80 Days or Die

by Peter Lerangis

  Raisa scurried back into the train. As it began to chug away, she blew kisses from behind a window. Without a word, Sergei and Yevgeny headed back to their car.

  Watching them, Max shrugged. “Any suggestions for a Plan B?”

  “What—you slow too?” Sergei called out from the open door of the pickup. His hair had fallen again, and he swept it back over his head. “You maybe waiting for written invitation? Get in!”

  The second-worst part of the ride was that Sergei had to drop Yevgeny back at his house. That put Alex and Bitsy in a foul mood.

  The worst part was that the pickup truck made Nigel’s rental car look like a limousine. The windshield was cracked, the glove compartment was held together with duct tape, and the engine made popping noises like gunshots. Going over small potholes felt like being hit with a baseball bat.

  Sergei was whistling loudly. He stopped barely long enough to shout: “Happeenman landskia cousin!”

  “Is that Russian for ‘I know where to buy crash helmets’?” Max shouted back. “Because I really like that idea!”

  “I said—I have painted many landscapes of the Kozhim!” Sergei bellowed. “I have spent much time in area. For landscape painters, mwahh, paradise! But is big river! You need tell me—where to start?”

  They were approaching an airport now, and Max desperately wished they could get out and run for cover. He made a mental note to tell Brandon to get clearance at every airport in the world, just to be on the safe side. “OK,” he said, “the only thing we know is some weird clue: ‘tincture of coil dust.’”

  “What?” Sergei bellowed.

  Max took a deep breath. “Tincture of—”

  “What is tincture?” Sergei asked.

  “It’s like color,” Bitsy replied.

  “But we have no idea what coil dust means,” Alex volunteered. “Sorry.”

  “Coil . . .” Sergei said, twirling his fingers in the air. “You say coil?”

  “Yes,” Max replied.

  “Is curly thing, yes?” Sergei continued.

  “Yup,” Alex said.

  “Dust is . . . poof poof poof?” Sergei waggled his fingers. The pickup veered to the left. Another car blew its horn, nearly sideswiping them.

  Alex screamed. The passenger in the other car was shouting words in Russian that didn’t sound too friendly. Overhead a helicopter churned into view with a noise like machine gun fire.

  “Can you take us back into town now?” Bitsy cried out. “I am really having second thoughts!”

  Sergei yanked the steering wheel to the right. The pickup screeched into a large open area with a parking lot, a security booth, and a cement section marked off with white paint like a dodgeball court. He pulled to a stop, then jumped from the car. “Get out!”

  Max didn’t need a written invitation for that. He opened the door, stepped onto the pavement, and took a deep breath. Bitsy and Alex scrambled out after him, looking bewildered. The helicopter hovered directly overhead now, and the noise was deafening.

  “Sergei!” a smiling woman shouted from inside the security booth.

  “Tinatchka!” Sergei ran to hug her.

  “Is he going to do this to everyone he knows along the way?” Max said.

  “That does it,” Alex said fumbling for her phone. “I’m getting a taxi.”

  “Shto? What taxi?” bellowed Sergei, who was marching toward them. “You say money no object, right?”

  “Uh, I guess we did . . .” Max said.

  Sergei gestured to the chopper, which was making a smooth landing in the center of the circular area. “Then we get to Kozhim very, very fast.”

  25

  MAX squinted out the window. Directly below them was a range of mountains that thrust up from the earth like a tsunami of white-capped rock. “Is that snow?” he shouted, his face pressed to the glass.

  For the first time during the whole trip, he was sitting in the copilot seat, and he liked it. A lot.

  “You like the Urals?” Sergei yelled back. “We take detour and see them!”

  As he yanked the throttle to the left, the helicopter banked sharply. Detours were not on Max’s wish list these days. But Bitsy and Alex were totally into it, busy taking photos with Alex’s phone. The chopper scaled the side of the mountain range, lurching left and right. “Too much wind!” Sergei yelled. “I go higher!”

  Now the helicopter was rising over the peaks. Across a vast, flat plain, Max could see the silver glow of a body of water. “So that’s the Barents Sea, right?”

  “Very good!” Sergei replied. “Goes into Arctic Sea—straight to North Pole! Santa Claus!”

  “I can’t see the workshop,” Bitsy said.

  “Probably underwater by now,” Alex replied.

  “Can we get back on track now?” Max asked.

  The chopper banked, rose, and dropped. It dipped into valleys where the streams looped and twisted like some secret script handwriting. It buzzed over villages ringed with mud huts and cattle. Sheep moved like earthborne clouds among vast grassy fields, and a mysterious cloud of dust rose just above the horizon. Out of it emerged a herd of horses galloping fiercely toward nothing in particular, their manes snapping like flags.

  Soon the mountains and sea were far behind them, and Sergei descended. Not far from another village, a river cut through the landscape like a blue knife wound, bruised on either side with rock cliffs and thick vegetation.

  “Welcome to Kozhim River!” Sergei said, maneuvering the chopper over a scrubby clearing.

  “Wait, we’re here already?” Max said, feeling a jolt of excitement.

  “I took shortcut!” Sergei said with a laugh. As they descended to the top of a cliff, the expanse of river disappeared below them. “I lead tours here many times! Steep! Most important to be careful! Very sacred place.”

  In minutes the helicopter was on land, the rotors slowing. The ground was parched and flat, and a ramshackle shed stood off to the side. Max grabbed his pack and jumped to the ground. It was much colder here than in Perm. He ran from the helicopter with Alex beside him. She was crouching superlow under the still-moving blades.

  “You don’t have to duck,” Max said. “Those blades are nowhere near your head.”

  “It’s the way people do it in movies,” Alex said, shivering.

  The thrum of the helicopter rotors slowed and stopped, replaced by the wind’s hollow whoosh and the soft crackle of swaying branches. Sergei had a huge backpack of his own, and from it he pulled out three lined anoraks. “Here,” he said. “You need.”

  The jackets were all too big, but at least they cut the chill. Together they walked to the point where the land ended.

  Max gasped. Below them, the river was tiny and distant, gashed into the earth between two grayish-white cliffs. The drop-off was a nearly vertical wall of rock, grooved into chutes that seemed to beckon a slide straight downward to death. “Limestone?” Max asked.

  Sergei smiled. “How you know?”

  “Long story,” Max replied.

  “Isn’t there a place where it’s less steep?” Alex asked.

  Sergei took a deep breath. He was still in just his paint-spattered T-shirt but didn’t seem to be feeling any cold. “This . . . coil,” he said. “This is same as . . . what is word . . . screw?”

  “Not exactly,” Max said. “A screw has spiral threads. A coil itself is a helix. Basically, a three-dimensional spiral with a constant diameter.”

  “What he means to say is, very similar,” Alex cut in. “Why do you ask?”

  Sergei took a deep breath. “This part of Kozhim River is very special place. Much, much gold here, but hard to find. Many years ago—1990, 1991, I think—international scientists travel along river looking for gold. They stop to rest here.” He pointed downward. Max squinted and saw a small group of wooden shacks dotting the rocky banks of the Kozhim.

  “One great scientist, Regina Donner, she cannot sleep,” Sergei went on. “She feel something. Like electricity. Like headache
that will rip open skull. She runs out of tent. Something is glowing in bushes. She picks up. Looks like gold coil . . . or screw. But she knows is very, very old—so . . . maybe great discovery of tool from ancient times? Right then she hear noises, like animals. Shadows moving along shore. Creatures, picking these coils out of bushes. Their faces are covered with hair, like wolves! Donner puts gold coil in pocket, but now entire body is growing hot, like fever. She runs back in tent, grabs rifle to scare away monsters. Bang! Soon other scientists are running out of tents!” Sergei removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He reached into his pack for a water bottle. “Sorry. Dry.”

  “Keep going!” Alex shouted. “What did they find?”

  Sergei took a swig and continued. “Creatures gone. But Donner—she is lying on rocks. Groaning. She tells them what happened—monsters, coils, everything. How can such a thing be from this earth? The scientists, they don’t know how to think. Delusions, maybe? Then . . . cccchhhh . . . she dies. No bullet, no knife. Only bruise is where she fell. They take body home and empty Donner’s pocket. All they find is . . . dust. Which scientists determine is thousands of years old.”

  “So . . . coil dust!” Max blurted. “Like in the hint. Which is why you brought us here!”

  Sergei nodded.

  “Wait, this story is true?” Alex asked.

  “This is Russia,” Sergei replied with a shrug. “Could be. Could be no.”

  Max looked over the edge. “There’s no way we can get down there without dying.”

  Sergei smiled. “Sergei will take care of you. This is my job.”

  He walked to the small shed, spun the combination on a lock, and pushed the door open. Disappearing inside for a few moments, he came out with three huge harnesses connected to wings that were folded like bats. “We use these.”

  Bitsy looked like she was going to faint. “G-G-Gliders?”

  “I show you,” Sergei said. “Not as dangerous as you think, if you do it right. Wind currents along river are perfect.”

  “This is soooo cool!” Alex said. “I have been wanting to do this all my life. My parents? They’re like, ‘over my dead body’—”

  “You have very good parents,” Bitsy said.

  Sergei was already strapping one on. “Sorry. Only three gliders in shed.”

  “No problem,” Bitsy blurted out. “I’ll wait.”

  “Maybe you won’t need to,” Max said. He set down his pack and unzipped it. Jammed against the side was the cylindrical container he’d been neglecting the whole trip. With a proud grin, he opened it and pulled out the lightweight hang glider he and Evelyn had made. “We designed this for Charles the robot. But I can try using it.”

  “What?” Bitsy said.

  “No,” Alex said. “Just . . . no.”

  “You just said it was so cool!” Max protested.

  “Yeah, I meant using real, outdoor-tour-tested, tried-and-true gliders,” Alex said. “You’ve never tested your contraption, Max! Do you even know how to work it?”

  “Ms. Williams, our robotics teacher, gave Evelyn and me an A plus on the project.” Max slipped on the harness and fastened the belt. “Not just an A. No one else has ever received a plus. It passed every aerodynamic test we put it through. We even made a report. And Sergei can give me tips.”

  “I don’t believe this is happening . . .” Bitsy said.

  “Is beautiful!” Sergei exclaimed. “So light. I give you tips if you let me try later?”

  “Maybe.” Max pulled his phone out of his pocket and thrust it toward Alex. “Will you video me, so I can send it to Evelyn?”

  “No, I won’t video you!” Alex protested. “And just so you understand where I’m coming from—no. Just abso-totally-lutely no!”

  Max stepped toward the edge of the cliff. “Then I’ll have to take a selfie.”

  26

  HIS wings snapped open. The wind buffeted his ears with a harsh, high-pitched wail. It took Max a few minutes to realize the wail was coming from above. From Bitsy and Alex.

  They were scared. But Max wasn’t. He didn’t need help from Sergei. It was a matter of weight distribution. And flexibility. With the breeze brushing back his hair and the river racing over the rocks below, he let the wings carry him close enough to the cliffs that he could see tiny caves in the limestone. He wished Evelyn were here. She would have loved this more than anyone else.

  “Haaaaaa-hahahaha!” He wasn’t sure why he was laughing. Nothing about this was funny, really. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted to stay up for hours. It was working. He knew it would. He just hadn’t realized how awesome it would be.

  As the cliffs came closer, his voice caught in his throat.

  He was too close.

  He leaned his body back toward the other bank, his left hand gripping one lightweight crossbar and his feet resting on a lower one. Theoretically, he should be able to use the bars to steer. He concentrated on shifting his weight.

  Lean left . . . lean right . . .

  He needed both hands to control this thing. Taking a video wasn’t going to work. He would have to memorize every detail to tell Evelyn later. He glanced upward toward the top of the cliff. Alex was stepping off now, in a much bulkier glider . . . then Sergei . . .

  A scream echoed through the canyon, and Max smiled. Bitsy was stepping off too.

  Max turned his focus downward. The winds were tossing him, the cold air piercing his jacket and making his teeth chatter. He held tight as a shadow passed across eye level—a gliding hawk, its black-and-white-striped tail spread like a shovel blade. He wondered what it was thinking, and he gave it a big wave.

  The glider lurched, but the hawk didn’t seem to notice. Max gripped the handle and felt himself slowing, sinking closer to the gravelly bank. He took care to stay over the solid bank, not the river. And far enough away from the shacks.

  His feet hit the rocks with a solid crunch. A jolt of pain traveled up his leg. He tried to break into a run but instead stumbled, falling to the bank and tumbling head over heels. When he stopped, the wings were wrapped around him, their support rods bent but intact.

  He lay there, catching his breath. The river was swollen, the water lapping loudly against the rocks. Farther back, he saw Sergei land on his feet, pumping his fists triumphantly. Alex and Bitsy landed near him, their legs buckling just like Max’s had.

  He took a deep breath and stood, quickly unbuckling his glider and folding it tight. Time to get to work.

  “That was awesome!” he shouted. As he walked toward the others, he stuffed the glider back into its container and nested it in his backpack.

  Alex was sitting on the rocks, shaking her head. “Did that just happen?”

  With a laugh, Sergei threw Max a thumbs-up. “He did not even need Sergei! Someday, Max, when you need job as tour guide—you call, eh? And you bring some gliders!”

  “I think the crossbars could stand to be stronger,” Max said.

  Bitsy was shaking all over. She’d been on the ground for ten minutes but was still trying to undo her harness. “Would you . . . ?” she said.

  Alex rushed over and helped her out of the glider. “That took a lot of courage, Bits.”

  “Or stupidity,” Bitsy said. “Although I admit, aside from the fact that I nearly had a heart attack, it was glorious.”

  As Alex threw the harnesses aside, she glanced up the river. “I’m more concerned about the other direction. We can’t fly up. How are we going to get back?”

  Max glanced up the sheer rock face. “Maybe Sergei has climbing gear?”

  But the guide was backing toward them with a loud “Sshhhhh!” His smile had tightened into a look of concern, and he reached into his own pack for a set of binoculars.

  Bitsy and Alex fell silent. Squinting against the low evening sun, Max could see a figure approaching from upriver.

  It seemed to have emerged from a distant shack. It moved along the rocks with surprising speed. Sergei shouted something in Russian but got no respon
se.

  “Friend of yours?” Max said.

  “Old Fyodor . . .” Sergei said. “Must be hundred years old. Met him when I was boy. Hiking. I was very sick. He had a medicine that made me better. Other hikers, they have met Fyodor too. Is very private man. But he can help us, if he wants to.”

  They walked closer until they met in the middle. The old man was tiny and whiskered, at least five inches shorter than Max. He was bent at the waist, his tattered coat wrapped around him like a cape. The rocks did not move under the weight of his feet, and Max could swear he was floating. He stopped, nodding imperceptibly. Then he muttered something to Sergei, who laughed and answered in Russian.

  After a brief exchange, Sergei turned to the kids. “He remembers me! He says he knew I would return. So . . . chit chat chit chat, thank you, nice to see you . . . then I ask him about legend of Donner. And coils.”

  “And . . . ?” Alex asked.

  Sergei shrugged. “He say nothing.”

  The old man turned and walked away from them. Max, Sergei, Bitsy, and Alex shared a confused look. As if in response, old Fyodor crooked a bony finger to the sky.

  “I guess that means follow,” Bitsy said.

  Together they walked down the rocky shore. Max squinted against the sun and wished he’d brought sunglasses. After about fifty yards, even with shoes on, the soles of his feet began to ache against the sharp stones. After about a hundred, he thought he was going to scream.

  That was when Fyodor stopped.

  He was standing just before a deep pit in the ground, near the base of the limestone cliff. The angle of the sun cast the opening in deep shadow. Turning toward Sergei, Fyodor muttered in Russian. His speech was slow, soft, and droning, and it seemed to be taking a long time to make his point.

  The area just around the pit was smooth, more like gravel than rocks. For the sake of his aching feet, Max decided to walk closer. He wasn’t far from Fyodor now, but the old man didn’t seem to mind. Or didn’t notice him. He was intent on Sergei.

  “Max, what are you doing?” Alex hissed, but he ignored her.

  Taking out his phone, Max flipped on the video. He turned the lens downward, facing the hole, and moved as close as he could. The screen captured nothing but blackness. He knelt, playing with the brightness controls until a constellation of shapes appeared, like a grave site full of bones. Max activated the phone’s flashlight and shone it down again. He glanced over to his friends. Bitsy and Alex were looking at him nervously, and Sergei was keeping up the chatter, distracting the old man.