The rest dragged on for three hours. I dozed off, lightly, keeping an ear out, as the forest taught. Uglyum lay nearby, guarding. He knew how to sleep so that one ear was always on alert. Woke up from his quiet growl. Immediately grabbed the carbine, rolled to the side, to a tree. Vera also reacted instantly, covered Alina with herself, pressed her to the ground.
— What? — she asked with just her lips.
I listened. Quiet. Only the wind in the treetops, and somewhere far away a woodpecker tapping. Uglyum was staring at one point, to the east. Fur standing on end, ears flattened. He only reacts like that to humans.
I slowly raised my hand. Waited. A minute. Another. Nothing. Maybe I imagined it? No. My dog knows animals. He reacts to them differently — with interest, not fear.
— Is it not a person?
— It’s people. — I stood up. — We’re leaving. Fast.
We picked up Alina. She regained consciousness but was thinking poorly. Moved west, deeper into the forest. I looped, confused the trail. Walked through streams several times. Old investigator habits of covering tracks. An hour later Uglyum calmed down. But I knew: they were close. Kurganov’s hunters were following our trail like wolves on a blood scent. Maybe they fell behind. Maybe lost the trail in the swamp. But didn’t give up. That’s for sure.
Toward evening we came out to Mikhey’s winter hut. The hut stood in a secluded ravine at the foot of a hill. Inconspicuous, blackened by time. The uninitiated would have walked past without noticing. But I knew this place. Visited here myself more than once, trying to catch the owner poaching.
Mikhey Lukich Zotov. 72 years old. Dry as a pole. Cunning as a fox. Poached all his life. Started back under the Soviets. Caught him some fifteen times. Fined him. Threatened him with jail time. But he stuck to his guns anyway. “I shoot who I want.” Stubborn old man. Unbending. We had been enemies for a long time. Me by duty, him out of principle. But we didn’t try to kill each other. And there was an unspoken agreement: in extreme cases, we help. The forest doesn’t like jokes. Today you, tomorrow you.
Now was that very extreme case.
— Wait here, — I told Vera. — Uglyum, guard.
And went to the hut. Knocked with the secret knock. Three short, two long. Mikhey invented this signal himself back when we first agreed on a truce.
The door opened. The old man stood in the opening. Grey, bearded, with a Berdan rifle in his hands. Narrow eyes looked warily.
— Gromov? What brings you here?
— Need help, Lukich.
He was silent. Looked me over from head to toe. I knew how I looked. Exhausted, with red eyes from lack of sleep. Not the best look for negotiations.
— Come in, — he said finally. — Let’s talk.
The hut smelled of smoke, herbs, old sheepskin coat. Mikhey lived meagerly but solidly. Stove, bunk, table with a bench. On the walls traps, skins, bunches of dried herbs. In the corner a small icon, soot-stained, ancient.
— Speak, — he said, sitting opposite.
I told him. Briefly, without unnecessary details. Two fugitives, Kurganov’s hunt, pursuers on the tail.
Mikhey listened silently. Then fell silent for a long time, looking out the window.
— Kurganov, then, — he said finally. — Heard about him. Heard a lot of things.
— Is it true?
— You bet. I have my own intelligence, Gromov. Hunters, fishermen, locals. Everyone talks. About his “safari.” Rumors have been circulating for a long time. Only no one believed. Thought they were tall tales.
— Not tall tales.
— Now I see. — He paused. — Is the girl in a bad way?
— Very. Need antibiotics. Do you have any?
Mikhey chewed his lips.
— I do. Ampicillin, some other stuff. A hunter left it last winter. You know, Gromov, what this means?
— I understand. If Kurganov finds out I helped you, I’m finished. And you’re finished. And your girls are finished.
— I know. And yet you ask.
— And what else can I do, Lukich? Abandon them?
He looked at me for a long time. Then chuckled. Crookedly. With one corner of his mouth.
— Oh, Gromov, Gromov. You should be at war, with some partisans. That’s the place for people like you.
— Maybe I’ll fight yet.
— Maybe you will.
He stood up, climbed into the corner where a large chest stood. Took out a first aid kit. Old, canvas, army issue.
— Here. Antibiotics, antipyretics, bandages. You’ll figure it out.
I took the kit. Heavy.
— Thank you, Lukich. I owe you.
— You owe me, — he agreed. — If we live.
Vera injected Alina with the antibiotic. Horse dose. But there was no choice. The girl didn’t even wake up. Just moaned when the needle went in.
We sat in Mikhey’s hut. Waited. It was getting dark outside. The old man boiled tea on the stove. Clattered with mugs.
— Stay until morning, — he said. — Going into the forest at night is foolishness. Rest, eat. And leave in the morning.
— I don’t know…
— Understood. — He turned around. Mugs with tea in his hands. Hot, fragrant. — And one more thing. I have a radio. Homemade. Sits on a reserve frequency. Kurganov doesn’t know about it. I’ll listen to what they’re babbling about there. Maybe learn something useful.
— Thank you, Lukich.
— Don’t thank me. I’m curious myself. Don’t like it when in my forest… — He didn’t finish.
I looked out the window, into the darkness. Uglyum dozed at my feet, but I knew he wasn’t really sleeping either. Sensing my anxiety. Vera fell asleep with her head on the table. Worn out during the day. Suffered. And she is almost fifty. Not a young woman. With a bad back and broken health. Yet she carried Alina on herself, never complained once. Strong. Real.
Kurganov won’t back down, that’s clear. His people continue the search, tightening the ring. Sooner or later they’ll pick up the trail. And then what? Surrender? Run further? How far? To the North Pole? No. Running isn’t an option. With a sick girl, without supplies, without communication with the outside world, we won’t get far. They’ll drive us like animals. No. That means we have to change the rules of the game.
I remembered one place. Devil’s Hollow, that’s what locals call it. A narrow gorge between two hills with a single passage. Partisans hid there during the Civil War. And then Old Believers, when fleeing Soviet power. A disastrous place, bad, but that’s exactly why no one pokes around there. I know the way there. Probably the only one who knows. And if I take the women there, dig in, we can hold the defense. There, one man can stop ten, if, of course, there are enough cartridges. And luck.
Towards morning Mikhey shook me awake. I didn’t even notice dozing off.
— Gromov! Gromov, wake up!
— Huh? What?
— Listen.
He turned on the radio. Voices broke through the crackle and static. Abrupt, commanding.
— …cleanup group… Eight people… Shatun is commanding… Order: leave no witnesses.
I went cold.
— Shatun? — asked Mikhey. — Know him?
— No.
— But I do. Former special forces. Fought somewhere. Now works for Kurganov. Serious man, Gromov. Very serious.
Eight people. With thermal imagers. Against me alone. With a carbine and a dog.
— When will they be here?
— If they’re following the trail, by evening. Maybe earlier.
I stood up. Vera was already awake. Listening, pale.
— We’re leaving, — I said. — Now.
— Where? — she asked.
— To Devil’s Hollow. There we’ll meet….
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