The Benefactor Index: Chapter Eleven - The friend of an unlucky man

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.

~

The Benefactor Index

By Sam Redlark

Prologue - A Sin of Gold
Chapter One - Pochka
Chapter Two - An arrow made of eagle feathers
Chapter Three - The milking of chickens
Chapter Four - Street without drums
Chapter Five - Swans to the snow
Chapter Six - Further from the eye
Chapter Seven - The nephew of vodka
Chapter Eight - The mayor of sidings
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 Eleven – The friend of an unlucky man

image generated by Craiyon

The tiny, self-contained mechanism progressively changed form in the palm of Volkov's hand, without expanding too much beyond the limits of its original shape.

The beam of Pestov's torch hovered over it, tremoring under the motion of the van.

“What does it do?” he said.

In the darkness, the clockwork motor rapidly ticked away the micro-seconds of its life.

“It is a prototype that demonstrates the internal workings of an open cast coal removal system. It has been greatly miniaturised. The actual machines, when they are built, will be taller than the Kremlin.”

“You will build them?”

“I invented the machine. The challenge is posed: Make an engine that will do the work of 600 men in a shorter amount of time.”

“Where do the workers go?”

“We are depopulating hell - we have our own ideas,” said Volkov.

On the front bench seat, Yemelin leaned over and spoke into Garin's ear.

“Goremykin will take us around the back of the concert hall. It may cause less of a disturbance.”

“You hear that?” said Garin.

Goremykin Park,” said Orlov. “Where the boating lakes are.”

A parade had blocked off one half of the boulevard, forcing the traffic to share the lanes on the opposite side. Groups of people were filing past holding up bare branches that were decorated with paper leaves and blossom.

“What is this?” asked Yemelin.

“It is a call for reconstitution of the State, though they describe it as renewal,” said Garin. “It is a Spring of sorts.”

The muffled sound of an accordion polka wormed its way in through the sealed windows of the van.

“In a few years time, these same people will be throwing fire bombs,” said Yemelin. “Then you will feel the heat of Summer.”

They parked the van outside the ruin of Altaizar Castle. Inside the snow-capped remanent of a courtyard, a rug market was in progress. Colourful tasselled carpets had been draped over cars, while others were fixed upright to the old curtain walls like tapestries. An excited crowd had gathered around a stone plinth that might have once been an altar. A table had been set down in the centre and a pair of old men, dressed in suits, were sitting on either side, furiously arm wrestling.

A row of modern premises had been built into a section of the ruins. Loud western music pounded through a partly-open door. Orlov wandered over and put his head around the side. The small room that lay beyond had a gridded glass floor that was brightly under-lit. Young people were dancing in their socks and stockings. Thin glass baubles, suspended from the ceiling at different heights, resembled soap bubbles, frozen in stasis. The breath of the dancers fogged the air around them like a smoke machine.

He half-jogged to catch up to the others.

“There is disco,” he said to Pestov, pointing back where he had come.

Just inside the entrance to Goremykin Park an enormous lake had been partitioned with wooden pontoons to form separate swimming pools. Yemelin pointed out one swimming area that was larger than the others, where men and women were ploughing doggedly up and down the lanes under the bright floodlights.

“That is where the aspiring international athletes used to train before or after they had finished their work,” he said. “I think that they still do. They come hoping they will be spotted and inducted into a State training program.”

He sighed.

“I used to bring Feda here. He was always more of a gymnast, but swimming is good for stamina and muscle tone.”

The air was collaged with an abstract chorus of overlapping splashes, fragments of loud conversations, and the occasional shrieks of overexcited children. Every so often, a safety message regarding one in a seemingly endless set of rules would be read out over the tannoy.

A worker, who was balancing on one of the swaying pontoons, used a long-handled net to fish a bobbing piece of ice out of one of the pools. Nearby, some young boys had swum under the water into one of the adults-only areas and were now being herded back the way they had come.

“I swim here whenever it is possible for me to do so,” said Pestov.

“In the trial pool?” queried Yemelin.

“No, it is that one, middle and to the back,” said the soldier. “Adult intermediate.”

“Over there is the new heated pool?” queried the general. He pointed in the direction of an adjacent lake where thin clouds of white vapour were drifting across a sea of small waves. “They got the pipes working in the end.”

“It is a disappointment,” said Pestov. “They cannot get the water to mix properly. Those people who are crowded together near to the end are in a warm part.”

“Or they are masochists,” said Yemelin.

With the burden of Ibragimov lifted from his shoulders, he seemed to be enjoying his reintroduction to Moscow,

They joined the grimy tiled pathway that girdled the pool. A concrete changing room block, that was surrounded by a narrow concrete balcony, protruded over the waters. A ladder attached to the foot of the walkway had broken off, leaving behind a pair of rust-stained holes in the side of the grainy stone slab. A man wearing a swimming cap, was standing waist deep in the water, holding a young girl up by the hip. A woman, dressed in a wet black bathing suit and swimming cap, leaned over the white rung of the tubular balcony rail to receive her.

“Is cold, eh?” called Yemelin

“Better than is normal,” said the man.

“No colder than the air on land!”

The group had begun to straggle along the path with Yemelin and Pestov going on ahead. Garin and Volkov had separated from the others, both men immersed in their own thoughts. Konev and Yuri walked consiprationally side-by-side sharing an ongoing conversation, watched over by Orlov. Katin followed disconsolately at the rear. Eventually, he trailed so far behind that Orlov shouted back at him:

“Come along, brother. It will be morning soon.”

Yemelin point to a floodlit gap in between the mixed silhouettes of tall trees.

“The boating lake?” he called.

Garin, roused from his trance, nodded.

“On through there,” he instructed, weakly.

The exertions of the day were finally catching up to him. He longed for his bed; to lay down on white sheets; to place his head on a soft pillow, and close his eyes.

Orlov drew up alongside him.

“We are being tailed,” he said quietly.

“Fuck,” said Garin. “I was not paying attention.”

“It is a group of them. Maybe five or six. I don't know.”

“I wonder how long this has been going on for.”

“They are hanging back from us. It does not look like they are getting ready to make a move,” said Orlov.

“I will tell Pestov and Yemelin but no-one else,” said Garin. “You drift back. It must not look like we are spooked.”

“Pestov!” he called.

Ahead the soldier and general paused as Garin jogged over to them.

“Resume walking,” he said when he had reached them.

“There are men on our tail,” he muttered, pointing away to the right, as though he was demonstrating the route that he wished to take.

“This could be Sherstov making his move,” said Yemelin. “Nazarov is the last piece. As soon as things are settled with him, there is nothing to be gained by allowing us to return to the Palace.”

“If they are planning an attack, they will wait until we are inside the concert hall,” said Garin.

“Between us we have three small guns,” said Yemelin. “How many men do you estimate?”

“Orlov thinks five or six,” said Garin. “If we have seen them, then they cannot be too professional.”

“That should disturb you,” said Yemelin. “If Sherstov means to kill us, then why would he not put his best men on the job?”

“Unless the point is for us to have seen them,” said Garin. “Maybe they are driving us towards something.”

“Do you know the layout of the building?” enquired Yemelin.

“Do I seem to you like the kind of man who attends classical concerts?”

“So, what is the plan?” said Pestov.

“We do as we have been doing all night,” said Garin. “We follow the path that has been laid for us, until we can determine a way to leave it.”

On the boating lake, factory workers who had recently come off their night shifts were rowing in pairs around the gloomy waters. A few were still wearing their soiled overalls, despite a sign by a wooden jetty, where the boats were tethered, forbidding work clothes Some of the lamp posts around the edge of the lake had gone out, leaving parts of it shrouded in near darkness. A scruffy, snow-covered island rose up in the centre. At one end of it, a three-tiered round plinth had lost some of its definition in the earlier blizzard. On top, a teetering alabaster statue of a woman in a bathing suit was posed in pre-dive, with her bent knees pressed together and her arms stretched out behind her.

“She looks like she is trying not take a piss,” said Orlov, to Konev and Yury.

“I know the woman who posed for that statue,” said Konev. “Her name is Ruslana.”

“She is happy with the end result?” enquired Orlov.

“She only did it because the sculptor was her boyfriend at the time,” said Konev. “She does not even swim.”

Through a low screen of broom trees, the far-off lights of some new high-rise apartment blocks cluttered the horizon. Further around to the right, the concert hall was mostly obscured by summit of Galaxy Hill. The thatching silhouette of the woven metal sound dome could be glimpsed rising over the brow. Garin thought that he could detect the threads of the predawn coalescing in the night air around it, though he could not be sure.

They were now leaving the recreational area of the park and entering the smaller formal gardens, where curated sculptures were exhibited alongside the permanent statues and busts of notable figureheads and achievers.

An old army pick-up truck, with a cylindrical tank wedged in-between the wooden fencing of its cargo bed, was parked at a slant across part of the broad footpath. An arcing curtain of beaded water, issuing from multiple nozzles that were mounted under the front bumper, rained down onto a section of the verge, where the snow was rapidly dissolving to reveal long stretches of bare earth underneath.

“I should visit this place more,” said Orlov. “It has everything I need in one spot. Disco; art and culture; there is the opportunity for fitness. I noticed, near the entrance, the queue for vodka is short. They have better suppliers than elsewhere in the city.”

At the far end of the park, a protruding section of old stone wall, embedded in the flank of the hill, formed an overlook that was lined by a stone railing. At either end, sets of stairs ascended to the balcony.

As Pestov placed his hand on the rail at the bottom, a young, dark-haired man, who was attempting rewind a loose strip of bandage around his left forearm, accidentally collided with him.

“Look where you are,” shouted the soldier.

The man ignored him and carried on walking.

At the top of the stairs, Garin approached a man who was pushing an orange pram back and forth along by the railings. He has seen him from the ground as they had walked through the sculpture garden.

“Friend, can I buy a cigarette?” he enquired.

The man reached into the pram and rummaged around at the side. His hand emerged holding an open carton which he offered to Garin.

Garin reach into his pockets but the man declined.

“I know who you are,” he said.

“Who do you think I am?”

“Hramevek Square,” said the man. “You killed all those terrorists. I have seen the bootleg VHS. They shot off most of your face.”

“They reassembled me back at the factory,” joked Garin. “I have neglected my lighter.”

The man reached out and lit the cigarette for him.

“Thank you comrade,” said Garin.

“Take care,” said the man.

Garin walked over to the railing. He took a few puff as he looked out across the snowy park. If there was anyone still following they were outside his line of sight.

A flight of stone stairs peeled away from one side of the balcony and ascended the hill. They climbed in single file. Partway up, the carved stone ceded to crooked wooden steps and then, soon after, to a snowy trail. The old and new parts of the concert hall were now beginning to show themselves over the horizon. The outdoor amphitheatre, in the foreground, was a conical dome woven into a thatch from fine strips of metal. It was raised up, maybe fifteen feet in the air, on a circle of inverted V-shaped struts.

“I see no reason for this to be called the galaxy meadow,” said Orlov.

“In the spring it is covered in daisies,” said Yemelin. “Or at least it was. I assume that this is still the case. At night, from a distance, they resemble of field of stars.”

They crossed the acute shadow of one of the triangular supports, then passed underneath the rim of the dome. Immediately the atmosphere around them changed. Every man became intimately aware of the breathing and small movements of those around him, which were suddenly crisply defined, as if they had been brought into focus.

Concentric tiers of polished concrete descended to a sunken circular performance space where, in the dead centre of a black and white ringed turntable, a grand piano stood with its lid propped open. There was something was lying across the keyboard.

A short set of tram rails, embedded in the far side of the turntable, were aligned with a section of track that crossed a sloping break in the seating, and extended outside beyond the dome, trailing up a gentle hill, towards the looming silhouette of the indoor concert hall that squatted on the horizon like the statue of a headless sphinx.

The metal weave above their heads stopped short of the centre, leaving a large hole through which a portion of the night sky could be seen.

“There is your galaxy,” said Yemelin to Orlov. “It is here that god looks down and sees man. The air here is so sensitive that audiences must listen to the performances from inside hooded sleeping bags that are designed to nullify the sounds of their movements,”

Garin, who was descending the seating tiers towards the piano heard the general's voice as if the man was standing alongside him and not several feet away.

The marble turntable was bigger than it looked from above. He crossed the white and dark rings to the piano at the centre.

A dead pigeon was lying on the keyboard. A violin bow had been driven through its neck. Bloodied tufts of white down stained the surrounding ivory.

“Yemalin,” he said.

Immediately his voice was present in all parts of the dome.

“It is another one of Muratov's birds,” said Orlov as he approached.

Yemelin picked up the limp body and studied the ring around its ankle.

“Eduard has made his statement,” he said.

“Is it a challenge or a resignation?” asked Garin.

“Perhaps some of both,” said Yemelin

“He has always been headstrong,” said Volkov. “He will not make it past the border.”

“He was born with a golden spine,” said Katin. “If anybody will make it across, then it will be him.”

Garin raised one of the bird's legs.

“These dark engravings on the ankle rings have confused me,” he said. “What do they mean?”

Yemelin smiled.

“They mean that one who knows your life is trying to warn you of impending danger,” he said. “We used to go visit a place by the orchards. Tamara and I, and the boys. The walls were pale-blue and there were some dark marks on them, where it seemed like something made of rubber had been thrown hard against them.”

“Eduard thought it was where the owner must have ducked the shoes that were thrown at him by his wife,” said Katin.

“You see, these are not words or even letters. They are a shared memory,” said Yemelin.

He gestured towards Volkov.

“It was Eduard and Neven who came up with the idea.”

Turning to Orlov, he said: “You are collecting these birds for some purpose.”

“Two is enough,” said Orlov.

“We must check the main hall in case Eduard has not left,” said Yemelin. “There may still be time to reason with him.”

“Let's go,” said Garin. “Everyone keep a look out. We suspect that we are being followed.”

“Being followed by who?” said Konev.

“We think maybe it is men who have been sent by Sherstov.”

“Every time I reconcile myself with my cruel fate you manage to add another layer to my misery,” said Konev. “It is quite an extraordinary talent you have.”

They followed the snowy impression of the tram track up the hill, towards the monolithic silhouette of the concert hall. At the summit, the ground levelled out. The rails crossed an immense cement plaza that was patched with snow, then disappeared underneath a solid metal bulkhead in the windowless flank of the concrete building.

“Orlov tentatively tried the enormous bracket handle, at first attempting to pull it open and then to slide it towards one side or the other. The door did not budge.

“Is locked,” he announced.

Garin rubbed the buried angles of his chin where a fresh coating stubble was beginning to emerge. He stared upwards. The sheer grey walls of the concert hall were dimly clouded with damp. They seemed to taper inward slightly towards the roof. Tiny specks of snow were whirling around in the muted glow of a spotlight.

“It seems likely that it was Nazarov who brought the piano down; that was his statement on the matter,” he reasoned. “Nobody else would leave such a valuable instrument outside and exposed to the elements. It seems now he has also locked the door behind him. The question is: Should we continue to search for him?”

Yemelin scuffed his boots against the honeycombing ice and looked conflicted.

“We do not know Eduard's intentions,” he said.

“Maybe it is that you cannot accept his decision,” said Garin. “The dead pigeon was a message for you and the others, not me. It says: I am out. Leave me alone to go my own way.”

“Eduard was always headstrong,” said Yemelin. “It does not mean that he will not require our help.”

In frustration he grasped hold of the handle and tested it himself.

Konev, who was loitering with Yury at the back of the group, glimpsed, in the corner of his eye, a pair of human silhouettes a good distance further along the side of the building. They were standing at the edge of the plaza looking back down the hill towards the Sound Dome and the bright lights of Moscow that lay beyond.

He was about to alert Garin and the others when one of the men moved into profile and he realised that it was Volkov. The man standing alongside him must be Katin, he reasoned.

~

Volkov blew an immense cloud of white fog towards the far away buildings, as if he was a god visiting a storm upon some worshippers who had displeased him. Next to him, the railwayman shunted the toes of his boots over the edge of the plaza and into a loose crust of frozen snow. The faint strains of accordion music were leaking up from somewhere at the bottom of the hill.

“If the opportunity presents itself, we should kill Sherstov,” he said, quietly and evenly.

Volkov seemed to give the idea his consideration for a few seconds.

“No,” he said. “Tonight, we have already lost our mother and Feda. We may yet lose Eduard. Mstislav is correct: We need to come to terms with these losses and draw a line. If we cannot do this, then none of us will survive.”

He turned his gaze away from the city and back towards the concert hall. A pair of men, dressed in black had appeared around the far end of the building. When they saw the two brothers, they drew what appeared to be weapons and began to advance towards them.

Kaitn had seen them too. He stared at the two approaching figures uncomprehendingly, his feet rooted to the spot.

“DOWN!” yelled Volkov.

There were several gunshots, as he threw his bodyweight against the railwayman, sending the pair of them tumbling down the slope in a cloud of snowy vapour.

“Fucking hell!” said Orlov.

He flattened himself against the bulkhead, struggling to unholster his gun.

Opposite him, Konev was crouched down, with one hand above his head, as if he was concerned that something might be about to fall on it. Yury was slowly lowering himself on his bad knees.

Pestov had moved himself in front of Yemelin and was pulling out his pistol.

Garin already had his weapon drawn. As the two men redirected their attention towards him and the others, he aimed and then fired twice in rapid succession. Both men fell immediately to the ground.

Afterwards there was silence. Tiny flakes of snow continued to blow around in the air. A pool was darkness was slowly expanding into the frozen white expanse around one of the fallen assailants. Konev remained crouched. His frightened eyes darted about furtively. Yury had finally managed to squat down behind him. The panes of his glasses had steamed over. He reached out, took hold of Konev's gloved hand and held onto it firmly.

Pestov was facing in the opposite direction, covering their rear.

I cannot see Radmilo or Neven,” said Yemelin. “Were they hit?”

I don't know,” said Garin. “I saw them both go down the hill at once.”

“Those were excellent shots,” said Yemelin. “I am beginning to see how you survived the massacre at Hramevek Square.”

“There I had some luck on my side,” said Garin.

Orlov pointed his gun in the direction of the two fallen men

“I think I hear footsteps somewhere far-off,” he said.

“We are too exposed here,” said Garin. “Everybody stay close to the side of the building.”

A bullet hit the stonework a few feet above Orlov's head.

In an instant everyone but Yury was lying down flat on the snow and ice.

“Get down, you idiot,” hissed Garin.

Yury reluctantly did as he was told.

“I will catch my undeserved death,” he muttered.

Again the was silence.

Orlov shuffled alongside Garin.

“I did not see where,” he said.

“On this side,” answered Garin. “I think they are shooting from a difficult angle.”

Another bullet ricocheted of the stonework.

“Where the hell are they?” said Orlov.

“They know where we are but they cannot make the shot,” said Garin.

“That may change imminently,” said Pestov.

“Okay,” said Garin. “Everyone listen. We have to move. Beyond the front of the concert hall, there is a guardrail. I think there is some kind of ramp or sunken staircase where we can take cover and make an entrance into the building.”

Konev had begun to shuffle around so that he would be facing towards the landmark.

“Remain still, I am trying to listen,” hissed Orlov.

“If you cannot see it, don't worry,” said Garin. “You will see it well enough when you are pointing towards it. My men will guide you. When I say go, we are going to run towards the railing. Don't try to zigzag or do anything clever. Just run and be careful not to slip. When you reach the railing don't jump over it. Follow it around the side, then go down as soon as it is possible. Are there any questions?”

He waited for a few seconds. The stubble on his chin was grazing the snow, melting the flakes as they settled. The ice under him felt like it had moulded itself to his shape. His breath fogged the air in front of him.

“Iosif,” he said to Pestov. “You are to go with the General.”

“Arkady,” he said to Orlov. “You go with Konev and Yury. I will cover our retreat. We will all reconvene at the bottom of the stairwell/ramp where we will consider our options.”

“What about Radmilo and Neven?” said Yemelin.

“If they are still alive, then we cannot help them.” said Garin.

“We may be backing ourselves into a corner,” warned Orlov.

“Until we have a better idea of how many we are facing and where we are, I see no better option,” said Garin.

He rose to a crouch and glanced behind him.

“Okay, now is better than never,” he said. “Iosif, Mstislav, you go first.”

The two men rose up and began to jog along the flank of the building. When they were almost level with the front and about to break open ground, he patted Orlov on the shoulder.

“Arkady, Tihomer. Ladislav, go,” he said.

As he covered their the way behind them, he heard multiple gunshots.

He someone – he thought it was Pestov – shout; “Mstislav!”

He allowed himself a hurried backward glance and caught a glimpse of Pestov veering off course and heading towards the edge of the plaza. When he turn back around he saw a human silhouette emerging from behind the far end of the building, close to the bodies of the men he had shot.

He aimed his pistol and fired. The figure crumpled, his gun discharging into the cement as he dropped.

Garin turned and followed the others. He saw Konev pushing Yury ahead of him, around the side of the railings. Orlov had ignored his instructions and was vaulting over the guardrail.

As he cleared the side of the concert hall, there was a volley of gunshots from across the plaza. None seem to be aimed at him.

At the front of the concert hall, a pair of octagonal protrusion extended from either side, like lion's paws. The facade was dominated by a gridded arched window that rose from above the porched entrance almost to summit of the building which was crowned by a brutalist rendering of a stepped gable. No lights were on inside.

Two more gunshots were fired in his direction as he crossed the plaza. When he reached the railings, he threw himself almost flat, then dragged himself along until he was met by a damp downward staircase. A carpet of snow, marked by recent footprints descended roughly a third of the way down the middle before fading into wet cement.

Konev and Yury were standing a puddle at the bottom, next to a heavy barred gate. Orlov was studying the large padlock and chain that held the barrier closed.

“We are fucked,” he said, when he saw Garin. “There is no way of getting this off.”

He held up his pistol.

“This is not going to work on that,” he said, pointing the muzzle at the padlock.

“Where is Isoif and Mstislav?” said Garin.

“Pestov almost got shot, or maybe he did get shot,” said Orlov. “They went off in a different direction.”

“I saw no blood,” said Garin.

“There is more blood yet to be spilled,” said Orlov.

He returned to his futile examination of the padlock.

~

Pestov and Yemelin were lying flat on the wet cement. In front of them a heating vent rose like a grave slab to about a foot above the plaza. Warm air dissipating from the grill in the side had melted the ice. He saw Konev and Yury stagger past, with Orlov following behind. There had been some further gunfire. He thought that he had heard Garin go past but had his head down and so could not be sure.

Now everything was silent again. The snow had intensified and was falling in thick flakes.

“At least we will die semi-warm,” he said.

“I will happily die after I have settled matters with Sherstov,” replied Yemelin.

Pestov slowly raised his head slightly so that he could see above the slab. On the opposite side of the plaza he was certain that he could determine murky silhouettes, half crouching in the darkness, making their way around the edge.

“They are going to try to pin them down on the staircase,” he said.

“It was a desperate manoeuvrer,” observed Yemelin.

“I am a no-one who should be condemning short-sighted strategies,” he added, following a moment's pause for thought.

Pestov kept his gaze focused on the far side of the plaza. A man dressed in black appeared from behind the farthest lion's paw. He looked around as if he was searching for something.

Pestov braced his pistol on top of the vent and fired.

The man staggered backwards.

Pestov readjusted his aim slightly and fired again.

The man began to fall over, his legs sliding out from under him on the ice, sending his head and upper body crashing hard against the cement.

The crowded human silhouettes that he had noted earlier, quickened their pace as they continued to make their way anticlockwise around the plaza. He re-sighted his gun on the general area, but it was difficult to see what he was aiming at.

“Wait here,” he said to Yemelin.

He sprang up and began to charge towards the railings that bordered the staircase.

~

In the puddle at the bottom of the steps, Konev and Yury were crouched down in opposite corners.

The ascending trench-like walls showed a narrow vista of a night sky mottled with greasy clouds. The snow had begun to fall heavily.

“Pavel, you have selected a truly wretched place for us all to die,” complained Konev.

He formed a mental image of his body being carelessly dragged up the stairs by its feet, his hair mopping up the dirty impression of his own descending shoe prints.

“They saw us go here,” said Orlov. “They will come for us.”

“Shoot quickly and hope that it is not one of the others,” said Garin. “It is all we can do.”

~

Pestov had almost reached the beginning of the guardrail as the three men converged just short of the top of the stairs. He fired wildly, two shots.

As their attention shifted in his direction, a volley of gunfire from somewhere in the stairwell, felled the two who were nearest to the top step.

The other man took off towards the edge of the plaza, the loose strip of a bandage that was wrapped around one arm, flapping behind him. Pestov checked his gun then followed after.

At the bottom of the staircase, Garin and Orlov waited for the smoke to clear. The silhouette of an arm was overhanging the top step.

Leaning against opposite walls they gingerly made their way to the top. Orlov arrived there slightly before Garin, as if he could not wait to see the outcome.

“Two dead,” he said. “I saw Iosif go over the slope.”

“Shot?” said Garin.

“I think he was following someone.”

“Go check on him.”

Orlov made his way to the top of the slope. A fresh trail in the snow cut across the face of the incline heading in the direction of the Sound Dome. He could see a distant figure cautiously approaching the structure.

He made his way down. The man ahead of him had entered the Dome and disappeared.

When the gradient began to flatten, he trotted to the nearest triangular support and took cover against it. Slowly he moved his head so that he could see into the structure.

On the opposite side, a dark figure was advancing along one of the circular tiers with their gun drawn. A second silhouette emerged from the darkness behind the man and took aim with their gun.

Orlov stepped out from behind the slanted pillar and fired his pistol. The sound of the gun was suddenly everywhere at once, ringing in his ears. The silhouette of the stalker fell to the ground.

The other man turned towards the direction of the gunfire. After a confused pause he raised his weapon and fired a deafening round at Orlov who ducked behind the pillar.

“Iosif, it's me!” he called.

Two more gunshots followed striking the architecture.

“Fuck, what have I done!? What have I done!?” said Orlov under his breath

He came out from the behind the pillar repeatedly firing his gun into the shape of the man. The first or second bullet caught the silhouette in the shoulder. The dome was filled with the sound of overlapping thunder. Orlov continued to pull the trigger as he advanced. A bullet caught the man in the side of the head spinning him around, his legs twisting together into a point as he fell.

The final bullet that followed went nowhere.

He hurried past the piano and up the tiers of circles. He could hear, alongside the sound of his own breathing and the ragged, shallow sound of another's, as if that person was right alongside him.

He found Pestov ashen faced, lying on his back. His gaze was locked inward. The left side of his coat was soaked in blood. Blood bubbled from his mouth.

Orlov's fingers fumbled with the buttons.

“I couldn't see,” he said. “I'm sorry.”

His confession filled the dome.

He had the coat fully unbuttoned now. The clothing underneath were swamped with blood. He managed to wrench Pestov's left arm from out of the thick sleeve. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the blue rubber band. He doubled it over, looped it over the injured man's hand and began to roll it up the arm.

He had got it halfway up when he stopped.

Blood was pouring out of Pestov's mouth. He started to convulse, then abruptly he went limp.

Orlov cradled him for a few seconds, then he let go and allowed the body to rest naturally. With bloodstained fingers he closed both eyelids.

The feathery flakes of snow, that were drifting through the hole in the ceiling of the woven dome, were like a column like stars descending from the heavens to roost.

image generated by Craiyon