Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“I’m guessing there are at least a thousand men in here,” said Yury. “While you were at Camp Z, the old man told me that other ships on this Kolyma route are much larger, three or five thousand onboard. The holds are different, too. They just threw us in here like dogs, but the bigger boats have three-level holds filled with mattress-less bunks so the zeks can lie down.”

“You can lie down on the deck there,” I groaned.

“Would rather have a bunk.”

“It feels like the sea is very angry right now,” I said, my bandaged hand on my sleeping son’s leg.

“The old man told me that many ships have capsized trying to make this journey,” said Yury. “He said the route is difficult because of the La Pérouse Strait, which is a twenty-five-mile-wide stretch of sea dividing two islands: Hokkaido and Sakhalin.”

“I want to thank you, Yury,” I said, my stomach rolling, the nausea intensifying as I sweated and kept my eyes closed, the back of my head pressing against the sticky, wooded bulkhead behind me. “I want to thank you for not being sick. It allows you to keep talking, which keeps my mind busy. And your Russian diction is so crisp, so soothing. Thank you. I envy your resilient stomach.”

“You’re welcome. I have eaten many bad things in my life. I am immune. As I was saying, according to the old man, the edges of the strait are made up of rock hazards. So the ship has to fight the choppy waters and at the same time keep it from pushing it toward the edges. But this is tricky, Prescott, because the more the ship tries to stay in the center of the strait, the more it also has to avoid the big monster in the middle. Not easy to navigate.”

“Monster?” I slurred.

“Yes, right in the middle of the strait is a rock monster named the Stone of Danger. Many boats have smashed right into it. When it’s dark out, they actually can’t navigate around it. They can’t see it. They have to basically guess where it is and try to avoid it. So, you see, we may be in luck after all. The ship will probably run aground. We may die at sea.”

“That’ll be nice,” I mumbled, sour stomach acid bubbling up to where I could taste it now, the fish soup we’d eaten some twenty-four hours earlier still refusing to digest. Perhaps it had been made of rotten bream. I wondered because I hadn’t gotten seasick on the Trumpet yacht during that journey to Nantucket, but these were extremely turbulent waters. Fishy bile burning your throat while you’re on the verge of vomiting ranks near the top on the misery list.

“Not a single guard has come down here,” said Yury. “I’ll bet it’s because of the choppy waters. They are all up in their cabins sick as dogs. Or they know we are all too weak and sick to cause any commotion. Still, with all of these animals among us, free to move about as soon as their seasickness subsides, I’ve got my guard up. And there were reports of some zeks breaking into the women’s barracks while we were at the transit camp. There were rapes. That was the word going around while you were at Camp Z, Prescott. Apparently the suspects were all shot, though.”

“Don’t repeat that story in the company of my son,” I slurred, just before the lamp at the top of the ladder went out and left us all in an even less visible hold, many of the men moaning louder as a result.

“Of course not, Prescott,” he said, oblivious to the change in light and the agony surrounding him. “I know James is asleep. But you do want to know such details, yes?”

“Yes, thank you, Yury.”

“How long before your fractured arm heals?”

“The doctor said four weeks. So, should be almost healed upon our arrival.”

“Yes, we should be there in nine more days,” he said.

“And then, in about another week after, they will have me digging with you all, Yury. If I’m kept back at camp during those first days, make sure to try to watch over my son out there while you’re mining. I know it may not be possible, but try to stay close to him. Please.”

“You have my word, Prescott.”

“Check on Mikhail and Boris,” I said.

Yury, sitting to my left, stood and walked to the right, past me first, then James. Boris was next to my son, and Mikhail was to his right. All of us zeks were covering the deck throughout. We lucky ones at least had our backs to the bulkhead, but others had to sit back-to-back or lie down and curl up tight. The last good light we’d seen had been on the deck when the guards had given us soup prior to our climbing down the ladder. There was one toilet hole in the corner near the bottom of the ladder, but getting to it required squeezing through the knot of zeks , so unless it was vital, one was best off holding it.

“They are both breathing,” said Yury. “But Mikhail feels too hot.”

“Wake him up,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because you need to ask him exactly how he feels. If he has a fever and it gets too hot, he will simply allow himself to die. Many of these groaning men are only minutes away from letting death overtake them. He’s probably not actually asleep, but rather passed out. Wake him up.”

“Mikhail!” said Yury, shaking him. “Mikhail!”

All we heard was him moan.

“Talk to me, Mikhail,” said Yury. “How do you feel?”

“Water!” he slurred. “I… need… water.”

“Here, Yury!” I said, handing him my canteen. “Give him mine. All of it! Have him drink it all.”

“But we don’t know when they will give us more,” said Yury. “You are going to need—”

“Now!” I said, still feeling dizzy. “I will be fine.”

Yury took my canteen and tried to hand it to him.

“Here, Mikhail,” he said. “Take the water.”

Mikhail just moaned louder and louder.

“He won’t take it, Prescott.”

“He’s delirious,” I said. “Put your fingers to his lips and force open his mouth. Force-feed him the water. Hold his head and make sure he swallows. Do it carefully. He might throw it up at first but talk him through it.”

I listened to the ordeal for a few minutes. Fortunately, he drank and kept it down. Besides the old man, Mikhail had seemed the weakest of us six for the last week. He’d been beyond distraught about not being able to witness the birth of his child, his wife all alone back in Moscow.

Boris, on the other hand, was a damn tenacious Swede. In fairness to Mikhail, however, Boris didn’t have to worry about a wife or child. And I was quickly learning that surviving these seemingly insurmountable conditions was largely based on genetics, one’s chemical and mental makeup, regardless of their food or water intake. It was ultimately survival of the fittest, and in the recesses of my mind, I knew my son would be okay because he had my blood coursing through his veins.

“Slap his face, Yury,” I said. “Lightly! Make him talk to you.”

“Can you hear my voice, Mikhail?” said Yury, slapping him a few times. “Say something, Mikhail! Are you there? What is your wife’s name?”

“Galina!” he whispered.

“Your baby! You and Galina had probably chosen names. What was it to be if a girl was born?”

“Dominika.”

“And if it is a boy?”

“Anton.”

“Good!” said Yury. “Either Dominika or Anton will be waiting for you in Moscow when you get out. Stay alive. Remember what the old man said. Stay alive!”

Over the next two days the hatch had only been opened twice, both times to drop nets full of black bread down. The guards had been too afraid to enter the hold, as many criminals were amongst us. Zeks ripped through the nets and we were left to scurry after small loaves like rats. Many skirmishes ensued, as it was supposed to be one piece per zek, but some refused to abide. Luckily the fights had subsided rather quickly, the prisoners too weak to engage in a prolonged back-and-forth. I feared, however, that if the women’s hold had in any way been accessible, some of these pigs might have done the unthinkable.