Far East
My naps are constantly disturbed by the sound of the hurricane-strength wind that blasts the outside of our snow cave. The gale howls as it rushes across the wide-open steppe and carves fresh sastrugi from thick, dense layers of spring snow. Every now and then, jets of fresh icy powder blow into our little den, waking me from my short naps. I turn my frost-bitten ear from the entrance that is still somewhat-covered with my backpack, and I huddle up deeper inside our makeshift shelter. Here, it’s damp and cramped, but at least it’s warmer than outside. Next to me sits Carl, our shoulders pressed up against each other.
I look at my watch: 2:13 AM. It’s time to pack fresh snow on top of our makeshift shelter. I get up, grab the foldable shovel, brace myself and pull away Carl’s oversized backpack, unblocking the entrance. Icy wind immediately slashes across my face, blowing powdery snow into my coat and our cave. I quickly climb out, Carl re-blocks the entrance and I begin working, digging up the top layer of airy, light snow and stacking it on top of our refuge. New snow consists largely of air trapped in delicate frozen crystals, providing us with much-needed heat insulation.
The past three days it has been snowing heavily, a constant barrage of fresh powder that has resulted in a real whiteout. At night-time, the visibility is atrocious. Even with my flashlight on, looking into it is about as meaningful as watching the random grayscale pixel pattern of TV static. Dots of white snow sirl chaotically through a sea of pitch black darkness. I ground one foot inside the cave entrance, lest I get lost and separated from the group.
Carl’s sprightly voice greets me as I get back inside the snow cave “How’s it looking, mate? Got a grim look on your face” he asks. “Yeah, visibility is bad, can’t see a fucking thing out there” I reply. Hard to hide your misery when you’ve been held down in the taiga by a 3-day snowstorm. I force a smile and add “maybe there will be better weather tomorrow”.
I find Alejandra and Pablo, the middle-aged couple from Argentina, sleeping, embracing one another. My hand shakes Pablo’s shoulder, interrupting the sweet scene “don’t sit still for too long, keep your body moving or you’ll get frostbite” and they both give me a weary and apprehensive look in return. Joshua sits cross-legged in the rear part of the snow cave, dipping an ungloved hand into a can of dried fruit. He looks at me and asks “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”. I hesitate to answer, thinking for a moment, before replying “tomorrow the storm should pass, we’ll look for the road, we must be nearing it”. They all seem quietly satisfied with the answer, or they’re too tired to argue.
I spend the rest of the night in that strange transient stage between dreaming and awakeness. I remember one dream; I am squatting in my slippers, and warming up by the black iron stove in my Norilsk apartment, talking with my father who sits on a dilapidated brown sofa. Something interrupts my dream — the bag covering the entrance dislodges and a fresh jet of snow powders my face, melting quickly against my warm skin. The others continue to sleep, undisturbed. By 7 the storm is indeed easing up, which gives me a feeling of relief. By 8 AM the blizzard has largely passed and only a light, snowless wind blows outside. I wake the others up, we are leaving.
We spend the day trekking through a boreal forest, following a game trail through the fir and spruce woods. The cloud cover begins to break up and by lunch the skies are an unfamiliar shade of blue, the color almost neon-like in contrast to the whiteout conditions of the past few days. The trail we follow leads us on a winding path through the forest. We trek for as long as we can, moving much quicker now that the storm has passed. By high noon, I see that the others are slowing down, especially the Argentinians, who have lagged behind for most of our journey. We reach a large clearing by a frozen stream and I stop walking, pausing to take a look at the overcast conditions, then I pull on my left coat sleeve to check the time — 17:40 — the weathered leather-and-steel watch reveals.
We decide to set up camp for the night, and head out in the early hours of the morning, if the weather permits. As the sun begins to sink behind the horizon, the temperature drops and by the time we’ve finished setting up our tents, it is bitterly cold and the lack of movement makes me shiver in my reindeer fur overcoat. Carl is sitting in his tent, smoking on a wooden pipe as he combs his salt and pepper hair with a whalebone comb, Joshua rushes to hang a sweat-drenched merino hoodie on a fly-fishing line he has set up between two larch trees. Pablo and his woman are already in their hastily-made tent, probably huddled up next to each other.
I wrap myself in a space blanket, laying down on a makeshift bed made of the doubled-over rain cover from my tent and rest, falling asleep in a matter of minutes.
In this dream, I’m running through the street on which I grew up, passing by rows of Khrushchyovkas, Soviet-era apartment buildings built of prefabricated concrete and painted a range of unidentifiable pastel colors, an endless wall of panels and windows. Someone, or something, is stalking me. I’m overpowered by that intangible feeling of being watched. I start to run, boots splashing the gray melted snow on the street, I turn the corner but sprint right into a dead end; the street is blocked off with a thick, towering wall of gray snow. I climb one of the cars parked adjacent to the wall, a busted-up red Lada with a rusted driver’s door, and when I turn to look at my pursuant, a sense of indescribable terror overcomes me, and I wake up.
I am standing outside of my tent, my socks soaked from melted snow. I realize I have been sleepwalking, and I’ve come right up across to Carl. He takes a drag from his pipe, his blue eyes studying me, and he says “ain’t your feet cold, bruv?”. I turn around and return to my tent, cursing quietly as I pull off my drenched, half-frozen socks and set them to dry inside my tent, despite knowing how little help it will do. The sky clears up at night, and we gaze at the stars together. As there are no clouds to blanket us, the temperatures drop even more, but at least the wind has calmed down, silencing completely.
*
My dreamless sleep is cut short in the early morning hours as I hear a horrible, gut-wrenching scream. I grab the rifle and immediately tear out of my tent. It is just before daybreak and its still dark, Carl is getting out of his tent and Joshua is already standing outside, Pablo runs towards me and speaks in his broken English “Help me! Alejandra, she’s gone” he points towards the treeline. I trod through the snow, a thin layer of ice crunching with each step, slowing me down. Just beyond the sight of the camp I see jets of blood contrasting against the crips white snow, then a continuous bright red trail. something had dragged her. I follow the tracks and just beyond the fir treeline, no less than 30 meters in front of me, a gruesome scene unfolds.
A white bear is dragging Alejandra’s limp body through the boreal forest. The creature’s face is covered in her blood, making it appear as if it was wearing some kind of grotesque make-up. My mind can’t process what I am seeing: a polar bear in the middle of the taiga. Pablo catches up with me and, upon sighting the bear, screams in horror. The bear pauses, drops Alejandra’s body momentarily and turns its head towards the source of the sound. I take aim at the white bear and press the trigger. I flinch at the cracking sound of the bullet being fired. The shot misses and the bear gets spooked. The beast quickly grabs onto it’s catch and breaks into a sprint, dragging Alejandra’s limp body through the snow.
I quickly reload. Adrenaline is making my heart beat, aim unsteady. The white silhouette of the creature is disappearing beyond the spruces, it’s almost out of sight. I do my best to focus and, slowly breathing out, I squeeze the trigger. An explosion of splinters as the bullet hits a tree instead. Missed again. The bear is out of sight, gone, leaving behind an interrupted trail of human blood, a deep crimson splatter contrasting against the crispy white snow.
We return to our tents in a somber attitude. A mist creeps through the forest, quickly covering everything in a veil of white. Visibility goes to shit again and I realize that we can’t stay here for another night, not unless we want the bear to pick us off one by one. We pack the camp in silence, except for Pablo, who is crying over Alejandra’s spare clothing. In between sobs, he squeezes the brightly-colored alpaca wool sweater to his face, taking in her smell, all that remains of his wife is her scent on the clothes she used to wear. I later see him packing her sweater into his bag, which is already overfilled. Pablo, being the least fit, has trouble keeping up with our pace, and this will only slow us all down even further. I pause for a moment, wanting to reason with him, but I decide against doing so. The man just lost his wife, I’ll let him grieve.
I finish collecting my gear and spend the rest of the morning slowly patrolling the treeline, rifle in my hand and looking out for the beast. It is mid-day when they finally finish packing. We leave Alejandra’s bag behind with a note written in Russian inside: ‘We were attacked by a bear. We are heading towards the mining outpost. If you find this note, look for our tracks leading southeast’.
Around lunch, we exit the boreal forest and begin making our way across the length of a frozen river. It’s easier to march across the flat ice of a frozen river than it is to march through a forest, so we move fast, but around 2 PM another snow storm begins brewing. An hour later, hail starts raining down on us. Our thick winter coats offer some protection, but we are lacking energy, our bodies are decimated by hunger and the released adrenaline has run its course. It’s still a rough experience, and I urge the others to keep moving until we find proper shelter.
Through the thick mist and hail, we struggle to keep the four of us close to each other. Our luck is turning around; the hailstorm begins to recede as quickly as it began. The mist remains, but the winds calm down. The terrain on the bank of the river is hilly and, in the distance, we spot several snowy peaks — the mountain range that stands between us and our goal. “Over there” I tell them, pointing towards the range “just beyond that range is the road that leads to the mining outpost”. The sun is setting, giving us about an hour before total darkness. We decide to find a suitable site just underneath the steep side of the volcanic range and decide quickly for a place to settle down, clearing out skree to set up the large green military-issue tent.
The four of us huddle up in the big tent, figuring out that it would be warmer if we sleep in the same tent rather than each man going alone. All of us are silent, except for Pablo, who keeps cuddling Alejandra’s sweater and speaking silently in Spanish. His eyes being closed, we are unsure if he is still awake. Soon, the others begin falling asleep.
I hear the snow storm fading. Looking out the tent, I can only see the white mist. It turns blue as the sun retreats behind the mountains. I look at my watch: 7:13 PM. Exhausted by the journey, Carl and Joshua are already snoring. Seeing no sense in keeping watch another night, I cocoon myself in my sleeping bag soon after. Pablo, who is now awake, talks silently to Alejandra’s sweater, his gentle voice accompanying me as I drift off into a slumber.
A thunderous boom makes all of us jump up from our sleep. I quickly poke my head out of the tent to find the source of the sound. Over on the other side of the river, slightly concealed by the frozen mist, a huge orange glow breaks the blue monotony of the landscape. The mountain has exploded and a volcano is spewing its fiery contents from what was once the summit.
My father had told me that a very long time ago, these volcanoes wiped out most of life on Earth. The entire area turned into a wasteland of molten rock. Massive amounts of ash and dust were violently released into the atmosphere and carried around the planet by winds, blotting out the sun, which killed off all the plants. The animals followed soon after. Then, after 2 million years of constant eruptions that had changed the landscape to a veritable hell, the volcanoes began to quiet down. By the time the ash finally settled, the existence of life on Earth was hanging by a thin thread.
These volcanoes were supposed to be long dead, inactive. And yet here was one, lava spewing out of the snow capped summit, the indescribably loud crack, boom, and rushing sounds as the molten rock is hurled from the depths of the Earth. We watch silently, ignoring the cold for a moment. The mist gradually clears away and the top of the volcano is exposed. The eruption must have blown away a sizable chunk from the peak. Dark gray smoke pours out of the volcano’s mouth while the rapidly cooling lava creates black rivers down the snow banked sides. After about an hour, the mist returns and the mountain glows less as the eruptions come to a halt. We go back to our tent, listening to the low growl of volcanic activity as we attempt to get in a few more hours of sleep.
Next morning the air is saturated with the smell of sulphur. It’s the smell of death and decay, a bad omen that I do my best to ignore. The volcanic gas will slowly poison us if we remain here, so we decide to continue on our journey. We pack very hastily, in record time — everyone is sick of the rotten egg smell left by the sulphur from the eruption.
We begin trekking our way through the steep valley, with jet-black mountains rising to our left and right, the black basalt walls clothed in fresh white snow that completely blankets their peaks. We follow a miniature valley within the valley that was likely formed by a summer stream that is now frozen over. The terrain is not as difficult as I feared, but still a much greater challenge than yesterday. At least the sky has cleared up, offering a few piercing rays of sunshine through the overcast. We must move quickly and find our next shelter before we run out of daylight once more. I sense the group is slowing down, especially Pablo, who has barely eaten since yesterday. Carl and I are always ahead of Pablo and Joshua, and we keep stopping to let them catch up. During one of these stops, I catch a glimpse of something in the distance, downwind from us, right in our tracks. Stocky shape, slightly yellowed white fur, a black spot for a nose — the polar bear is stalking us. It’s very far away, at least a kilometer or more, but it is undeniably going in our direction.
Once Joshua and Pablo catch up with me and Carl, I decide to tell them; “the polar bear is on our track” I tell them as calmly as possible, and point to the distant shape on the horizon. They all turn and Carl squints as he focuses in on the slow-moving bear. “Bet ya I can shoot it all the way from here with that Nagant of yours” Carl says, and I realize he’s talking about my rifle. “Don’t think so friend, better not waste the few bullets I have”. Carl scowls and says “No waste, brother, killing beasts is what the bullets are for”. I subconsciously grip the weapon tightly with both hands. I’ve had it. I scream “I am not giving you the gun!”, and the discussion is over. The bear has ceased its pursuit for a moment and is now on its hind legs, as if it is looking into the distance. I turn around and continue the march, keeping the corners of my eyes open, as for the bear, same for Carl.
The rest of the trek is not enjoyable. The sky darkens with snow clouds once more and Pablo struggles to keep up. After the unpleasant exchange with Carl, I sense that I have made a new enemy. Now I need to keep one eye peeled for the polar bear, the other for Carl.
Even through the clouded skies, I can see the sun will soon set. Maybe an hour of daylight left. We’ve made a good trek today — I’m estimating 15 or 20 kilometers. I locate a small hill from which we will be able to spot the bear and tell the group “Better set up camp soon. The sun is setting and we won’t find a better site to camp before it’s dark. We’ll keep a watch through the night and when morning comes, we’ll move again”. Joshua and Pablo agree and even Carl nods wordlessly, though I can’t help but feel like he is, surreptitiously and quietly, growing tired of me.
The climb up the hill is harder than I thought it would be. The terrain here is rocky, uneven and loose. The basalt has chipped away in many parts, creating treacherous traps consisting of loose chunks of rock which sometimes slide when you step on them. I almost roll my ankle, Pablo keeps falling down while Joshua and Carl struggle to pick him up and carry him. We reach the summit just as night descends. The sky clears and a full moon baths the blue landscape in its pale light. The top of the hill is exposed to the winds that chill us to the bone. We quickly set up the military tent and discuss shifts. Pablo will begin first, Joshua second, Carl third and I will take the last watch until daybreak.
I enter the tent and find Joshua already asleep, though I hear his teeth chatter from the intense cold. I huddle down into my sleeping bag, the Mosin Nagant cradled in my arms securely. Even with all my warm gear on, I struggle to sleep due to the intense cold. It seems the clear skies have made the temperature drop even further. Outside it must be brutal. I admire Carl for staying outside, talking with Pablo even though he doesn’t have to. I barely sleep, constantly hovering in a state between dreaming and waking, and it’s not long before my watch starts. I go out to find Carl awake and staring into the skies. The winds have dropped but its still freezing, especially now as it’s just a few hours until sunrise. “Look” he says, pointing upward.
The Moon above us is surrounded by a perfectly round ring of light, forming a halo around the shiny white orb. “What in the heavens is that?” Carl asks. “A moon ring” I say, still looking upwards, taking in the beauty of it. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it“ Carl responds, before turning his gaze onto me “have you?”.
“Once I did, a lifetime ago” I say, staring at the moon ring, and Carl nudges me to offer a cigarette, one of the last two he has in the weathered plastic box. Sobranies, expensive stuff. So foreign and out of place to have a cocktail cigarette in such a remote wilderness, being, so thoroughly separated from civilization.
“Thank you. It has been a while since I had one” I pull one out with the tips of my index and middle. “When have you seen a moon like this?” Carl asks as he lights my cigarette and I take a deep drag, relishing in the nicotine rush. I continued talking “I was very young. Father had taken me and my brother on a hunting trip.” I say, breathing out the cigarette smoke, word by word. In the calm, windless night, my warm breath, infused with burning tobacco, rises slowly and briefly blankets the moon ring in an opaque white cloud of vapor. “He told me moon rings are supposed to be a sign of luck” I say before taking another drag, and then passing him the half-smoked cig gingerly, my fingers being numb from the cold. Carl puffs gently on the Sobranie, looking at the stars briefly, then turning to me and asking “You think that’s true?” as he passes it back, looking into my eyes, trying to read me. “I’d like to believe that” I say, and turn my head back to the moon’s halo.
We both stare at the night sky for a good minute. I finish the smoke, extinguishing it against the hard volcanic rubber sole of my left boot, and then throwing the wrinkled butt away. “Did your dad often take you and your brother hunting?” Carl asks.
“No. He found out he had lung cancer around that time, and died a year later”
*
When morning comes, I am the first to wake and I notice that today will be, once again, grey and devoid of sunshine, but at least there’s no fog. We pack camp slowly at first, weak from exhaustion and hunger, but as the winds pick up once more, we’re forced to make a run for it, cramming our bags haphazardly and leaving the increasingly worsening conditions on the wind-exposed side of the mountains. Once we descend below the ridge, the winds have calmed down, and a fog rolls in once more.
We find the trail that we had followed the day prior, and continue on it, trekking further east. I expect us to slowly begin our descent into the basin. Once the inversion clears up, or once we get under it, we should see the road. But the fog is relentless, and not only is it clouding our vision, it’s making us vulnerable. We are funnelled into a narrow mountain pass from which there should be a quick descent into the basin, right above the road. I lead with Carl, Joshua follows in our footsteps closely, and Pablo is the laggard of our group.
At a sharp turn, I take a quick break and look back. Pablo is now at least a hundred paces. Irritably enough, he’s taking a break, even though he’s already so far away from the rest of the group. As he clears down the snow off a flat basalt boulder and sits down, something moves behind him. Yellowy-white fur and a pair of black slits emerge from beyond the fog. I spot the bear first and scream “Pablo, look out!”. Pablo looks around, but right at that moment the bear leaps at him, pushing him to the ground and mauling him with its front limbs. We hear him scream in pain. Joshua is frozen in fear.
I take aim with the gun and fire, but the gun jams. Carl throws off his backpack and wrestles the rifle from my hands “Hey!” I yell at him. He ignores me and quickly unjams it, aiming the gun at the bear, but it has now dragged Pablo’s body behind the boulder from which he was ambushed, concealing itself from Carl’s aim. All that we can see is a trickle of bright red blood as it saturates the surrounding snow. Carl runs towards the creature, rifle in hand and killing intent in heart, and Joshua and I follow him. About 10 meters in front of the boulder, he screams and lobs a big, fist-sized rock at the creature, which evidently hits as we hear a blood-curdling snarl, and the beast lurches from behind cover. The man in front of the monster is prepared, focused, steady, he shoots, the bullet sinking into its midsection, bloodying its yellowy-white coat, but failing to stop it. It lunges at Carl, who jumps out of the way, but the claws rake his lower leg and he screams in pain, falling to the ground, rifle still in hand. The bear repositions itself and charges at him again, but this time he shoots it square in the face, the huge creature crumples lifelessly, collapsing onto its legs, belly and finally its head falls to the ground, dropping down on Carl’s injured leg, causing a fresh round of curses from the old soldier.
Still wary of the polar bear, we approach slowly. “It’s dead” Carl croaks, his voice hoarse and weak. Carl’s leg is still laying below the bear’s motionless head. His leg is badly cut and bleeding heavily, the black claws on the dead bear’s front paw glistens with blood.
“Got him good, didn’t I” Carl asks as Joshua and I drag him from underneath the bear, which makes him moan in pain quietly, but he’s cheerful as he continues to talk “shot him right in his ugly mug” he makes a brave smile and then looks at his leg. It’s a deep cut, and he won’t be long for this world. Not in these conditions, not with this injury. I know it and Carl must realize it as well. None of us say anything as we observe Carl pull a spare shoelace from his left boot and ties it tightly around the injured leg. The blood spurts out as he secures the tourniquet. He takes a deep breath, trying to remain brave in what I assume is incredible pain. “Let’s get the fuck out of here” he says in a gravelly voice.
We pick our hero up and help him onto his healthy foot, and then return back to the narrow trail to pick up our luggage. Carl empties his backpack of all but a few essentials, minimizing the weight as he prepares for one last push towards the mining outpost, his sweaty, unwashed clothing being piled out onto the rocky path. I wonder if someone will ever find Carl’s possessions, and what they will make of it.
*
Dawn arrives. The sky in the east begins to turn from purple to pale blue, gradually shifting into a shade of zaffre. Another beautiful day. With Joshua’s help, we manage to get Carl moving, he hops awkwardly on his healthy foot, as now he can’t put any weight on the injured one. We’ve long since run out of food, though I suspect they may be hiding some for themselves. Regardless, there will be no breakfast today and we march down the mountain on an empty stomach.
At least there are no more stomach cramps. When you starve, you get a dull ache in your stomach after the first 24 hours. After that, your body gets used to it, and although you’ll feel lethargic, you won’t feel any other kind of physical discomfort. At least for a few days, anyway. Then your body starts consuming itself, starting with the fats and carbohydrates. Your metabolism slows down and enters emergency mode. You’ll hover between irritability, alertness and apathy. That’s where I am at right now. Then your body begins to break down. Digestion is shut down and you’ll get the runs. Your heart slows down, your lungs begin to shrink, and your brain wastes away soon after. They say you go mad before you die of hunger.
Carl is slowing us down considerably. He is becoming pale and his requests for a break become more and more often. He struggles to descend the mountain, even with all the help we can give him. At least the weather is favoring us; light wind, clear skies. The sun rises at our backs, slowly creeping up above the mountain. I turn around briefly and even in my hunger-induced apathy I am taken aback by what I see.
A woman seated on a Yakutian pony is staring right at us at a distance of no more than 15 meters or so, aiming her rifle at me. I put up my hands in a gesture of surrender, barely being able to hold the rifle upright as my arms are shaking from exhaustion. She puts down her rifle and lets it hang from her shoulder. The woman is dressed queerly; wearing an oversized white hockey jersey draped on top of a reindeer parka. Her gaunt face is expressionless, not one of the many wrinkles on her face moves as she observes us, her eyes methodically scanning each of us briefly before returning their focus back onto me — the closest person to her.
She trots over towards Carl, who is barely standing even as Joshua props him up, and she jostles up slightly on the horse and motions to us to get Carl up on the horse. We help Carl get up onto the Yakutian pony, which nearly buckles from the sudden added weight. She kicks the horse into motion gently. “Thank you, spasiba” I say, over and over, the indigenous woman just nods knowingly, not taking her eyes off some invisible goal in the distance, over the horizon of the road. I quickly understand she does not speak much Russian and cease my attempts at communication, just walking silently beside the horse, grateful for the turn in luck.
She is taking us north and we cross the basin through a seemingly-impromptu route that descends into a hilly snowed-over landscape, and we reach an abandoned road that has been snowed over. We’ve reached it, finally. The bone highway, the lone road in this wretched land, built upon the mass graves of gulag prisoners that died during its construction. Despite the highway being completely covered with snow, its outline is still there. The sky is incredibly clear, a vivid mid-day blue. I would be curious whether the woman is taking us to the mining outpost, but my body is so exhausted, I can only focus on putting one foot ahead of the other to keep pace with her horse.
The snow-capped hills transitioned into a valley, and I catch a glimpse of a large pale green rectangular shape in the distance. It is a Soviet-era apartment building for workers. It must be the mining town, or some kind of research outpost. As we approach, I see there are several smaller brown buildings with angled roofs, and a humble-looking Orthodox church adjacent to a small 2-story building that has ‘клиника’ written above its entrance. I shout “Look, a hospital!” and point towards it as I approach the horse and help Carl descend. He walks gingerly with my help, but he’s smiling and there’s a determination to his step as we rush towards the clinic.
We cross rows of rectangular apartment buildings, some still have their windows boarded up from last winter. It’s not long til we enter the building and head up the dilapidated staircase. “Doktor?” I shout as we ascend the stairs, my voice echoes slightly through the long hallway of the first floor. I yell for help again, going up another level. I attempt to open a door to the primary’s office, but it doesn’t budge. Methodically, I try to open the adjacent doors, and then the next, and so on, but each is either locked or blocked, unmoving as I shake the handles, until finally, a door opens into a small nursery, empty cots and a single iron lung all that is inside. I notice all the machinery is rusty. I take a step back, and turn around towards the door on the opposite side of the abandoned nursery, and it opens after a decent push. I walk into a cantina, the cutlery on all the tables is perfectly set, not one empty seat misses a fork, knife and soup spoon. Not a soul inside.
I hustle down the staircase and get out of the empty clinic, looking for the woman on horseback. She is nowhere to be found. It’s late afternoon and the sky has turned a paler color of blue. I run around pointlessly, but find no trace of the woman, not even prints in the snow from her horse.
It’s like I’m under a spell, no longer in control of my own movements, I wander around the town and find a nearby apartment building. I wander around the decaying building until I find a half-opened door that I kick, revealing a small empty flat, someone had dragged an empty oil barrel all the way up here and used it as a fireplace, placing a thick spring-mattress and scratched wooden bed around it. From the barrel leads a trail of charcoal that has darkened the faux-parquet lino flooring. No ash left on the furniture-whoever was here must have left a long time ago. Slowly, a realization begins creeping up on me. The entire town is abandoned. I look out from a window of an emptied-out third floor apartment, through a busted window and spot Joshua helping Carl exit the clinic. I wave at them and they begin walking towards the apartment building.
“There is only about an hour of sunlight left. We camp here tonight and tomorrow… we’ll see” I say when we regroup in front of the building. I lead them inside, Joshua helping the much-deteriorated Carl as he slowly takes the stairs upwards. I lead them up the staircase and into the room with the oil barrel fireplace. As I help Carl lay down on the mattress, I notice he is shivering. “Tend to him” I tell Joshua “I’ll go get wood for the fire”. I scavenge for pieces of furniture through the apartment building, in one apartment I find a few loose pieces of parquet flooring, a broken down chair, I find a small personal library and get to work ripping the pages from the books.
One of the boarded up windows has a damaged plank. Through it, I see the dark sky and the twinkle of a few stars. The wind begins to howl once more. When I get back to Joshua and Carl, the latter is sleeping and has a deathly pale color. If his chest didn’t rise and fall with each breath, I’d have thought he was dead already. I quickly get to work setting up the fire. In a matter of minutes, an orange glow permeates our humble apartment, casting long shadows on the ruined wallpaper. The warmth generated by the fire and held in by the walls of the building is a welcome change after a week spent camping in the taiga.
Carl shuffles and then starts to get up half-sitting half-lying on the mattress, supporting his weight with his elbow as he slowly assumes a sitting position. “Joshua, my bag” he gasps and Joshua, sitting right next to all of our bags, takes Carl’s military-issue green backpack and places it by his bed. Carl’s good hand digs into the backpack’s contents and pulls out a small steel flask, opens it and takes a deep gulp, he grimaces ever so slightly but then his face lightens up into a smile “Whiskey?” he asks, passing the flask to me. I take the flask from his hand, and he lights up his last cigarette, taking in deep, full drags.
I press the flask against my lips, the taste of the drink is smokey and sharp. I must have also grimaced slightly before smiling in appreciation, as Carl smirks as he observes me. I pass the flask to Joshua, who drinks from it. “There’s an upside to not having eaten for a week” Carl says. “What’s that?” Joshua asks as he passes him the flask “Easier to get drunk!” Carl responds, smoke blowing out of his mouth as he laughs at his own joke. I flash a smile at him and Joshua grins meekly.
Taking a moment to contemplate, we remain silent and the only sound heard is the crackling of the fire in the barrel. “You carried this whisky the entire time?” Joshua asks, and Carl drinks from the flask once more before answering “Was saving it for when we get to civilization… looks like I won’t live to see that day”. Both Joshua and I are silent and the smiles are gone. Carl gingerly pulls back the trouser of his injured hand, grimacing despite his effort to hide the pain he is in. The uncovered leg is pale, limp, lifeless. Tissue necrosis has begun to set in.
“Gangrene” Carl commentates dryly “no longer feel the pain, really” he says and takes another swig from the flask, then rummages around in his pocket until he pulls out something small and thin, it glistens between his black gloved fingers, reflecting the light from the fire. It’s a bullet.
“Shoot me” Carl says, and for the longest moment, nobody says anything. All that is heard is the sound of the wind blowing outside, and then I ask “Where did you get that?” finally breaking the silence. I get up and walk towards Carl, reclining over him and taking the bullet from his feeble grip. Carl answers “pulled it from the Mosin’s mag when I killed the bear”. “Why?” I ask and Carl is silent, looking down into the fire, his eyes glassy, twinkling against the blaze. “Just end it for me, please. Don’t let me suffer” Carl begs. “I won’t- …No” I answer. Joshua looks at “Why not?” “It’s not worth it” “What?” I chamber the bullet “I am not going to waste my last bullet… Carl, you are going to die soon anyway. Loosen the tourniquet, the low pressure will make you lose consciousness and you’ll pass peacefully” Carl doesn’t answer immediately, instead, he looks into the fire, the blaze reflected in his twinkling eyes “I don’t want to bleed out like a pig” he says quietly.
“Even if I had a bullet to spare, you would want me to do it? I can’t do it” I say. “I can” Joshua says. “Don’t kid yourself, boy. You want that on your consciousness?” I ask, but Joshua looks adamant “I’ll do it. I’ll do it for you, Carl” he says, looking into Carl’s eyes, who smiles and nods in appreciation, the cigarette in his mouth is almost at its end. Joshua gets up and takes a step toward me. I hold onto the rifle securely. “Give me the gun” Joshua says “No” I answer and he puts a hand on it, grabbing it by the stock, I try to pry it away from him but his grip is strong, that climber strength still there. He wrestles with me, the gun in the middle of us, both of us pulling, attempting to push the other one off, I feel the rifle slipping from my grip and it goes off, a deafening bang resonates through the cold apartment, instinctively, I close my eyes, ears ringing from the sound.
*
When I opened my eyes, Joshua was nowhere to be found. Carl had vanished as well, and there was no trace of blood on the mattress on which he had laid just seconds before. Nobody in the emptied-out apartment apart from me. I pick up the fag of a Sobranie laying crumpled below the makeshift bed. How long have I been alone?
Exhaustion overpowers me and I lay down on my side, resting on the mattress in a fetal position. The fire in the barrel is finished and a familiar feeling of cold overcomes me. I shiver and sweat at the same time. Sleep beckons, and I begin to shift from consciousness. A single tear rolls down my from my left eye, running down my crow-feet wrinkles and wetting the mattress. As I close my eyes, the last thing I hear is the wind outside as it whistles steadily through the street of the nameless town, I am now truly alone, slowly fading into a slumber from which I do not want to ever wake.
