Revolution

by J. S. Frankel

  Slobovic returned with two bottles of water and a computer. He also took out his cellphone. “If you need to call, use that.”

  He set everything up while Istvan greedily sucked down the water and Harry sipped from his bottle. His throat was parched and dry and the water felt good going down. Once the computer was up and running, he sent an email to Farrell and waited for the reply.

  “I will give you and your friend some privacy,” the general said as he headed to the door. “However, I expect to be kept apprised of any changes.”

  Harry nodded. “You will be.”

  As he leaned back in his chair, an emotion of loss and remembrance, swept over him. Right now he’d never felt so alone in his life. He’d felt like this once before, when his parents died. He was just shy of eighteen then, on the cusp of a career in any discipline he decided to excel in, and the loss of his parents had set him on the path to where he was now.

  His father had passed on first. Pancreatic cancer was a painful way to go, yet the elder Goldman never complained. He did, however, shrivel up into something akin to an empty husk. It cut Harry to the core to know that he couldn’t save his father.

  His mother died roughly three weeks later of a heart attack. At the funeral, only Jason showed up. It was a somber affair, the rabbi chanting in a low, mournful voice and Harry didn’t know what to say to his best friend except Thanks for coming.

  Tall, geeky and girl-shy Jason had bobbed his head. “It’s the right thing to do, man.”

  If a person could measure friendship by simple gestures, then the bond with Jason had been sealed just by the fact that he’d shown up. It had taken time for Harry to get over his initial loss, but in time, he did. Still, a day didn’t go by when he didn’t miss his parents, their presence and their wise counsel.

  Now, another right-thing-to-do moment had come about, and he didn’t quite know how to deal with it. A beep sounded from the computer and woke Harry from his unhappy trip down memory lane. It was an email from Farrell. Where are you?

  Novi Sad First Battalion army base—Anastasia’s gone. They got her. Can you track her?

  Farrell replied a minute later. Maze is doing that now. We’ve got your girlfriend moving across the border into Russian air space and...

  The message cut off. Harry typed in what’s going on? He waited while Istvan looked on anxiously and sent the message again. What’s going on?

  No answer, and Harry fumed until the answer came through. The signal has stopped. Szabo must have found out about the transponder.

  Broken in mind and body, Harry sagged back in his chair. “What is it?” Istvan wanted to know.

  “She’s gone.”

  Racking his brain, Harry asked for the last position. The message came back with the coordinates. Harry ran to the door and opened it. Slobovic stood outside, talking into a cellphone. He turned around at the noise of the door opening. “Do you have information?” he asked.

  “I need your help.”

  Slobovic came inside and went over to the computer. A grunt came from him as he looked at the information. He typed something into the computer and a map sprang up. “Here,” he pointed. “This is where she was maybe ten minutes ago.”

  He’d pointed to a spot just above the border between Lithuania and Russia. “This is both good and bad news,” he added.

  What was up with the good news-bad news schtick? Harry mentally projected a course that any airplane would take. “I guess you’re going to give me the bad news first?”

  Slobovic rubbed his chin and sighed. “Actually, the good news is that I can get you over the border to Russia. I must get a plane ready and communicate with their government in tandem with your American government. The bad news is that I cannot guarantee your safety once you reach Russia.”

  Harry almost laughed, but didn’t. So far, no one had guaranteed his safety, as no one could. “Just get me across the border and I’ll find her.”

  “How will you do that?”

  The sound of a message coming through interrupted Harry’s reply. Farrell had written come home, Harry. I’m sorry about Anastasia, but there was nothing I could do. You didn’t know, either. Come home.

  Harry swiftly typed in No way, I can’t do that. She needs me. I’m not blaming you. But I have to find her.

  He had no other choice. Slobovic had a troubled look on his face. It was beginning to swell from the injuries and must have been killing him, but he gave no outward sign of pain. “Perhaps you should listen to your superior,” he advised in a not-unkind voice. “This is something we were not aware of, something we thought was a myth.”

  “You’ve seen us,” Harry replied, inwardly seething at the possibility of losing the only person who truly mattered to him. “We exist, and so do they. General, you know what Szabo wants and what he can do. He has a machine that can turn anyone into... what he is. I don’t mind looking the way I do and neither does Anastasia, but he’s after something else.”

  “And what is that?”

  “He wants to make people monsters that are already monsters,” Harry replied. “I found something in Hungary. Szabo’s got listings of prisoners, current as well as those out on parole in over twenty countries, including yours. He wants to build his own nation. One of the places he’ll start is here.”

  The general’s face turned white. “Who else knows about this? How many people are we talking about?”

  “Contact General Bartok in the Hungarian Armed Forces,” Harry stated. “Farrell also knows. Sir, Szabo is after his own slice of the world, you got that? You want numbers? Let’s start with at least ten thousand. Now I can’t let him get to the people he needs and I have to get my girlfriend back. I need your help.” His voice caught. “I need your help.”

  Slobovic recovered his composure somewhat, licked his lips and finally gave a confident nod. “Sit and wait. I will make the calls.”

  Once the door closed, Harry made a direct call to Farrell. The line crackled with static, but Harry clearly heard the sound of strain and worry in the older man’s voice. “Kid, I know how much she means to you, but there are some things I can’t do. I’ve been in touch with the Russians since last night. They aren’t going to let anyone venture into their airspace.”

  “Why not—” Harry exploded and pounded the table—”Why not?” His gesture startled Istvan, but he continued smacking the table until it began to splinter. “Why aren’t they letting us?”

  A sigh came through the line. “They are viewing this as an international embarrassment for them and their government. My Russian general friend, the one from Chernobyl, you remember him?”

  “Yeah, I do, so what about him?” Harry asked, expecting the worst and getting it. He stopped abusing the table and gripped the cell phone tightly.

  “He’s been replaced. The new guy is one stubborn SOB, and he isn’t going to budge on this. Now they’re saying that this is an internal matter and they don’t want any outside help.”

  It just figured they’d pull a stunt like this. If a country could be annihilated with a single thought, then Russia would be history. That thought and others equally as destructive ran through Harry’s mind at lightning speed. “So what am I supposed to do?” he asked hearing the plaintive note of hurt and loss in his voice. “They’ll kill her. You know that. They’ll kill her.”

  “It’s a possibility,” Farrell replied, his voice still fraught with worry. “There’s another problem.”

  What else could go wrong? “You want to tell me or should I guess?”

  “The news of you leaked out.”

  Farrell went on to tell him that someone in Hungary had managed to gain access to the morgue where the victims from the attacks by the mutants were being kept. Another news report had footage of Martuska in flight. One more report from Belgrade showed paw prints from the mutants, and people were getting nervous. The news had gone viral, so it was a cinch that everyone in North America had probably seen it. “Cat’s out of the bag,” he said and then add
ed, “Sorry for the pun.”

  Yeah, so what else was new. “So I can’t go out in broad daylight without someone taking a picture of me, the Russians don’t want me there to solve their problem and my girlfriend is going to be dead soon, right? Tell me, what’s the upside to all this?”

  “Maybe you won’t have to worry about her so much,” the answer came. “They want you, right? If you don’t go, then they may just keep her and—”

  “And what then,” Harry interrupted, angry that the FBI was seemingly sloughing off his girlfriend as collateral damage. “What are they going to do then? Yeah, I know they’re using her as bait, but if I don’t do something, they’ll kill her. They—will—kill—her!”

  In a fit of fury, he tossed the phone against the wall and typed one last message into the computer. Track me. I’m going after Anastasia.

  Job over, he sat back rubbing his forehead to get rid of a sudden tension headache. Istvan worried his hooves together, making a soft grinding sound. “I must go with you,” he said, carefully enunciating each word.

  Harry jerked his head around. “You don’t have to. I can do this alone.”

  Could he? Realistically, Harry didn’t have a chance. The Russians would be looking for him or others like him. It was a safe bet that they’d shoot first and ask questions later. Either that, or they’d just kill him and cover up the evidence. He couldn’t speak Russian and was up against a formidable enemy.

  Istvan tapped him on the shoulder. “I will help you.” A look of determination supplanted the normally placid look he displayed. “I have been nothing all my life. When I was little boy, others tell me I am nothing. My teachers call me nothing, my classmates hit me and call me nothing, but I think I am something. I believe in myself, Istvan Antos. My parents believe in me, too.”

  He hung his head. “I love my parents and I want to give them honor. I want my honor, too. To get that, I need to help others. I cannot change back on my own. I cannot become what I was without you. You cannot go on without your girlfriend. You need me.”

  Reluctant to accept aid from someone who might prove to be a liability in the field, Harry hesitated and then nodded as he considered a few possibilities. “You’re a better tracker than I am. You can smell things I can’t.” He got up. “Let’s do this.”

  Going over to the door, he poked his head outside. Slobovic stood there, smoking a cigarette and surveying the barracks. “General, I have an idea. I need one of your men and a small plane.”

  They left the same evening. The pilot had flown into Russia numerous times, Slobovic assured him. He drove Harry and Istvan to a small hangar on the outskirts of the city. “We keep old training aircraft here,” he said and introduced the pilot, a short and muscular man. He didn’t give his name.

  After the usual stop-and-stare routine, the pilot nodded at them both. “I hear stories of animal people,” he said in broken English accompanied by a heavy accent. “I never believe it. Now I see pig person and cat-man.”

  “Can we forget about the looks for a change?” Harry asked, fed up with being put on public display once more. “What about our transportation?”

  For an answer, the pilot pointed to an old single-propeller plane. “This cannot be seen. I fly below radar detection.”

  He had to be kidding. This thing looked like a relic from the Second World War. The panels on the outside were loose, there was actually baling wire wrapped around the wings... would it fly? As if sensing his uncertainty, the pilot nodded and slapped the side of the aircraft with affection. “Yes, she is old, but still good for a night’s fun. She will carry us safely.”

  Slobovic reached inside the plane and rummaged around for something. He came out with a map and after some back-and-forth conversation with the pilot, he turned to Harry, map in hand. “I have given him instructions to stop near the Russian border. There is an empty field... here.”

  He pointed to a spot on the map. It was Siberia. There seemed to be a mountain range fairly close to where the landing spot was. “The border crossing is about two kilometers away. The area is farmland and it is open. You must take care, but it will be night and the people will be asleep. Cross over the border,” he pointed at another spot, “and after that, you are on your own. The area is large. There may not be patrols. I cannot guarantee that, though.”

  No one was guaranteeing anything. Harry mentally sighed. Well, it seemed straightforward enough. Istvan gulped, but nodded and got on board, sitting in the back seat. “I take up less room back here,” he said.

  The general wished them good luck. “For reasons of security, I cannot make radio contact with you once you cross into Russian airspace. Once you leave, though, the pilot will contact me. Good luck and good hunting.”

  If we can find Anastasia, if we can find where the main lab is, Harry thought. If had to be the biggest word in the English language. “Well, let’s get going.”

  The pilot clambered on board and started the engine, and they taxied smoothly down the runway. The front seat was small and torn, and there was very little room to maneuver. The plane also creaked and shook once they were airborne. Silence ruled as Harry didn’t know what to say and the pilot didn’t offer much in the way of conversation, either. The only thing he did during the first thirty minutes was to notify the general of their position, but then he turned the radio off.

  Additionally, it was noisy and cold. The pilot wore a heavy bomber jacket over his army fatigues, but Harry wore nothing more than a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. “No have heat in plane,” the pilot said, glancing over and catching Harry in mid-shiver. “Sorry for inconvenience. You have fur, yes?”

  “It’s not enough,” Harry replied, teeth chattering. While stealing a quick look at Istvan, he noticed that the little pig-man had found a blanket and was now snuggling under it, fast asleep. Some people had all the luck. “What happens at the border? How are we going to get past the Russians?”

  “Sneak past them,” the answer came. “There are always two men there in small box. It is called sentry post, yes?” He continued gesturing with his arm in the fashion of a railroad crossing bar going up and down. “It is like gate. It will be dark. They will probably be drunk.”

  Let’s hope so was Harry’s sole thought as they cruised on through the darkness. They were flying below radar level, but all the same, he expected the military to open fire on them any second. As it turned out, it wasn’t enemy fire that threatened them, but simply... fire.

  Roughly ten minutes from their target, the smell of something burning entered Harry’s nostrils. “I smell smoke,” he said. He trained his nose in the direction where the smoke seemed to be coming from. “It’s, uh, I think it’s coming from underneath us.”

  Immediately, the pilot got an alarmed look on his face. “This is old plane. Wiring is bad, so I check.”

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, the man bent over and lifted a board from underneath the pilot’s seat. A wall of smoke rushed in, making both of them cough. The pilot sat up and opened the window to air out the cockpit. Istvan woke up and asked in a thoroughly terrified voice, “What is happening?”

  “Plane’s on fire,” said Harry in a matter-of-fact voice, wondering if this was how he was going to go out. He’d never really thought about dying before. Now, he did. He looked around, but there didn’t appear to be any parachutes...

  Cursing, the pilot pressed a button on the control panel. “We are on auto-pilot now.” He took a small handheld fire extinguisher from under his seat and began spraying. A second later, he stopped, shook the cylinder and said, “Damn this thing! I cannot put out fire.”

  The thought of wonderful, this couldn’t happen at a better time coursed through Harry’s mind. “How far are we from the border?” he yelled over the roar of the motor. It took a massive effort to stop his voice from shaking and he wondered if he’d been successful.

  “Maybe three kilometers,” the pilot answered. “I must put plane down in field.”

  “This is bad idea,”
Istvan nervously opined from the back seat, sitting up now and trembling with fear. “This is very bad idea.”

  “Have you got better one?” the pilot enquired in a voice that could have killed fresh flowers. “Be quiet, piggy, I put plane down.”

  Gripping the steering column, he pushed buttons and pulled levers, but it didn’t stop the plane from dropping and dropping fast. The smoke got thicker and a flame came up and singed his feet. Waving it away and pulling his legs up out of harm’s way, Harry saw the tops of farms and vast fields of grain. “We are close!” the pilot yelled. “I put her down now.”

  The ground came up fast to meet them. Wrenching the yoke back and forth, the pilot fought for control and Istvan let out a high keening sound from his position. By now, Harry was thoroughly terrified. He put his head down and prayed for something good to happen.

  A few seconds later, the plane shuddered as it touched down. It zigzagged unsteadily, Istvan’s keening got louder, and the pilot yelled for him to shut up. Harry thought this would certainly be the end of everything. A sense of relief overwhelmed him when the plane slammed into and then through a series of haystacks and finally came to a teeth-jarring stop nose down in the field.

  However, there was no time to relax. “We must go,” the pilot said in a matter-of-fact voice. “There is too much fire.”

  “C’mon, Istvan,” Harry urged and snatched his companion from the back seat. They’d gotten around thirty feet away when the downed plane caught fire and exploded. They hunkered down in the field and watched it burn.

  Someone in the distance shouted. The natives had suddenly become restless. “Border is that way,” the pilot said. “We go now.”

  With quick steps, he set off at a fast clip. Harry and Istvan followed him into the darkness. Along the way, Harry asked what they would do if the Russians fired on them. “That is good question,” the pilot answered. “Let me think.”

  He took out his pistol and cocked it. “This might be answer.”

  Silence then ruled for the next ten minutes. As they neared the border, Harry saw that the crossing was on a dirt road maybe twenty feet wide, with a small guardhouse on one side of it. “The Russians control this part of the border,” the pilot said. “It is joint effort between our two countries, but I no like it. It lets too many bad people in.” He gave a sideways glance at Istvan, one filled with scorn.