Chervotochina (1)

 

Mstyora 

Vyaznikovsky District

2015

 

Dusk had lowered by the time Mirsky arrived.

He killed the engine. Mstyora was a bucolic spread. Cottages were scattered along low mountain ridges. Torchlight flared in the gorge below.

He cracked the car door. He eased over a barbed-wire fence. He tripped down a sharp descent to the railway line. A uniformed man crunched over.

'Mirsky? Sledkom?'

'That's right.'

'Balashov.'

His handshake was clammy. He guided Mirsky over to the tracks. Uniformed men fanned out around them. They wedged barricades. They stretched yellow tape. Mirsky knelt. He clicked his flashlight. He peered.

Two men. Two old men. Skinny. Emaciated. 

An empty eye socket each.

Dried blood dyed the grass around. Balashov coughed.

'Both missing their left eyes... '

Mirsky looked up slowly. He stood. He lit a cigarette. Balashov scratched his ear. Torchlight crisscrossed through the trees to their right. Men emerged from the forest. Balashov paced over. A light snow began to fall. Mirsky exhaled. Balashov stumbled back over.

'Two more,' he breathed.

*

Flakes dusted the forest floor. Mirsky sprayed the flashlight. One man was on his back. Ancient features. Skin hugged bones. An empty eye socket. The second man was face down. His shirt rode up. Weird lacerations; symmetrical puncture marks ran up the back.

Mirsky bit his lip. His hands shook. Branches rustled above. A bird rose in a spiral arc.

 

Moscow

1926

 

Skvortsoff pulled his chair up and popped the cabinet. The TRF set was spread on a wooden breadboard. Candlelight quivered on a desk behind. He fixed the headphones over his ears. He reached underneath the vacuum tubes and wound the wires on the rheostat. He adjusted the tuning knobs.

Harmonic distortions blurred. Squealing noises. He siphoned through bursts of orchestral music. Feverish crackles. He found the voice.

A repeated string of numbers. Minor variations. Dull. Insistent. Odds words, parsed between the digits: field energy. Hypersurfaces. Spacetime. 

He removed the headphones. He stroked his beard. He rose and walked to the bookcase. He finger-walked over the spines of faded tomes. He withdrew one, moved to the desk, and flipped it open. Dust rose. He traced dates. Recordings.

He withdrew another book. He peered. Columns. Dates. Numbers.

The doorbell tinkled. He heaved the book shut.

*

Jukoff stamped on the doormat. He dusted snow from his shoulders. He removed his sheepskin hat and perched his cane under the jacket rail. 

He followed Skvortsoff through to the lounge. He made for the samovar. Skvortsoff shook his head. He opened a cabinet under the desk. He removed a bottle. He cracked it. He filled two glasses. 

They drained the shots. Jukoff felt warmth returning to his cheeks. Skvortsoff coughed. He adjusted his necktie.

'Sit, my dear friend. You know I wouldn't bother you unless it was of important business.'

They retired to the sofa. The grandfather clock in the corner released twelve low, glacial notes.

'Sixteen years,' he said. 'The same signal. A radio station emits a repeated string of numbers, with minor variations. For sixteen years.'

Jukoff stared. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. He pulled a handkerchief out and dabbed his lips. He leant over the tables and refilled the glasses. Skvortsoff leaned in. His eyes were lit.

'It's the coordinates,' he breathed. 'I'm sure of it. I'd stake my life on it. It's a monitoring system. Security. Protection against change.'

Jukoff sunk the glass. 

'It's a leap,' he muttered. 'It's all a leap. You know I admire your research. Your drive. It's just... sometimes I wonder if... '

Skvortsoff prodded him.

'I've compared. I've tracked records. Krasnukin before me. Burkin before him. Ship records. Prisoner records. You know this. You know the anomalies. Discrepancies. Last year, two hundred prisoners disappeared en route to east Siberia.'

He coughed. He lit his pipe.

'October 1915. Ten years ago. Almost four hundred prisoners disappear along the same route. Glossed over. Wiped from the records. Ten year cycles, my dear Jukoff.'

Jukoff wiped his brow. He frowned. A tram clattered by outside.

'We only have radio signal records dating back sixteen years. But I can assure you, it is our place. There is a sustained gap in transmission on October fourteenth, 1925. The only recorded gap in this signal. The same day the prisoners disappear. The same day. Jukoff. Jukoff, I know how this must sound. I know how I must... I know how I must appear at times. Smoking. Drinking. Chained to my wireless. But Jukoff, I am certain... '

Jukoff tapped the table. He exhaled. He shrugged.

'There may be unrecorded gaps. Show me the records, though. Let's be having you.'

*

They worked deep into the night. They trawled dusty books. Candlelight fluttered. Pipe smoke filled the air. Skvortsoff was animated. The vodka loosed his imagination and in turn his tongue. He gestured. He painted abstract fantasies. Jukoff nodded. He sweated. His fingers traced numbers and columns.

The bottle sat empty on the desk. Jukoff flipped pages. Skvortsoff rose. He shuffled to the door. His eyes were red. It was three a.m.

He hit the stairwell. A few more shots. A last burst of energy. He grasped the rail. Something moved on the landing above.

He turned and squinted. He shook his head. It swam. He moved down. The stairs creaked. He fumbled through the darkness.

Jukoff screamed.

Skvortsoff twisted. He made for the samovar cabinet. He knelt. 

A thin drawer in the cabinet base. He slid it open, reached in and twisted a dial. He jiggled loose a panel in the rear of the drawer. He groped. He pulled the Gatling out.

Copper plates glinted. He heaved it up by the handle above the barrels. Footsteps thumped overhead. He hit the stairs. He took them three at a time. He pitched into the room. 

The TRF set was in bits. Mangled tubes. Copper wire twisted over the breadboard. Jukoff was slumped over the desk. Puncture marks dotted the back of his jacket. Blood pooled on the floor.

A man stood above him. He wore a slim-fitting suit. A tie. A pocket square. Candlelight wavered. Skvortsoff saw strange, smooth ripples in the man's neck and cheeks. Silverish nodules. Metallic shimmers.

The man clamped his hand over Jukoff's head. His fingers worried the hairline.

Metal slides shot from his fingernails. Blood spritzed. The man removed his hand. The extensions slid back into his cuticles.

Skvortsoff yanked the Gatling up. He held the chassis against his stomach. The man turned. His eyes glinted - smooth steel.

Skvortsoff ran. He spun the crank shaft. The copper-sleeved barrels rotated. Cogs whirred. Neon fluid pumped down the rail.

The man took one step to his right. He raised his left hand. Five metal slide-rules snapped across the room. Skvortsoff felt his leg buckle. He saw the puncture wounds. He knelt and vomited. The man strode forward. He placed his hand on Skvortsoff's head.

 

East Siberia

1925

 

The prison yard was caked in a layer of frost. It glittered as the convicts departed. Chains and shackles clink-dragged through the icy dirt. Six wooden barracks - cut apart by a length of fence - were stationed on the outskirts. Shadowy sentries moved amongst them. A tripod of wooden beams rose from the dirt like some terrible insect. Red patches were dried at its base.

Part of the shuffling human chain, Kovalenko was guided towards the wooden gates.

*

The sky was split with blood-red fronds. They spent the morning trailing over endless fields. Skeletal trees groped. Their path veered close to the sea. Cliff edges dropped to frothing black water. 

Dusk approached. They took refuge in a small grove of trees, nestled in the bowl of a valley. Kovalenko's shackles were re-fitted. He was tied by the waist to a skinny trunk. He watched the guards. They passed a flask. They swigged and cursed around a small fire.

Kovalenko nodded off. He wondered briefly why his own group had been separated. The majority of prisoners had departed two days earlier, bound for Sakhalin Island.

When he awoke his head had lolled awkwardly onto his shoulder. The nook of trees was pitch black. He felt in his confusion as if he were looking down at a sky full of stars; as though he had dropped a million lit matches into the gloom. 

It was best never to think. He did not care what they were doing. It was best to mete out existence in seconds.

*

They boarded the ship the following day. They watched as a man was hosed down with boiling water for vomiting on a Lieutenant's shoes.

Sheer rock faces rose from webs of mist. Sakhalin Island. Beacons. Flames. The cliffs appeared to be murmuring behind the glow of the fires.

The ship continued. Kovalenko squinted out the porthole. The island retreated.
Elbows and shoulders crushed around him. Cold breath brushed his cheeks. Two hundred whispers knotted and clamoured.

*

They came to a standstill. The Sea of Okhotsk lapped around them. They heard movement on the decks above. Kovalenko wriggled. He scratched at lice.
Guards swarmed into the hold. They unlocked the cages. They drove the prisoners out. Whips. Chains. Fists.

The convicts stood shivering on the deck. Men were crying. Kovalenko looked round. He tried to calculate his chances. Political prisoners. Thieves. He couldn't see a link. There was no common reason for them to be brought out here and killed.

Waves stirred and broke. Guards yelled.

Something was emerging from the water.

In later years it would seem to Kovalenko as if he was recalling a dream, a false memory. A large metal block rose from the sea. It snapped. It unfolded upwards in segments. It spread. It folded itself into squares. Prisms. It looped back into itself. It happened so quickly.

The sky was filled with an abstract, metallic maze.

The block came to rest on the deck of the ship. A hollow end. A square, steel entrance.

The guards whipped the prisoners. The ran them into the opening. Kovalenko was bundled in. Men were crushed around him. They screamed. Kovalenko smelled urine. His hands slapped at steel walls.

The ship floated in the black sea. The deck was empty. The metal puzzle in the sky snapped. It folded like a house of cards. It collapsed in on itself. It disappeared.

 

Vyazniki

Vyaznikovsky District

2015

 

Shedrin tugged on fresh gloves. Mirsky followed suit. The lab was pristine. Ceramic tiles. Glazed concrete blocks. Four ancient bodies on gleaming stainless steel tables. Four empty eye sockets.

Shedrin leaned over the first table. He moved up the stomach.

'Five sets of five clean incisions, moving up the abdomen and stomach. High-energy impact stab wounds. Cleanly-divided edges. Bone scoring. Uniform depth - entering through the stomach and exiting out the lower back.'

He paused.

'The kidneys and stomachs of three of our four John Does are perforated. The fourth is a transfixed wound. The heart has been penetrated.'

Mirsky swallowed. Shedrin nudged his glasses up.

'I can't fathom the instrument. Sharp metal. Knives; the bone scoring indicates so. But the consistency is startling. Some kind of pronged device. Multiple knives at once.' 

Mirsky looked at the cadaver's head. His eye twitched. He needed a drink bad. Shedrin pulled a penlight. He moved up the table. He tilted the head back and held the penlight over the empty socket.

'Obvious similarities between the four,' he mumbled. 'Thoughts?'

Mirsky shot his sleeves. He smoothed his hair.

'Some kind of keepsake? A display? There's precedents. Rituals, pride... '

Shedrin smiled. His teeth were yellow.

'If all of this wasn't weird enough... '

He beckoned. Mirsky leaned in. Shedrin adjusted the penlight. He peeled the eyelid back. The skin was smooth and oilish. Mirsky peered. Paper-thin skin. Black markings. Black markings on the skin.

There was an image. A tiny image.

His mind frazzled. He ducked down low and squinted. Shedrin tilted the blue light. The eyelid skin puckered between his fingertips. Mirsky pressed close. Eye to eye socket.

Numbers.

He pulled himself up. He clung to the steel table. Shedrin cocked his head. He pocketed his penlight and nodded to the left.

'The other John Does are the same. Digits imprinted on the subcutaneous tissue. Ever seen anything like this? Because I fucking haven't.'

He tapped a scalpel on the tray beside him.

'Perhaps our assailant was looking for something. Something he didn't find.'

Mirsky was already rummaging in his bag. He removed the SLR camera. Shedrin came up close. He removed his glasses. There were dark lines under his eyes.

'Mirsky, I can't - '

He looked back at the bodies. He turned his hand over and stared at his gloved palm.

'These men, they were suffering from severe malnutrition. They were exhausted. There's calluses on their hand and feet. There's small eruptions on the stomachs, and other areas of the bodies. These men had scurvy. There's whip marks on their backs. Mirsky, these men were worked to the point of death. Old men. I can't... I don't know what the hell's... '

He trailed off. Mirsky shuffled. His head pulsed. He tapped the camera.

'One step at a time,' he said.

They moved down the tables. Shedrin peeled eyelids back. Mirsky got close. Sharp focus. He snapped. They moved. He snapped. He felt the reality drain from his world. He snapped.

 

(2): https://www.abctales.com/story/stephen-thom/chervotochina-2