by Tanya Chris
“Of course he’s going to shoot up,” Joe said. “He’s an addict. It’s what he does.” He walked around Pyotr and dropped the case back into his lap, then shifted his body so he blocked Pyotr from him.
“And what? You’re going to stand guard over him while he does?”
“If I have to.”
He perked up a little. He’d known Joe was on his side. Maybe Joe really would get him some water. If he could only work up the strength to ask for water, Joe might.
“Why?” Pyotr spluttered.
“Because I’m not going to force someone into detox. You have no idea how much detox hurts, and it hurts worse every time you do it. We might be able to force him to detox now, but as soon as he gets back down to the valley, he’ll hook himself up again, and then all that pain was for nothing.” Joe put a hand on him and a hand on Pyotr. “He has to actually want it, Pyotr.”
It wasn’t that he didn’t want it. He’d tried before. After he’d been injecting for a couple of months, when he’d first started to feel the agonizing pain of withdrawal if he was even a minute late with his next dose, he’d had a moment of clarity. And he’d thought: Better quit now. It’ll only get worse.
But he hadn’t been able to bear it, had barely managed to crawl out of his apartment and get to the dealer a day later, sure he was going to die. Before that, he’d thought quitting was a choice he’d be able to make when he was ready, but he knew better now. Quitting wasn’t an option, not for someone as weak and cowardly as he was. This—this dull needle, this insufficient stash of H—this was his only option.
“Tasha,” Pyotr pleaded. That name, the pet name Pyotr called him. “Of course you want to be clean. Don’t you?”
“You don’t understand,” he managed to squeeze out.
Pyotr looking at him with such stern, hopeful eyes made him want to say yes—that he did want to be clean. And he did. He just didn’t want to feel this shitty. He’d done enough research to know it wouldn’t last forever—two days, maybe three—but those two or three days of temporal time stretched out on a different scale in his mind.
“It’s not just physical pain,” Joe told Pyotr, reading his mind. “As high as the high goes, the low goes lower. Right now he feels like nothing will ever be good again, unless …”
Unless, yes. He looked down at the case Joe had dropped in his lap. The little bags of grey dust were a problem but they were also his solution. The crushing weight of terror and depression, the physical pain ratcheting through every bone and joint and muscle, the nausea roiling in his stomach and grinding through his lower gut—all of that could be remedied so easily. So very easily.
He was tired and sick and only going to get sicker and more tired. There was only one way out, as horrible as it was. He handed his kit to Joe.
“I’m not going to inject you,” Joe said. “I can’t do that.”
“No, not … take it, get rid of it.”
“You sure?” Joe turned the case over in his hands. He could hear the tumble of the needle as it rolled.
“We’ll take care of you,” Pyotr said hurriedly, grasping his hand. “You can do this.”
“Don’t pressure him.”
“I’m just saying he’s not alone.”
Crazy thought, to not be alone. Two years as an addict had left him isolated. His parents had long ago tired of him only calling to ask for money, confused as to why their son who’d graduated with a marketable degree seemed to need more support now than ever. Their voices on the phone grew ever more suspicious and hesitant until his father had told him they’d be glad to hear from him any time, but their wallets were closed.
He’d stopped calling then. His parents didn’t deserve to be cut off, but he didn’t have the energy for anything except getting money for heroin, buying heroin, and taking heroin.
Pyotr’s hand on his was warm and certain and it gave him just enough faith to nod at Joe. “I want to try.”
Joe nodded back. He went to slip the case into his pocket, but Pyotr stopped him.
“Could I see that?”
“What are you going to do with it? You going to use it against him?”
“I don’t care about the drugs. That’s not what I’m here for.” Pyotr took the case roughly from Joe and popped it open. His fingers pushed aside the bags, rooting through them.
“Careful,” Joe warned. “That’s a dirty needle.”
“The plans aren’t in there,” Tanner said, annoyed. A minute ago Pyotr had cared about him, but now his real priority was obvious.
“Where are they?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because they’re state secrets,” Pyotr snapped. “They should be somewhere safe, not with—”
“An addict?” Joe asked, his voice steely. “And who are you? A Russian spy?”
“I told you who I am.”
“And we’re supposed to believe you? Don’t give him those plans, Tanner. You hang on to them.”
His gut grumbled. His sphincter clenched against an inevitable release. He moaned sickly and grabbed his stomach.
“Where are the plans, Tanner?” Pyotr had finished his search of the glass case. He thrust it back into Joe’s hands as he advanced on Tanner, crowding Joe back from the bed. “I’m going to try to make this come out right for you, but to do that, I need those plans. They can’t end up in Russian hands.”
“And yet, your hands are Russian,” Joe said.
“You know what I mean.”
“You think I know you? I don’t know you, Tanner doesn’t know you, and you don’t know us. We all fucked each other, that’s it.”
They all fucked each other? That was news to him. He tried to figure out whether it bothered him that Joe and Pyotr had fucked each other, but his stomach was too loud to hear anything else over.
“Tanner,” Pyotr said.
“Don’t do it,” Joe countermanded. “Keep something.”
“This is none of your business.”
“Tanner’s my business.”
“Since when? You’ve known him a whole three days.”
“Since he handed me his kit.” Joe waved the glass case in Pyotr’s face. “He asked me to help.”
“Not just you,” Pyotr argued. “He asked both of us.”
“Neither of you is helping.” He clenched his stomach harder. It was going to explode, he knew it. He had to get out of this bunk and down to the outhouse.
Joe and Pyotr settled into stillness around him.
“OK,” Pyotr said, apologetic. “We’ll worry about the plans later.” He looked over at Joe. “How do we help him now?”
“Keep him warm, encourage him to eat and drink as much as he can, hold his hair back when he vomits. Make him feel cared about, loved.”
“I care about him.” Pyotr had been crowding into his space in anger, but now he stepped back a little, allowing Joe forward again. “You know we care about you, right, Tasha?”
“I don’t know why.” He couldn’t believe either of them cared about him when there was no reason for them to.
“Me either,” Pyotr admitted, “except you seem to need someone to do it.”
His stomach lurched again and he scrambled to push his way past Joe and Pyotr, the churning in his gut finally overcoming the lethargy of the ache in his bones, but as he positioned his body over the ladder, his arms gave out. Pyotr caught him as he crumpled towards the floor.
“Where are you going?”
“Outhouse.” He tried to make his legs move towards the door.
“I’ve got you.” Pyotr swung him up into his arms and carried him down the staircase.
“Not like that,” Joe yelled as Pyotr tried to open the door to the hut one-handed. “You can’t walk through snow in slippers. You have no idea how fast frostbite can set in. Come on, sit down.”
He whimpered, desperate for relief from the gut pain that had overtaken all his other pains, while Joe laced Pyotr into his boots and tucked a blanket around Tanner’s shoulders.<
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“He doesn’t have shoes on,” Joe said.
“I promise not to let his feet touch the snow.” Pyotr stood up in a single, graceful move despite Tanner’s dead weight in his arms.
If he’d been less miserable, he’d have been humiliated—getting carried to an outhouse—but there wasn’t room in him for humiliation. He was just grateful he wasn’t going to have to shit himself on top of everything else, but some sense of decorum surfaced when Pyotr actually carried him into the outhouse.
“Can you take it from here?” Pyotr asked, lowering his feet to the wooden planks of the outhouse floor. There was barely room in the closet-like space for two grown men. He definitely wasn’t yanking down his pants and letting the watery shit fly with Pyotr standing next to him. It would be loud and smelly and horrible.
“I got it.” He pushed weakly at Pyotr, only causing himself to sway. Pyotr didn’t move at all. But when he remained standing, Pyotr nodded and backed away, shutting the door to the outhouse behind him.
Oh, thank God. He pulled down his pants and briefs in a single move and collapsed more than sat on the plastic seat that framed the hole to hell. He didn’t even have to consciously relax his sphincter before it let go, the result every bit as loud and loose and noxious as he’d expected it to be.
Clearing out his stomach gave him a window of relief long enough to feel the mortification he probably should’ve felt on the way out. He lingered, torn between wanting to get away from this gross place and not wanting to face Pyotr again.
“Tanner?” Pyotr knocked at the door. God, Pyotr would probably barge in. He gave himself another wipe, grateful that the outhouse at least had toilet paper and he didn’t have to use dried leaves or whatever the real hard asses used.
He’d give anything for a shower. His skin felt like there were ants crawling all over it—sticky and damp and absolutely filthy. Part of it was not having had more than a cold sponge bath in a few days but most of it was the withdrawal. Nothing on his body felt right or human.
He staggered back to his feet and pulled up his pants. As soon as he’d opened the door, Pyotr swept him back into his arms.
“Your feet OK?”
“It was warm in there,” he managed.
“That’s kind of gross,” Pyotr said, which was true. The warmth came from the fetid mass rotting down there. “It is nicer today, though. Looks like the storms have passed.”
He lifted his head from Pyotr’s chest to look around. It was bright, that much he could tell. Sunlight glistened over damp snow in a sickening way, shooting lances of light straight into his eyeballs. He closed his eyes and buried his head back into Pyotr’s chest. Pyotr’s body emitted a warmth that wasn’t gross and that somehow didn’t make him feel claustrophobic or sweaty.
“Bring him in here,” Joe called from the great room when Pyotr had wrestled them through the door to the hut. “It’ll be easier to keep an eye on him downstairs and he’ll be warmer.”
He found himself being lowered to the floor onto a mattress that had been placed in front of the stove. Joe fussed over him, arranging blankets and tucking a pillow beneath his head.
“You could’ve waited until I got back to wrangle that mattress downstairs, macho man.”
“Look who’s talking. I’m not the one who carried someone who’s got six inches on him down a flight of stairs and through snow to an outhouse.”
“At least the path was shoveled. Who does that, you?”
“Part of my job,” Joe confirmed.
He groaned. He was glad no one was arguing anymore, but just hearing their voices hurt his ears. They were both standing over him and he wanted to be left alone to sleep. He burrowed deeper into the covers but then another wave of nausea swept over him and he was suddenly soaked in sweat again.
“Go away,” he mumbled, but he was a little relieved when they only moved a few feet. Their voices were lower, but he could still make out words if he tried.
“How long does this last?” Pyotr asked.
“Two, three days. I think his last dose was nearly twenty-four hours ago, so at least all day tomorrow before we can think about moving him.”
“Do we have that long?”
“I should probably open for business tomorrow, but … I’ll make something up, tell them the slopes are unstable, hold them off another day.”
“I’m worried about Green Tea.”
Why would Pyotr worry about green tea? His weakened brain couldn’t figure that out.
“It’s going to be hard to protect Tanner if we’ve got other people muddying the waters,” Pyotr said. “I know you don’t trust me, but I’m trying to keep him—and those plans—safe.”
Joe grunted. “Maybe Green Tea gave up when he couldn’t get up here, went home or to find another mark.”
“Not a chance. Even if he can’t figure out how to get up here, he’ll find another way to Tanner. They want those plans and they’re not going to care that Tanner’s sick or changed his mind about turning them over.”
“They don’t know who Tanner is though.” Joe said it almost like a question.
There was a moment of silence that made him open his eyes to make sure they hadn’t really left him alone, but they were standing next to each other near the window by the bar. Joe had his back to him, but Pyotr’s expression was thoughtful, as if he were considering whether or not the Russians could figure out who he was.
Pyotr had figured out who he was. Green Tea must be the real Russian agent, if he could believe that Pyotr wasn’t the real Russian agent. Green Tea would figure out who he was too. Why had he thought he was smart enough to play at espionage? He’d been in way over his head.
There might be someone out there coming for him, but he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to care.
Chapter 10
Pyotr
Pyotr looked out the window that ran behind the bar. From this angle, he could see what should have been a path stretching east to the other hut—not Muir, the one he’d lied about coming from, but the other one, whatever its name was—but no one had passed that way yet and so the path showed only as a winding line of flatness between the slope above and the slope below. Sun shone bright against the unbroken white fields and caught the gusts of snow the wind stirred up.
If a threat came from that direction, it would be easy enough to spot, but there were two other directions of approach—down the gully where patrons, and possibly spies, waited at the lower hut for the all-clear to re-ascend to higher altitude, and to the west where a person could come not only from Muir but by helicopter, the way he had himself.
He was only one man. He couldn’t guard more than one flank, and he’d turned over his weapon. He’d like to get Tanner the hell out of there. Tanner being too sick to travel really complicated things.
Joe stood next to him, looking more at him than out the window, waiting for him to manage the situation. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a lot of years of experience in this espionage business. He’d just never worried about anyone other than himself before. Secure the target, complete the mission, get out alive. And let the rest of the chips fall where they would.
“The Russians talk to Tanner through an app,” he said, thinking out loud. “That’s how we learned about this rendezvous. We intercepted their signal and spoofed a message back moving the meeting out by a couple of days. I’ll go down to the lower hut. Once I’ve got a signal, I’ll communicate with Green Tea, give him the idea that Tanner never made it up here because of the storm, arrange for them to meet somewhere else entirely. I’ll send my team to the new rendezvous and get both sides off our back until Tanner’s feeling well enough to move.”
“You can’t go down that gully today,” Joe said. “Too high a risk that it becomes an avalanche chute.”
“Might be worth the risk.”
“It’s not.”
“What do you care? You think I’m a Russian spy, so if an avalanche takes me out? Good riddance, right? I can’t hurt Tanner if I’
m dead.”
“I don’t know what to think at this point, but I don’t think you’re here to hurt Tanner. And I don’t want you dead. I’m playing it safe. That means Tanner doesn’t hand over the plans and you don’t go down that gully.”
“Safe,” he repeated. “You picked a hell of a place to live if you want to play it safe.”
“I’ve been living here four years and nothing’s ever happened before now.”
“No snowstorms? No power outages? Hard to believe.”
“No, plenty of snowstorms and power outages, but those are … safe.” Joe shrugged. “I guess you went to spy school, but I’m out of my depth here, doing the best I can.”
“Then let me handle it. I’m going to get Tanner’s phone, head down the mountain until I pick up a signal, and see what I can do about keeping the Russians away for at least another couple of days. I won’t be gone long.”
He pulled Joe’s head down so he could press a kiss against his forehead. He’d reacted defensively when he’d thought Joe was being antagonistic, fighting him for his role as leader of the pack, but now that he understood that Joe was scared and anxious, his hackles settled back down, leaving only the desire to protect.
He gave Joe a second kiss, then released his neck and went to move past him to get ready, but Joe’s hand stopped him by grabbing at his arm.
“You remember where we were yesterday? Where the helicopter dropped you? There’s service there, where it opens up down to the valley. It’s not strong enough for a phone call, but you can get messages through. It would be a lot safer than going down that gully.”
Yeah, OK. He knew how to handle spies with guns, but Joe knew his way around this snow-covered mountain.
“Then I’ll go that way,” he said, gratified to see Joe’s shoulders drop with relief. He felt as much need to take care of Joe as of Tanner and it made him happy to realize that Joe was as worried about him as he was about Tanner.
He went upstairs and added a couple of layers, though through the window the day appeared warmer than any he’d had on the mountain so far, then rooted around in Tanner’s pack until he found his phone. He spent some extra time going through the pack, then the space around and under Tanner’s bunk, looking for the plans or a memory chip that might be holding plans, but he still couldn’t find anything. Either Tanner had been bluffing all along—and that was a dangerous game to play with Russians—or he’d hidden the plans elsewhere in the hut.
