—Rage-, hate-filled eyes abruptly losing focus, as crushed-watermelon sound broke silence, carrying softly but distinctly throughout dorm.
Russian blinked. Looked puzzled. Lowered gun. Dropped heavily to knees, swayed briefly, then pitched forward onto face...
Revealing tiny Katia, right behind him, eyes sparkling with expression of almost spiritual satisfaction.
With own head still ringing like cathedral bell, took several moments’ labored thought to realize Driutsk probably not born with semipointy, business end of Mossad bolt-cutter embedded several inches into occiput.
* * * *
Own functioning level immaterial at that point. Tasha already in motion; situation well in hand: Briskly, girl grabbed nearest ragged blanket, doubled once, and again; then matter-of-factly used conveniently projecting, newly installed handles to lift Driutsk's head as slid pad underneath; thereafter allowed to thump back onto floor. As blood began to leak out around tool, pad neatly caught, absorbed.
Simultaneously, other kids also shifting smoothly into gear: One sprinted to window facing sally port, peeked out; then turned back with smile, pantomiming sleep, with tilted head resting on nested hands.
Experienced momentary, threefold flash of horror/relief/guilt, as realized Unthinking Special-Ops Girl had undeservingly dodged another bullet: Had entirely forgotten intradorm microphones, possibility that commotion could have been overheard by crack security troops manning sally port.
—Okay, never mind, Posterity; even I can't say that with straight face. Odds that prison camp personnel might have been listening at that hour...
But even if I had remembered, undoubtedly would have rolled dice, responded in precisely same fashion....
Hastily, other children pushed several bunks to one side, lifted heretofore unnoticed loose flooring section. Swarming like ants around bodies, kids dragged/pushed to opening, rolled limply over edge, where fell between joists, landing bonelessly on bare soil paving crawlspace beneath pylon-supported building. Jumping down after them, children produced improvised shovels from under edges, began digging furiously.
Vaulting lightly down into hole, Tasha used foot to hold Driutsk's head immobile as wrenched at bolt-cutter handles. Took only couple yanks before audible crunch announced tool's release. As blockage vanished, blood, pureed brain tissue gushed forth in earnest, soaking into earth.
Wiping majority of scarlet evidence from bolt-cutter with corpse's own shirttail, Tasha tossed unsuspectedly multipurpose tool up to smaller girl, who first brandished aloft in wordless triumph, grinned at me, then skipped off to bathroom. Shortly, sounds of washing could be heard through open door.
Once disposal project underway, functioning smoothly, Tasha paused momentarily. Our eyes met; she offered worried little smile. “Head how?”
Before could round up, coordinate enough brain cells to respond, felt warm little fingers take hand. Looking down, found Katia's almost worshipful expression looking back. With other hand, child offered borderline-filthy communal scoop filled with rusty water.
Clearly not the time to fuss about hygiene; obviously Katia needed to share, to help. Steeled self, took brief sip, handed back; mumbled, “Thank you.”
And discovered forming words made head hurt even worse.
Abruptly, Katia hugged me—harder than would have believed emaciated little frame could manage. From somewhere in vicinity of wishbone (little head's crown didn't quite reach chin) came whispered, “Thanking you."
Dully wondered why Katia thanking me; girl unquestionably had just saved life. Hugged her back, though almost gingerly, in deference to prominent ribs.
Tried not to think about horrors child must have endured. Hoped staving in monster's skull would prove as long-run beneficial as actual moment of revenge seemed to have been short-term.
Unsurprised to find internal dam crumbling at that point. Tried, with little success, not to dribble tears all over little girl's head.
Presently Katia drew back slightly, blotted my face on grimy sleeve. Led to nearest bed, made me sit.
From bottom of rapidly deepening hole beneath dorm, Tasha smiled, whispered, “Resting you; out we being take musor—garbage.”
* * * *
Kim Mellon's Journal:
Both Lisa and Terry were looking terribly pleased with themselves by the time Candy's immediate life-and-death crisis had resolved.
For Terry, of course, showing off is its own reward.
However, I suspect Lisa's sense of personal contribution to the expedition (ego has such negative semantic implications) was particularly well fed by the uniformly thunderstruck expressions worn by everyone present—who, by the event's conclusion, had comprised the entire crew: All work on the plane had ground briefly to a halt; everyone was listening with, depending upon personal inclination, angry or horrified eyes.
Not a few were blinking back tears. As usual, I'd given up even trying to blink them back....
* * * *
Candy's Journal:
Once pounding behind eyes had eased, vision mostly cleared, joined kids taking turns digging. Not as difficult as sounds; goal turned out to be three-foot-diameter, round hole straight down about six feet.
Reshaped boards proved remarkably efficient shovels. Head still hurt too much to ask when, for what purpose kids had made them in first place. Maybe later...
Finally rolled corpses in, dovetailed on excavation's floor like limp Chinese puzzle components. Shoveled dirt back in; finished up by artistically smoothing surface to match previously undisturbed condition.
* * * *
No one paused to Say Words per se over grave. Yes, many words spoken throughout, but though all in Russian, majority almost certainly unrepeatable, even in rude company.
Withal, less than most classical of entombments, but sufficient unto our modest needs. And much better than disposees deserved.
No one got any more sleep: Interring Khraniteli degenerates took much of remaining night; restoring dorm's interior to cozy, prepervicide squalor ate up balance. Plus superelevated adrenaline levels not that conducive to drowsiness.
(Hmm. "Khraniteli degenerates” ... Redundancy? No, don't think so. “Normal” Khraniteli [yes, clearly an oxymoron] merely characterized by active pursuit of genocidal impulses—not rampant psychosexual deviance.)
What passed for breakfast at prison camp served couple hours after sunup. One look at offerings revealed why children all skinny.
Almost incidentally, sometime between fight and breakfast, picked up on fact that kids all understood, spoke at least some English. In recognition of fact that only friend beyond fence was Daddy, Tasha had been doing best to teach kids, in hopes improved communication could enhance odds.
Danni really going to love her, Posterity....
Judging by appearances, bored food-delivery guards not overburdened by curiosity (or even much in way of self-awareness); failed to notice that, despite continuing horrible food, conditions generally, kids all seemed oddly buoyed-up this morning: full of everything's-funny giggles.
Given our night's activities, came as little surprise that, despite Kazimirov's announced intentions, no one came to collect Lizzie Borden for trip to lab. Nor that by midmorning, even new kid, peering dispiritedly through fence, could tell Khraniteli Central appeared preoccupied: Multiple groups prowled, on foot as well as in vehicles, weapons in evidence. Clearly, Driutsk & Company's absence noticed; Khraniteli in all-out search mode.
However, no one so much as glanced our direction. Obviously, following previous evening's collective postdinner blotto session, guards all had slept straight through night; unsurprisingly, hadn't related sleep habits to cohorts’ disappearance, nor (big surprise this) bothered to mention night's alertness level to Powers That Be. As a result, Driutsk's late-night tiptoe in through sally port remained Our Little Secret.
(Is helpful, when karma squishing up through toes occasionally turns out to be positive variety....)
But then, from deeply
buried (even more deeply stupid) corner of brain, unworthy thought trickled out: Would give almost anything to be fly on wall, watch Kazimirov's face, when finds Driutsk. Preferably after several weeks’ ripening. Especially if figures out who cost him his favorite “much decorated soldier ... accomplished electromechanical engineer"...
Lapse brief, however; clearly, once explanation surfaces (ooo; sorry), best to be somewhere emphatically else.
* * * *
Serdtsevina Rasovyi community's upset so generalized, so intense, wasn't until evening, just prior to feeding time (again!), that bored guard wandered by to collect Yours Truly for ride to lab. Functionary so disinterested or stupid (distinction appeared subtle among lower-ranking security personnel), didn't even notice spectacularly multicolored bruise now brightening just below ear, from point of cheekbone to well back into hairline: lingering memento of Driutsk's back-fist.
Happily, as rainbow-hued souvenir intensified, concussive symptoms had faded. At this point, vision clear, brain again functioning at what serves me for normal.
And good thing, too. Because had more than enough to worry about without impaired neural connections: About to meet Daddy for first time since day before World Ended, and found self needing to exercise maximum control to avoid getting into “quite a state.”
Okay, bald-faced lie—already in state, well beyond quite, actually, which was growing rapidly more intense, and becoming more and more worried about it: If couldn't control reactions upon meeting Daddy after all this time, would put him, not to mention self, in danger.
Because no doubt at all: If Khraniteli tumbled to relationship, would use me as lever to try to control Daddy.
Which could only end badly for both: Daddy loves me as much as I do him, but understands ultimate stakes. If push comes to shove, if forced into Needs of Many situation—if has to choose between my life, his life, either/both—versus survival of our people, his answer not in question for single minute. Or mine. Though unquestionably, Daddy would be more manly about it.
Personally, if torture involved, his or mine, intend to cry a lot.
Accordingly, had zenned self almost into stupor by time guard pulled car to stop in front of lab building. Stopped, got out, walked around. Opened door, seized collar, yanked me out without comment, marched us up walk to lab door.
Brief Russian conversation ensued as driver logged me in with security. Then situation got ugly:
Among gun-totin’ staff present, recognized guard whom had hugged previous day. Object of affections recognized me as well—and immediately set about being extra-nasty in front of superiors to overcompensate for prior momentary display of humanity. Seizing arm, twisted painfully. Then barked ugly laugh, grabbed hair, angled head to display bruise to admiring colleagues. Even demonstrated mastery of what passes for physical humor among Khraniteli by thumb-jabbing well-known nerve ganglion just behind jaw—well within bruised area.
Required no acting to reward bully's efforts with authentic, agonized squeak—poke there hurts even without bruise.
(Made note to return favor, if opportunity presents—with interest...)
Thereafter, barely able to maintain feet as bully propelled me roughly through door, down corridor, to, through second door on left. Slammed me down into chair next to empty reception desk. Pounded on inner door, shouted something in Russian.
One last time, braced self not to react to Daddy's appearance, as door opened and—
In walked Dead Man....
* * * *
Volume IX
Paging Dr. Zombie
Not making this up, Posterity: Man who stalked into room, stared down at your Humble Historiographer with interest level barely appropriate to receipt of yet another uninteresting biological specimen, was cold-sweat-inducing, prickles-all-up/down-spine-triggering, sinking-feeling-in-belly-inspiring, barely-can-breathe-in-presence dead.
Okay, not horror-genre-comic-book dead: Hair clean, fingernails groomed; both neatly trimmed. Skin, though well toward pale end of normal range, grossly ordinary. But eyes...
From first glimpse, Kazimirov's eyes had suggested Khraniteli's Fearless Leader had emerged from womb with chip already permanently affixed to shoulder.
Driutsk's, until challenge from mere children sent him frothing over edge, much too bright, too jolly, too excited—and spent way too much time staring, with politically incorrect intensity, at key components of intended object of affection's anatomy.
Dead Man's eyes, by contrast, empty. Not so much devoid of emotion as simply no hint that anyone dwelt in there.
Or more accurate characterization perhaps might be ... seemed not even to be any there in there.
Gaze of great white shark, circling thrashing, bleeding swimmer, positively grandmotherly by comparison.
Balance of appearance superficially odd but medically unremarkable: NBA-caliber tall; lean, just short of skeletally so; thinning, more-salt-than-pepper hair. Unusually broad, slightly rounded shoulders surmounting tall, thin frame invited comparisons to king cobra, hood spread, reared up to strike.
However, as studied walking cadaver, word “ascetic” came unbidden to mind, though seemed, somehow, inadequate...
“You are an American,” enunciated Dead Man, as led way into next room, which proved to be garden-variety doctor's exam cubicle. “What is your name, American?”
Diction almost inhumanly precise; English lacked any detectible trace of accent—or emotion, for that matter; have heard computer-synthesized speech containing more warmth, animation, humanity.
More chilling, however, facial expression utterly without affect.
“Elizabeth Borden, sir.” Prompt, scrupulously responsive (however fictional) answer on my part popped out almost involuntarily, triggered by realization that, unlike Kazimirov, Dead Man inspired no temptation whatever to engage in head games.
In fact, within moments of meeting, had arrived at utter conviction that, if somehow managed to trip Dead Man's alarms, would have no choice but to kill him (conventionally, all the way, really, really, really dead), right then, there.
Or probably die. Right then, there.
Because in Yours Truly's brief but intense experience in life, real fanaticism expressed in two ways: noisy vs. silent.
Adherents of loud variety tend gather in multitudes, rage in streets en masse. Regularly expend vast amounts of live ammunition upon unoffending sky without hint of thought for anyone who might find self beneath hail of bullets when “what goes up” arrives at logical conclusion. Hordes of noisy extremists usually audible miles off; plenty of time to make appropriate preparations.
Silent type, on other hand, tends to work alone, observe opposition without objection, argument, without even detectible interest—until stealth analysis completed; then strikes without warning, hesitation, mercy, regret. Sole objective: dead unbeliever.
Tends also to be more intelligent, disciplined, better trained.
Dead Man impressed me as especially quiet zealot exemplar.
Which prompted realization that, under circumstances, even exploding baby bunny factor inspired less than customary brash confidence in outcome.
Exam commenced; and though preliminary medical history interview cursory by any standard, conduct otherwise irreproachably professional. Began with obvious: “Where are you from?”
“Wausippi, Wisconsin, Amer—”
“Are you the only survivor of your family?” Chop-off seemed less exercise in control, dominance, than simple disinterest.
“Yes, sir.” Only belatedly, realized had made no attempt to wrap inherently trauma-loaded question's response in appropriate emotional overlay, as might be expected from “normal” grief-stricken kid suddenly reminded of tragedy's details.
But Dead Man seemed not to notice. Suspected was accustomed to flattened affects from children he dealt with—most, at least on short-term basis, probably more traumatized by his mere presence than recounting loved ones’ demise.
“I am Fedka,” contin
ued Dead Man. “I am director of medical research. First I will take a DNA sample from you. Open your mouth.”
Did so. Instantly. Wide.
Fedka produced package of Russian-cloned Q-Tip-ish swabs. Tearing open wrapper, used them to scrub inner cheek surfaces thoroughly, meticulously: up, down, up, down; six firm scrubs per side. Dropped samples into tray, set to side.
Then reached out hand; astonishingly long, spiderlike fingers enveloped head as completely as I would grip tennis ball. Fedka tilted, rotated cranium; eyeballed jumbo, rainbow-hued ecchymosis. Palpated with surprisingly gentle fingertips.
“How did this happen?” Inquiry lacked any hint of sympathy, animation, but professional in context; could almost delude self into believing question motivated by normal healer's desire to help.
Deliberated briefly; concluded sprinkling of truth over mix might help deepen confusion currently gripping community. With only hint of self-pitying, lower-lip projection, replied, “Mr. Driutsk hit me.”
Disinterest with which Fedka greeted news quickly evaporated any illusions about motivations. Dead Man made no effort to treat, even palliate; merely jotted note on medical record, moved on.
(Assumed was medical record; Cyrillic does befog such issues.)
Thereafter Russian performed cursory physical exam: Checked pulse, blood pressure. Employed otoscope to examine eyes, ears, nostrils; stethoscope to listen to lungs, heart, bowel sounds. Checked reflexes, joint range-of-movement, etc.
Happily, Dead Man displayed no interest whatever in X chromosomes’ primary/secondary expressions. Only garment removed during exam was jacket. Thereafter, shirt-sleeve rolled up to take blood pressure; shirttail pulled out, drawn up minimum distance necessary to accommodate stethoscope; top button opened to facilitate eavesdropping on heart, upper lung lobes.
Breathed private sigh: At least Fedka not another Driutsk. Immense relief, that; notion of physical interest from zombie somehow even more disturbing than that of unambiguously Depravedly Departed.
Analog SFF, September 2008 Page 22
