide circle, get behind the man, find his tracks, and stalk him. In a moment, he crossed his own tracks and entered the enemy’s territory. The falling snow transformed afternoon into dusk. Objects as near as ten meters were indistinct. He crept from tree to tree and suddenly found his pursuer’s tracks.

  He calculated his next moves. By now, the man would have reached Saul’s own trail, would have seen where Saul stopped descending and doubled back. The man would realize the likelihood that Saul intended to circle behind him. The man would hurry back this way to intercept him.

  Clutching the jagged branch he’d picked up, Saul glanced along his pursuer’s downward trail. He saw a clump of boulders the man had passed and approached them, staying within the tracks his enemy had made. When he came to the boulders, he leapt as far as he could, hoping the new imprints would be sufficiently spaced from the trail he’d just left that his hunter wouldn’t see them in time to realize that Saul was hiding among the boulders.

  Braced in a cleft, he imagined the sequence he willed to occur. His hunter, coming back this way, would ignore his own tracks and keep staring ahead in search of Saul’s. By the time he came abreast of these boulders, he’d be able to see where Saul’s tracks intersected with his own farther up the slope. Briefly distracted, the man wouldn’t be prepared for an immediate attack.

  So Saul hoped. There were many variables he couldn’t control. Suppose the man didn’t retrace his tracks exactly but instead moved beside them, passing these boulders on the left instead of the right. It was difficult enough for Saul to concentrate in one direction, let alone both. Or suppose the man followed Saul’s tracks where they circled back up the slope. In that case, the man would approach these boulders from ahead, not behind, and Saul would be in full view.

  I should have kept running, Saul thought.

  But to where? The farmhouse is too far away. In the storm, I’ll lose my way. And what about Erika and the woman? I can’t abandon them.

  But I wouldn’t be abandoning them. They’ve got shelter, a rifle. All I’ve got is handgun my stiffened fingers can’t shoot.

  And a branch.

  The weapon seemed ludicrous now. He shivered, fearful he’d freeze to death before his hunter ever searched in this direction. He felt weak, dizzy, nauseous.

  I can’t believe I’ve done this.

  At once it occurred to him that the man must be shivering too. His judgment has to be weakened, the same as mine. It could be we’re even.

  Tense seconds passed, accumulating into minutes. Snow gathered around him. On him. His joints felt immobilized. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to move now, even if his hunter did creep into the trap.

  The forest darkened. Soon he’d be completely disoriented, unable to fight his adversary or find his way back to the cave. Not that he’d ever have to contend with either problem. If he stayed immobile like this, the cold seeping deeper into his core, he’d be dead long before nightfall.

  Snow half filled his enemy’s tracks. If the man couldn’t see them, there’d be little chance of his passing these boulders. Already so much time had elapsed that Saul suspected the man must have chosen another direction. Or perhaps he couldn’t bear the cold anymore and retreated, trying to get back to the farmhouse.

  I have to move, make my muscles work, get my circulation flowing!

  His patience snapped. He stepped from the cleft between two boulders, turned to the right …

  And found himself face-to-face with his hunter. The man had just come abreast of the boulders, looking carefully up the slope. Shock paralyzed them; cold retarded their reflexes. Saul swung the branch as the man pivoted, aiming his pistol. The branch had a finger-long projecting barb. It impaled the hunter’s right eye. Gel spurted, followed at once by blood. The man screamed, a soul-rending wail of outrage and violation. The force of Saul’s blow had thrust the barb all the way through the eye socket, cracking the crust of bone behind the orb, lancing the brain. The man’s arms flapped as if he tried to fly. His scream, now only a motor reflex, persisted, then stopped. His mouth remained open. He dropped his pistol and gripped the branch. In quick succession, he stood on tiptoes, dropped his hands to his sides, peered at Saul with his remaining eye, and fell.

  The branch projected sideways, obscenely, from his face. Horror, fear, exhaustion, cold, and the altitude all had their effect. Saul vomited. It seemed impossible that the contents of his frigid stomach would steam so. He staggered back against the boulders he’d hidden among. He clutched his midsection, doubled over, and heaved yet again, collapsing to his knees. The snowy forest floor tilted one way, then the other.

  I’m going to die, he thought. I’ve won, but I’m going to die.

  His disgust at what he’d just been forced to do shifted suddenly into anger: at himself, the circumstance, the weather, his weakness! He raised his face and roared in rebellion.

  No! If I’m going to die, it won’t be because I gave up!

  He staggered to his feet, pushed himself away from the boulders, and lurched through snowdrifts up the slope. A mental vision of Erika’s face swirled before him. It changed to that of his son. He wanted desperately to live. But not for himself.

  For his family.

  His shoulders felt like blocks of wood, his legs like posts, but he persisted, reached the top of this slope, and staggered up another. Snow struck his eyes. He lost his balance and fell, squirmed upright, fell again …

  And crawled.

  Higher.

  Farther.

  Though his consciousness was clouded, he sensed that the stronger bite of the wind meant he’d left the shelter of the tree-line, had reached the rocky slope up to the open plateau.

  But the plateau seemed to go on forever. The harder he worked, the less ground he seemed to cover. On his hands and knees, he struck his head against a rock, struggled to crawl over it, couldn’t, and realized that the rock was a wall.

  The wall on the far side of the plateau.

  The door. If his memory wasn’t tricking him, the door had to be against this wall. But which way? Right or left? His survival depended upon an instantaneous decision. Completely disoriented, he chose left.

  And almost passed the door before he understood what it was. Exhaustion negated excitement. Stupefied, he pawed at the door, scraping his gloved fingers against it. “Erika, it’s Saul. For God’s sake, Erika.”

  The snow became a warm blanket. It covered him. He sank, toppling forward as the door swung open.

  He landed hard on a rocky floor.

  And heard Erika scream.

  7

  His first impression was that Erika’s horrified face swirling above him was just another vision of her face that had acted as a beacon, drawing him onward through the storm. A dim part of his remaining consciousness jabbed him, however, rousing him into the understanding that he’d reached the door and been granted admission into the cave.

  His second impression was of a far-off hissing light. A naphtha-fueled lantern. Its almost mystical glow revealed shelves of canned food and bottled water, a
white plastic box with a red cross stenciled on it, coats, shirts, socks, and pants, a two-way radio.

  His third impression, and the most important, was of warmth. It pained him. He squirmed, groaning as Erika dragged him toward the lantern. He realized that a kerosene-fueled heater stood next to the lamp, that a tube in the ceiling was venting the heater’s gases. The tingle of warmth upon his skin made him cringe. Erika’s urgent embrace was excruciating. He tried to protest but was powerless.

  The Swiss woman slammed the cave door shut, blocking out the wind and snow. She ran to touch Saul’s forehead. “His temperature’s too low. His body can’t warm itself.”

  Saul understood. The core of heat in his body was like a furnace. If the furnace stopped working, outside heat wouldn’t help him. The heat had to come from within. The furnace had to be made to start generating again.

  “He’ll die if …”

  “Blankets,” Erika said.

  “They won’t be enough.”

  “We’ll heat up some cocoa.”

  The woman shook her head. “Hot cocoa won’t be enough either. Besides, he doesn’t have the strength to swallow it.”

  “What then? How can I save my husband?”

  “Your body heat.”

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “Use your body heat!”

  Erika understood. She tugged off Saul’s wet clothes. He shivered, clutching his arms across his chest. She grabbed a sleeping bag from a shelf, unrolled it beside him, and opened its zipper. She laid him onto it and tugged it shut.

  The sleeping bag was thick and soft.

  But cold. “So cold,” he murmured.

  In the glow from the lamp, he saw Erika take off her own clothes. She threw everything—jacket, blouse, slacks, shoes, socks, bra, panties—into a corner and scurried into the sleeping bag with him.

  She squeezed down beside him, put her arms around him, and pressed her breasts, stomach, and thighs against him. The sleeping bag was almost too small for both their bodies. Though her embrace was painful, he felt the down of the sleeping bag trap her warmth. Heat radiated from her onto him. She wedged a knee between his legs, her thigh between his own. She kissed his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. She breathed deeply, repeatedly against his chest, anything to smother him with warmth.