Wrath and Ruin

by Ripley Proserpina

  A man stood nearby, holding his hand out to her. His eyes were a vivid, shocking blue, and he was in a military uniform. He was older than she was, his jaw firm and his shoulders broad and strong.

  “Polya!” the soldier cried out.

  She pushed against the ground, trying to right herself and take the man’s hand.

  “What do you want?” the other voice asked again, but she ignored it. She ignored the heat and the screams surrounding her.

  She pushed against the ground, but it wasn’t firm anymore. It was soft and sticky. When she looked down, her hand was wrist deep in a pool of blood. A small, pale hand lay palm up in the pool. She followed it to the arm, shoulder, neck, and face.

  It was her mother. Her milky dead eyes stared at her. She choked and turned her face away only to see the ravaged, torn body of her father, ripped apart by the bombs.

  “Fight.” The soldier’s voice said in her ear just as the screaming reached a crescendo.

  “What do you want more than anything in this world?” came the voice again, sliding into her ear, winding around her skull like an oily snake.

  “Polya!” Strong, scarred hands gripped her shoulders and lifted her. She tilted her head up and up and up, and saw the blue-eyed soldier. He was grim-faced, like he frowned more than he smiled.

  “I’ll help you,” he said, “but you have to fight.”

  She nodded, agreeing, wanting to do anything this man, who seemed to exude wisdom, honor, and loyalty, asked her to do.

  The blast of a heat wave and a concussion of air hit her. It lifted them both up and tossed them. The soldier held tight to her, and when she landed, he cradled her, bearing the brunt of the force.

  Polya opened her eyes as the bear jerked to his feet. The explosions weren’t from her dream. They were all around her.

  A shell whistled overhead, flying through the air. It hit the ground near them, and the side of the hut was sprayed with dirt and debris.

  The bear snarled, his head bobbing as he scanned the room to find escape. Polya ran to the door, but was knocked aside by the bear. She understood right away. They would be waiting for them to go out the front door. The only other way out was a small window in the back, and it was much too small for the bear.

  He leapt toward the window, his head swinging back to her as he made a grunt, Move it!

  She ran. “What about you?”

  It was almost like he shrugged.

  “No,” she said stubbornly. “You’re coming, too.”

  He pushed at her, and she snarled at him. His head drew back in surprise, and he raised his lip.

  “I’m. Not. Going.”

  He pushed her hard, hard enough to make her stumble. She stamped her foot and hissed. The whites of his eyes shown around the blue before he nudged her one more time, her back hitting the window.

  “You think they’re not going to be watching that, too, you big idiot?”

  He snarled and whipped his head around, studying the hut. Polya followed his line of sight, looking at the wall. She moved closer, running her hands along the boards. The cabin was old, and in some places, the boards soft.

  She wondered…

  Desperately, she kicked at the bottom of the wall. It gave a tiny bit. She kicked it again, nearly howling in pain when she slammed her toes, not the bottom of her foot.

  She tried to kick it with her heel, but couldn’t get the right angle. What do I do? Lying on the floor, she kicked it. She drew her knee up, pulling it nearly to her chin, before she slammed it into the wall, over and over.

  The board gave out, pulling away from where it was nailed in place. She moved to the next board, kicking again and again, and then to the next board and the next, until she was sure that she’d made a big enough space for the bear.

  He had been alternating pacing and watching her. Every so often, he would stand on his hind legs and gaze out the window.

  Polya was amazed none of the shells had landed on the hut, but then she realized it wasn’t really a challenge for the army to hit a target with a shell. They would want something more personal.

  “Hey!” she called, hearing the loud strange whistle of the shell. “HEY!”

  The bear turned to her right before the ceiling fell in. The bear jumped at her, and she panicked, seeing for the first time the Beast whispered and written about. He hit her with eight hundred pounds of muscle, but instead of landing on her, he wrapped himself around her, rolling like a big furry wheel, right through the wall Polya had kicked loose.

  She fell on top of him as he landed on the ground. Then he grabbed her satchel with his teeth, shaking the sense back into her.

  She could feel his anxiety: run, run, run.

  So she did. She took off like a streak, but came to a skidding stop when a shell exploded in front of her. Instinctively, she threw her arms up to protect her face from pine needles and dirt and stones and ran in the other direction. The bear ran along with her, panting and huffing, his large paws landing almost soundlessly on the forest floor.

  Another shell exploded, and they turned again. The trees were spaced farther apart and up ahead thinned, opening into a wider space. The bear seemed to angle closer to her which she took to mean she should change directions. He seemed to be warning her against running into the open, and given the accuracy of the bombs landing around them, she agreed with him. But as soon as they began to edge deeper into the forest, the bombs came more rapidly.

  They were being herded. The bombs were forcing them to change directions, to move into the open. They had no choice. To move forward meant being blown apart.

  Polya’s legs and lungs burned. She’d never run so fast or so far. She was hit with a sudden sense of freedom and euphoria.

  She had to be smart, and she had to survive. Unlike the time in the square, when Polya had acted purely on instinct, killing without conscious thought, she now used her strength and her brain. She had killed the dogs in the stadium, but she’d made the decision to do that. She’d saved the bear because she wanted to. The decisions she made now were the most important ones of her life.

  The bear slowed, his head swinging toward Polya. Understanding dawned in his eyes. He knew what was happening. He knew what they were being forced to do.

  “Let’s go,” Polya said, answering his unspoken question, and he took off in the direction of the clearing.

  He moved fast, paws throwing up dirt as he ran. His claws dug into the forest floor, propelling his huge body forward.

  Polya followed, but he was faster than her. Like a flash, she realized he wanted to reach the clearing first and draw their attention.

  This bear was more than a bear, her mind screamed at her, while simultaneously yelling, faster, faster.

  He cleared a fallen log, and Polya hurried after him, stretching out her legs and leaping up high. She flew so far she landed next to him, and he shot her a dark look as they came into the clearing at the same time.

  But it wasn’t a clearing. It was a mountain.

  They were being herded to the mountain.

  To the Mountain

  Anatoliy stared up at the mountain and then over at Polya. At this time of year, the mountain was dangerous. Storms came up quickly and fiercely. They had no shelter, and Polya was not dressed for the weather at higher altitudes.

  When Anatoliy had been training with his unit, back when he was a man, they had climbed this mountain. They’d anchored themselves to rock faces, tied ropes between them, and gone straight up. Even equipped with cold-weather gear—fur boots, wool socks, hats, fur lined coats—when a storm had blown in, two of his men had gotten frostbite, and another four had died when the wind had blown their tent, and them, into a crevasse.

  Slowing, Polya stared at the mountain. He knew what she was thinking; from this angle it didn’t look so bad.

  But the Stovnya Mountains were bad. The ice sheets shifted, creating gaps that were then covered by a thin layer of ice and snow. One misstep meant death. The gaps were so deep no ro
pe was long enough to reach the person who fell, not that they would need a rope. They would be dead.

  A shell exploded at the tree line, as if the hunt organizers were getting anxious. He and Polya were taking too long to do what they wanted.

  Polya’s hands opened and closed as they grasped her skirts. She didn’t even have gloves. No way were they going up.

  Anatoliy spun around, rushing back to the forest.

  “Wait!” Polya yelled, her footsteps landing behind him.

  He calculated the trajectory of the shells, and went in the direction he thought they must have originated. He ran as fast as he could, hoping they wouldn’t be able to reset the guns and blow them up.

  The shells landed faster now, crossing above their heads like giant smoky arches. The trees around them began to explode, pieces of bark and pulp showering them.

  Anatoliy put his head down, running faster. He recognized the sound of automatic weapons. Somewhere ahead of him, two men manned an automatic machine gun, spraying the forest with bullets. He heard a grunt, a gasp, and was momentarily distracted.

  Polya’s face was red with exertion as she clutched her side.

  The earth in front of them was hit with something. The force of it threw Polya and Anatoliy backward. He’d miscalculated. Somehow they were able to adjust the guns to hit them with a shell. It must have been a huge explosion to lift him off the ground.

  Using his momentum, he rolled, lumbering to his feet.

  His ears rang, and he stumbled, paws tripping over each other as he swayed from side to side. He could no longer hear the direction of the gunfire, but he felt the splinters of wood hitting his body as the bullets continued to fly.

  He shook his head again and lurched forward, gaining speed as his hearing cleared until he sprinted through the forest. His paws barely touched the ground. The scenery blurred into brown and greens.

  Ahead gleamed the bronze pointed hats of soldiers. With a leap, he soared through the air, his paws outstretched, claws extended. The soldier who had been feeding the gun opened his mouth to scream, but never made a sound. With one swipe of his paw, Anatoliy opened his throat.

  The other soldier had time to fumble at his belt, withdraw his side arm and point it with a shaking hand. He fired off one shot that grazed Anatoliy’s shoulder blade, but he ignored it, and the soldier met the same fate as his compatriot.

  Ears still ringing, he was hit with a wave of dizziness. He took a step and faltered, the forest around him focusing and blurring.

  He took a step back, and something sharp pierced his paw. A dart. He moved his paw, put his nose to the ground, and sniffed. There was some sort of chemical residue on it, sharp and acrid.

  In the woods behind him, Polya roared, her voice far away. He tried to hurry, but his body was uncoordinated. It felt like he ran in place before he finally moved. His weight propelled him forward, and he roared in response to the snarl he heard.

  I’m coming! He screamed at her, wishing he could tell her, wishing she would know what he meant.

  The snarl rang out again, this time higher pitched and panicked. It spurred him onward. He pushed through the fog threatening his brain. His only thought was to find her.

  As he came over a rise, he caught the flash of a red-blonde braid. She was surrounded. Four soldiers holding bayonets, poked at her, forcing her back to the clearing. The wound on her face had reopened, the sleeves of her dress had been torn, and he could smell the blood welling up from a dozen cuts.

  The soldiers’ focus was solely on Polya. They thrust the bayonets at her, not caring if they cut her or not. Their aim wasn’t to kill, that much was clear, but they weren’t holding back. He was almost there, almost within striking distance.

  Polya was beautiful in motion. She leapt from the ground over a log, swung from a low branch and backed up.

  One of the soldiers motioned to the other, who dropped his bayonet and pulled out his sidearm. All Anatoliy could do was roar in anger and frustration, too far away to do anything except watch him fire at Polya, over and over. She dropped like a stone, tumbling onto the ground where she lay still.

  In slow motion, the soldiers turned when they heard Anatoliy’s roar, but like their comrades, they were too late. Anatoliy killed them.

  The shelling began again, but he ignored it, rushing to Polya’s side to turn her over. A half dozen darts, barely the size of his claw, were embedded in her skin. They had the same acrid sharp smell as the one he stepped on. With each slight rise and fall of her chest, she took in tiny gasps of air.

  The shelling came closer. The artillery unit made adjustments and landed the bombs closer to them as they stayed in place.

  Somewhere out there, somewhere Anatoliy couldn’t see or smell, there were scouts. They were watching them, relaying information about their position, setting up the traps, trying to force them onto the mountain.

  He didn’t know what to do. For the first time in his life, Anatoliy had no idea what step to take next. Even when he was first made a bear, he’d done something. He’d fought. But now—with Polya injured, surrounded by bombs, and guns, and whatever was in the dart—he didn’t know what to do.

  The soldiers wouldn’t help Polya. They would likely kill him. They couldn’t stay in the woods. They couldn’t go to the mountain.

  Or could they?

  It wouldn’t work, he couldn’t even lift her. He grabbed the satchel with his teeth, and tugged. Immediately a bloom of blood appeared on her hip. Anatoliy peered closed, sniffing it, smelling gunpowder and brass. She’d been shot, too.

  He roared again. What was he supposed to do? He wanted to stomp his foot like Polya had earlier when she hadn’t like his conclusions.

  Using his paw, he carefully nudged it under her body, trying to somehow prop her up. He pulled with his teeth again, watched the bloom, smelled the fresh blood, but worked as quickly as possible. As soon as he had her leaning against a log, he stopped. The casks were still attached to his body, if he could somehow get her on his back, she would stay relatively stable.

  She would have to lie on her stomach, and that wasn’t possible with the darts. He tried to grip them with his teeth. They were so small he tore her dress when he attempted to grasp it. But it worked.

  One by one he removed the tiny, needle-like barbs, dropping them next to her. He got down on his belly, spreading his paws to the side, getting as low as he could to the ground. Gently, he pushed her body until she flopped over his neck. He stood carefully, aware of any shift of her body, any indication she may slide off of him.

  Anatoliy took a tentative step forward, and she stayed in place. He took another, and another, growing more comfortable with each step, until he could trot across the ground. The shelling had stopped once he began in the direction of the mountain.

  He’d make it look good, for the king and the scouts, and whoever else was out there forcing him forward. Then he would help Polya, whose breath tickled his ear. He’d figure it out.

  Pytor Watches the Hunt

  Pytor sat at the edge of the woods, his brothers next to him. They rested under an awning, each with a bearskin blanket across their legs as they drank from flasks.

  But they were not comfortable.

  Pytor did not drink, and he stood at odd intervals, pacing back and forth as the shelling seemed to reach a crescendo and the sound of automatic fire began.

  She is a girl. What have you done?

  He laced his fingers together, twisted his hands, reached up and pulled at his hair. Almost as if he had heard his internal disquiet, Father Stepan appeared nearby.

  “Pytor,” he said, his voice commanding. “Walk with me.”

  “Father,” Pytor began, as soon as he was next to the priest, “this was a mistake.”

  “Of course you would have doubts,” the priest reflected. “You are a father.”

  “She’s just a girl,” Pytor said, waving his hand toward the woods. “How is she supposed to survive this?”

  The priest st
opped and looked at Pytor. “God decides who lives and who dies, no matter what the situation. If she did not die here, she could easily be taken from you crossing the street or swimming in a lake. When Polya’s time arrives, it will be her time. There is nothing you can do to delay the inevitable.”

  Pytor nodded at his reasoning. Hearing the priest’s words eased his guilt, and yet… “Am I being selfish?”

  “No, my son,” Father Stepan said kindly. “You will be the father of this nation. You will lead it to light and to civility, away from darkness and barbarism. Do you remember? Remember the choice he would have you make? What he demanded of you?”

  Pytor did. He would never forget his humiliation, his horror, and his revulsion at his brother’s coronation anniversary dinner.

  “Trust in God.” Father Stepan made the sign of the cross. “God will protect her, if that is His will.”

  Pytor repeated the words to himself over and over, God will protect her, if that is His will.

  This was what was best. For him. For his nation. Polya would be the hero or the martyr, but the decision no longer rested with him. As Father Stepan said, it was in the hands of God.

  On Fire

  Polya writhed. Her skin on fire, her belly, her brain, her muscles, all aflame. She tried to roll, to stamp it out, but her body wouldn’t follow her commands.

  Along her side, the soldiers’ bayonet blade sliced her skin, then sliced her arm.

  The soldiers were back. She was in the forest, trying to get away from them, but they kept crowding her, thrusting at her, pushing her toward the mountain.

  The bear was gone. He had roared and taken off. She knew he hadn’t abandoned her, but still, here she was, alone with four stony-faced soldiers who forced her back.

  They worked together, like a hive-minded unit, not needing to communicate with words. They knew exactly when one would stop and the other would crowd.

  Polya pulled the dagger from her side, holding it at the ready, but one soldier had smacked her hand with the flat of the bayonet, and she had dropped it.