The Benefactor Index: Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Throughout November, I will be participating in National Novel Writing Month, where the aim is to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days.
As I am treating this as a writing exercise, anything that I produce will be posted on this blog, one chapter a time. The text will have been edited for spelling and coherence but is otherwise a rough first draft, written at speed. There will be no second draft.
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Nine - The enemy of the good
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old
Chapter Ten - If even just one is absent
Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man
Chapter Twelve - The riches that are in the heart
Chapter Thirteen - What fell off the cart
Epilogue - New-forgotten old
~
Chapter Three – The Milking of Chickens
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“Keep an eye out for a stelae with a red star,” said Garin, when the van was finally underway. “It is the next turning after.”
He stared at the passing scenery through a veil of condensation on glass. At the summit of a meandering track that was filled in with snow, there stood a weathered rectangular building with a low-peaked roof. An elevated dome rose from the centre. Every window and entranceway had been bricked up. He could vaguely recall the place back in the days when it had still been occupied. He combed his memories without success for some indication as to its former purpose. There was something unsettling about the way that it was now, as if it had solidified into a solid block through lack of use.
Ahead, by the roadside, a rectangular, red obelisk rose vertically, fifty feet from the centre of a white plinth that was banked with dunes of snow. A five-pointed red star protruded from the summit of the narrow structure on the end of a thin metal rod.
Garin was about to bring it to the attention of Pestov, but the driver had already seen it.
“I think it is the next turn on the left,” he said.
They
departed from the road, bumping onto a track that felt firm under the
wheels as though there might be a layer of asphalt beneath the snow.
“Stop here,” said Garin., after they had gone a few yards “It will be better if we walk up.”
He climbed and out and surveyed the landscape. A quarter of a mile away, some old outbuildings were huddled together in a murky and confusing silhouette. Orlov examined his new rifle in front of the headlamps. Pestov cut the ignition and the lights went out.
“Are you happy with your trade?” asked the soldier, as he climbed down from the drivers seat.
“It is a fine piece," said Orlov. "Maybe there maybe something to be said for capitalism.”
“Come on,” said Garin.
They followed the track, walking three abreast. Downy flakes of snow began to fall and then rise around them. Orlov made a study of one that had settled on the finger of his glove.
“It is actual feathers,” he said.
“It is the snow-globe effect,” said Garin. “Because of the local topography, the air circulates around and around. It is why the snow is less settled here than elsewhere. The feathers of the chickens that are killed by Muratov are drawn into the current so it seems like it is always snowing, regardless of the season. Eventually they are trodden into the ground and decompose.”
“It is
like an army of foxes have been through here,” mused Pestov.
He gazed down at the graveyard of feathers that had become glued to
the surface tension of the most recent snowfall.
“Now here come three more,” said Garin.
“We are upwind of the buildings,” said Orlov. “This makes us only adequate predators.”
They passed a pale-green pickup truck with a wood-fenced cargo bed. Between the pair of tiny round headlamps, the radiator grill had been partly screened off with brown canvas, leaving a diamond-shaped gap roughly at the centre.
Soon after, they reached an old wooden bungalow with a broad peaked roof made from corrugated cement panels. Garin ordered the two soldiers to investigate He remained on the path keeping his eyes on the buildings ahead.. Orlov entered the porch and tried the door handle. When it opened, he raised his gun and disappeared inside. Pestov, who had been moving from window to window along the exterior walls, waved at him through the glass.
Orlov left via a different door and made his way back around.
“It is abandoned,” he reported.
He brushed some wet feathers from his face.
“We are going to smell like poultry for the next week. I warn you now Iosif, sex may be a hard commodity to come by.”
Maybe you can use the time to read improving books,” said Pestov.
“I can always get sex,” boasted Orlov. “It is for you that I am concerned.”
They were approaching a long, one-storey barn. It had been built from thin logs, laid horizontally on top of each and saddled together at the corners. The ragged Dutch roof was made from frayed grey canvas, seamed together with bulbous strips of cement.
Orlov peered-in through an empty door frame at one end.
“There is a flock of cold and miserable-looking sheep huddling together,” he said.
“If they are cold, they should grow more wool,” said Pestov.
“Keep you voices low,” said Garin.
On the other side of the barn, they found an open-faced woodshed. Long strips of silvery bark had been piled up on a wooden table that was bolted to the decking. Nearby, what appeared to be a substantial piece of machinery was covered by a tarpaulin that was anchored down by glittering fragments of frosty paving stone.
The near horizon was dominated a long warehouse, that was flanked at the end closest to the trio by twin silos with low conical roofs. Together, they cast the dim, elongated shadow of a castle gateway across the pristine snow. Behind these twin towers, the sloping metal roof of the shed was studded intermittently with ventilation chimneys Dim electric light diffused through the gridded panes of the windows that lined the flanks of the building on two levels.
“He must be in there,” said Garin. “I can see no other lights.”
He made a quick survey of the darkened buildings within his field of vision.
The blizzard of feathers had increased in density. Pestov unsuccessfully attempted to spit a few out that had become glued to his lips and tongue. He furiously rubbed the back of his glove against his open mouth, then spat dryly into the cold air.
“The feathers are settling on you,” observed Orlov. “You are beginning to look like a big chicken.”
For the first time since he had acquired the rifle, he checked the magazine to ensure that it was loaded.
“You are looking no better,” said Pestov.
Garin motioned for them to spread out. They advanced towards a windowless set of dark-blue double doors between the two silos. One had been left slightly ajar and a crack of light showed through.
The lobby they entered reeked of disinfectant. A green sheet of foam, lying askew on the floor, enveloped their boots, exuding grimy suds as they stepped on it. A sign on another pair of doors identical to the first set read:
Keep outer doors closed at all times.
Behind it they could hear the low burble of brooding bird chatter.
Orlov gave one of the doors an exploratory push.
“It feels as though they might open,” he said.
“Go on,” said Garin.
Pestov raised his gun to cover Orlov as he pushed open the door. Fluidly they moved into the space beyond with Garin following behind.
The long, high-ceilinged room they had entered seemed to fill the entirety of the warehouse. The floor was covered with columns of small cages, stacked in tiers of three, each one housing a single oversized chicken. Banks of bright lights hung down from the metal rafters. The air reeked with the gamy odour of poultry and bird faeces.
At the midpoint of the wide centre aisle, a
well built man, dressed in a blue satin singlet was doing pull-ups on
a narrow metal bar that stretched between a pair of riveted girders,
eight feet off the ground.
He noticed the trio as soon as they entered. As they approached, he continued his exercise routine, his mottled face flushed red from the exertion. With every heaving upward motion a suppressed groan forced its way out from between his gritted teeth. His short, light-brown hair glistened under the bright lights.
“I am going to drop down now,” he said, when the interlopers were within twenty feet of him.
He lowered himself until both arms were stretched to their full extent and he was dangling a couple of feet off the ground. His fingers relinquished their grip and he landed solidly between the stacks of cages. He pulled down the rumpled left sleeve of his white T-shirt that had become trapped under the shoulder strap of his singlet.
“You two are rank and file,” he said. He grabbed a frayed orange hand towel from off of one of the cages and buried his face in it for a few moments.
“You I have seen before in some official capacity,” he continued. He flung the soiled facecloth towards a different set of cages where it snagged on a corner and hung down. The plump bird inside began to cluck loudly. It attempted to raise itself to its feet but could only manage a crouch before the top of its head was pressing against the roof. Gradually it shuffled itself around so it was facing in the opposite direction.
“I have noticed that some of your chickens seem to be dead,” observed Orlov.
Garin raised his hand indicating that he wanted silence.
“You are Feda Muratov,” he said. “You are Chief of the Main Administration for Procurement and Industrial Fattening of Livestock and Fowl.”
“I am,” said the man. He pressed his lips tightly together, puckering his chin.
Garin continued: “I am Pavel Garin. I am the Secretarial Aide to the Minister of Communications. I am here under orders Stoyan Chendev who is Chairman of the...”
“I know who Chendev is,” said Muratov. “What does he want with me that can't wait until the morning?” The mottled redness was slowly leaving his face, evening-out his complexion.
“I have orders to return with you to the Party HQ at the Spring Palace in Moscow.”
“Under what pretence have these orders been given?” enquired Muratov. Garin noted that he had assumed a subtle fighting stance, though it struck him as instinctive – a product of muscle memory, rather than openly aggressive.
“Chairman Sherstov is gravely ill,” he said. “He will require one of your kidneys if he is to make a return to full health.”
“I highly doubt it,” said Muratov, from the fortress of his bodybuilder's stance. He fixed Garin with the beady-eyed stare of marksman, though there was something off his gaze. Either the iris or the pupil of one eye or the other was slightly off-kilter.
“If what you claim is indeed the case, then why is Chendev giving the orders?” he said. “Why not someone from the Ministry of Health? Why does he send Vasnev's aide, along with a pair of soldiers, to creep onto my farm under cover of the darkness like a gang of thieves? Why does he not send an ambulance or a helicopter? I have a telephone here. Why does he not contact me in advance?”
“I am not here to pick apart the instructions I have been given,” replied Garin. “You may present these questions to Chendev in person when you meet.”
Mauratov shook his large head.
“I must keep the integrity of my body,”
'It is like watching an elephant expressing its doubts,' thought Garin.
“Your body endures as an extension of the State,” he said.
The absurdity of the statement appeared to break through the resolve of the farmer. He shifted from his defensive position and became more animated.
“You surely don't entertain such bullshit. You work in State communications. You tighten the strings that hold up the Party propaganda. You must know how unconvincingly it hangs down over the truth, which can clearly be seen behind it, though no-one ever says anything.”
He motioned in the direction the orange towel wilting on the corner of the chicken cage, as if it illustrated his point.
“And what is the truth?” asked Garin.
“The truth is I am a self-made man living among men who believe themselves to be self-made. You are most-likely the product of toadying and backroom deals.”
“It doesn't matter whether you are self-made or not, you are still coming with me,” said Garin. “If you refuse, then I will ask these men to take you by force.”
Muratov glanced at the two soldiers. A glimmer of amusement played across his face.
“These two. Really?”
He reached behind his back and lazily scratched the top part of one arse cheek.
“Very well then,” he said. “I will not resist. They will only send better men.”
His arm blurred suddenly from where he had innocuously positioned it, striking Garin in the face. The aide fell backwards into a stack of cages, stunned by the force of the blow. Birds were squawking in panic, one of them far louder than the rest. Their feathers swirled in the air around him. The door to one of the cages was open. Garin realised that he was partly lying on the former occupant. He rolled over into a green/white spatter of fresh bird shirt. The crushed chicken continued to screech and flop around on the bare floor as it attempted to raise itself up on the stumps of its useless legs.
Muratov had taken off towards a set of double doors at the distant end of the shed. He ran steadily and confidently like a seasoned athlete, pulling down stacks of cages behind him. Pestov followed behind in close pursuit. A few few away, Orlov was taking aim with his rifle.
“Alive! Alive!” yelled Garin.
Orlov nodded and lowered his gun.
“Get after him,” said Garin. “It may take the two of you to bring him down.”
He rubbed his sore jaw. There appeared to be no permanent damage. He concluded that he had been struck with only a deliberate glancing blow. Muratov and Pestov had disappeared through the double doors and into the night. Orlov was moving at a trot steering a path between the toppled cages and the loose birds who struggled to life themselves into the rafters on useless wings. Garin rose to his feet. His hair and clothing were covered in shit and feathers. Drawing his pistol, he put the injured chicken out of its misery, stirring up a chorus alarmed squawks and clucks from the neighbouring coops.
~
Outside, Muratov's hand barely grazed the rail of a waist-high wooden fence as he vaulted over. He dashed thirty feet across the frozen, snow-covered soil of an empty pig sty, fielding the opposite fence with similar ease.
Pestov was unable to close the gap between them. Of the pair he was the faster runner, but slower over obstacles and less confident in the slippery conditions. The intermittent snowflakes and the airborne feathers interfered with his line of sight. When he saw Muratov throw himself into a sharp left turn, he did likewise, hoping to cut the corner. He felt his feet slide out from under him. A split second later he struck the compacted ice with the full length of his right flank. He was barely on the ground before he had staggered to his feet. He advanced with full-bodied limp for a few paces before breaking into a painful jog. The entire side of his body felled cold and bruised.
In the darkness ahead, Murtatov had stopped in front of a small wooden shed with a peaked roof. A pair of barren trees stood on either side, the silhouettes of their bare limbs weighted down under ramparts of snow. He seemed to be wrestling a chain that was fastening the door. As Pestov drew closer, a chicken wire aviary grafted onto the front of the shed came into focus. Muratov had the door wide open. He was gathering pigeons in his hands, one at time, and bailing them out through the entrance where they immediately took flight. When he saw Pestov approaching, he clapped his hands at the remaining birds who were lined up on a perch as if patiently waiting their turn.
“Go” Go! Go!” he said.
Limping to a halt, Pestov drew his gun and pointed it at the sky. A drifting chicken feather snagged on his eyelash where it clung wetly, plastering down the lid. He wiped it away and renewed his aim. The birds were circling above him in small groups as if they were attempting to orientate themselves.
When he pulled the trigger, the gun jammed.
“Useless shit!” he cursed.
Muratov had taken off again. Pestov's eyes searched the landscape until he caught sight of him doggedly making his way through deep snow, up a slope towards the silhouette of a bungalow on the hill.
Nearby he heard footsteps and ragged panting. He turned and saw Orlov making his way towards him.
“Shoot the birds!” he called.
Orlov halted and stared back at him blankly.
“They are messengers!”
Orlov unshouldered his rifle. For a few seconds he raked the air with automatic fire.
“Did you hit anything?” said Pestov
“Too far away,” said Orlov.
“Muratov has gone up there to the house,” said Pestov.
Orlov nodded.
“There is nowhere he can run to, unless he has a vehicle stashed nearby,” he said.
“I will go get the slippery bastard as soon as unjam my pistol,” said Pestov.
Orlov took the gun from him.”
“This is a mess,” he said. “I have seen similar on the tanks. It will require some care and attention.”
He unholstered his own gun and handed it to Pestov.
“Take mine. I will do surgery on yours,” he said. “When glass jaw makes an appearance, we will make our up together.”
“I will cover any lines of escape,” said Pestov. “If he is armed I will call out.”
He cautiously followed in the footsteps of Muratov moving through the furrow he had carved into the drift. It was not long before the churned snow was up around his knees. The bungalow was an old wood-plank cabin with a corrugated roof, that appeared to have been extended in different directions at different times. The windows had white frames and seemed new. The small garden was surrounded by a waist-high lolly stick fence. A wooden gate in the same style as the fence, that was bolstered on its interior side by a metal frame, had been had been dragged wide open.
A set of deep footprints trailed to the front door which stood ajar. A light, that Pestov assumed was a candle, flickered from within.
“Stop running you crazy bastard,” he called.
He pushed the door open, pointing Orlov's gun into the widening crack.
Muratov was standing in glow of a lantern in the middle of the room. Behind him a cast iron range was embedded within an interior stone wall. The face of the oven was lined with rectangular doors on bracket hinges. A taut length of insulated cable, overburdened with drying clothes bowed in front of it. Above his head, an exposed wooden ceiling beam arced upward like the tusk of giant prehistoric mammal.
He stared at Pestov with beady eyes. There was a hint of defeat in his expression.
“It is over,” said the soldier. “You have two kidneys. The loss of one will not kill you.”
“It is something more,” said Muratov, sadly. “I think I have pulled a muscle going up the hill. May I sit down.”
He nodded towards one of the wooden walls where a plinth was swaddled in a coarse patchwork blanket.
Pestov stood well back and motioned with the gun. Muratov lowered himself onto the edge of the dais where he sat with his shoulders slumped forward and his hands resting on his knees. A small white feather was plastered to his forehead like a birthmark. He gazed helplessly at his captor.
“Ten years ago I would have easily outrun you,” he said.
“Time slowly takes things away,” said Pestov. “Sometimes we do not notice until later.”
“Your coat is covered in feathers,” said Muratov. “From a distance you could be mistaken for a chicken.”
“Where did you send the pigeons?” said Pestov.
Muratov stared back at him. He settled his jaw and said nothing.
~
At the foot of the slope Orlov saw Garin approaching from around the side of the pig sty. He halted in his tracks for a moment, then stooped and picked something up off the ground. When he was closer, Orlov could see that it was the lower half of a pigeon – only the feet and a bloody fragment of the body remained. Garin was holding it by one leg down by his side.
“You jaw is okay?” enquired Orlov.
“Where is Pestov?”
“He has cornered Muratov in the house on the hill.
Garin held up the bird carcass. He rotated a small brass ring on the ankle revealing an engraved sequence of four strange characters that resembled a foreign alphabet.
“Do you know what any of this means?”
“It is a messenger bird,” said Orlov. “Muratov released several. They all flew in the direction of Moscow. I thought I had missed them all.”
Garin wandered into the empty coop and moved the beam of his heavy torch over the shit-covered walls. The floor was lined with old newspapers, Clouds of faecal particles, disturbed by his footsteps circulated in the air around him.
“Was that the gunfire I heard?” he enquired.
Orlov nodded, though the aide had his back to him.
“They flew like military birds that have been trained to evade gunfire,” he said. “I know the flight formations they use.”
“Whatever information there was here has gone,” said Garin. “Let us go up and make Muratov secure for the journey. We have wasted too much time coming here.”
They were almost at the top of the slope when they heard a gunshot and saw the muzzle flash briefly illuminate the windows of the bungalow like sheet lightning.
“What the fuck?!” exclaimed Orlov.
He charged after Garin, forcing himself bow-legged through snowdrift, then along the garden path and through the door.
Pestov was standing in the middle of the room. He was holding Orlov's pistol down by his side as if he had forgotten its existence.
Muratov was lying on his back, on top of plump dais that was covered by a rustic patchwork blanket. His legs were splayed and dangled over the edge at the knees as if he recently been in a sitting position. The wooden wall behind him had pushed his head forward so that his chin was pressed against his chest. There was a small bloody hole in his brow. A bloodied chicken feather was plastered against the skin alongside.
“He reached for the shadows,” said Pestov.
Garin motioned to Orlov to check around the bed.
“Nothing,” said the soldier, after he had made a cursory investigation.
“Even down the side?” said Garin.
Orlov returned to the dias and forced his hand into the narrow gap between the wooden wall. For good measure he raised the chequered blanket and searched underneath. Rising to his feet, he shook his head.
“I though he had a gun,” said Pestov.
“When there is a gun pointed at you, you do not see it!” yelled Garin. His face had contorted in rage. The angular reconstruction of his lower skull was clearly visible under the skin. “Now you are seeing guns where they are none to be found!”
Pestov, having realised that he was still holding the pistol, offered it to Orlov who raised his hands and backed away.
“Oh, no, no, no, my friend. That is your weapon now. You have just used it to killed a Party minister. I feel that it may be a bad career move for you. I have cleared the jam in your old weapon. I think I will hold onto it.”
“We are done here,” said Garin. “There is no point in hanging around.”
“We should hide the body,” said Orlov. “I saw some water troughs on the way over; also a pond though it may be frozen.”
“No, it will look like we are covering up,” said Garin. “Chendev will want to know why. I would rather that he thought of us as incompetent.”
He glanced in the direction Pestov who continued to stare at the body of Muratov.
“Maybe Chendev will know he let his pigeons fly,” said Orlov. “Possibly he will also know where each bird travels.”
“I think this is a thing separate from the Committee for State Security,” answered Garin. “The birds are a private arrangement between individuals.”
They walked in silence, through the snow globe of swirling chicken feathers, back to the van. Orlov had climbed into the driver's seat. Wearily, Pestov shuffled along the bench seat until he was next to him.
Garin pored over a map for a few minutes.
“We will head back to Moscow along this road,” he said. “On the way, we will stop at the Dovurizber State Orphanage and pick up Yubkin.”
They rattled along the icy road until Orlov located the turning.
“I wonder about the purpose of these birds,” he said.
“Perhaps we will find out,” replied Pestov drowsily.
Orlov took one hand off the wheel and placed it reassuringly on Pestov's shoulder.
“The first pancake is always a blob,” he said.
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| image generated by Craiyon |
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