David Golemon: Primeval

Crown Prince Alexei, or the child that posed as the prince, was quite unrecognizable. The girl, Anastasia, wasn't that much of a concern, as the imposter had been shot in the face, a rather cruel way to go for such a pretty child. The guard stood and motioned for the men to take the royal family out.

"The crown prince, and that one," he said pointing to Anastasia, "place them in the last truck; we have orders to burn and bury them separately."

He watched as the last of the Romanov dynasty was removed from the cellar, far from the glamour and royal standing of the grand social gatherings in the cities they had been accustomed to. He shook his head and then pulled his pocket watch from his coat. He had to move quickly because he didn't want his portion of the royal treasury to depart for America without him accompanying it.

20 September, 1918

As I make this journal entry, it has been two weeks since the cargo vessel, Leonid Comerovski, ran aground south of Glacier Bay. After our initial good luck with surviving the storm at sea, and in acquiring the ten needed wagons from an American prospecting camp, and then securing the needed stores from the wrecked ship, my men — all thirty-five of them — plus seventeen crewmen from the Comerovski, along with the two children, set out heading for the Alaskan capital of Juneau. The crewmen of the vessel were surly at best, and my men had to make an example out of three of the rougher, more aggressive seamen. It seems they were none too pleased in our disposing of their captain and his more loyal men, a necessity due to the fact we needed their food stores. Needless to say, the others fell into line immediately when they gained knowledge on how the new Russian security service operated. The sad fact is, I despise my own men more than the communist sea captain and his crew. I am foolish to believe I can rise above the filth I have covered myself in.

Providence, however, only doles out luck on a begrudging basis. We now find ourselves very much lost, with the American city of Juneau I now believe to be far to our south and west of us. The nights are turning cold and the men are starting to get anxious as to our fate, and now they are not understanding why we didn't seek passage from Glacier Bay to the city of Seattle to the south immediately. I've had to explain to them on more than one occasion, that our transgression in Russia may have been discovered, and that the party's spies could be in hiding in any seacoast settlement waiting on our arrival. Comrade Lenin will have a long memory when it comes to stealing a great deal of the royal treasury, not to mention the two children.

The problem now, besides the fact we are lost and running low of food, are the children. The men want to eliminate the need of caring for them. Not that I am a sentimental man, but if we are caught by the American or Canadian authorities, they would become a valuable bargaining tool as for the reason we are in their countries uninvited. This time, however, even my brothers of the secret police are not buying my goods. I am afraid of losing control of the situation.

The gold and its vast weight, coupled with the harsh terrain, are starting to cause considerable problems with the wagons. They were not constructed for such loads or travel over the rough ground. They are in constant need of repair and I fear we will have to abandon some of them, with the gold, once we exit the mountain pass we now find ourselves.

Postscript: The past few evenings as we settle into camp, we have detected the movement of something, or someone in the night. We do not know if Indians of the great northwestern territories are among us, because whoever they are, they are stealthy and silent for the most part. There is also a knocking of clubs, or sticks, against the trees at night, and unheard of animalistic screams. I must admit to myself, if not to others, it is truly unnerving. If indeed it is Indians, I have never heard of such behavior in any of the adventure novels I have read or other accounts of Indians in the Americas.

Missing pages. Recommence with page 231—

9 October, 1918

Bad news when dawn broke this morning. We saw a wide river to our front. My merry band of cutthroats, as well as I, were so exhausted the night before, we collapsed without noticing the sound of flowing water. I'm afraid — according to the very inaccurate royal map — we were looking at the Stikine River. Far north of where we were supposed to be, meaning we were in the harsh unexplored back country of British Columbia.

As I write this passage, the men are looking at the two children, and what I see in their eyes is sheer madness. Four of the mules from the now empty and abandoned wagons were slaughtered and eaten. I fear for the children because they have become objects of hate and superstition because of our wrongdoing — the men want the children given to them. I fear I may lose control very soon, but I cannot allow these fifty men to do what I know them capable of doing.

10 October, 1918

I must now note that I have made the gravest of errors. While studying the Twins of Peter the Great three nights ago in the dying firelight of our camp, and thinking all but the perimeter guards were asleep, I failed to see one of the men watching me from afar. When I returned to the Twins the next morning, I discovered one on the ground by the wagon, and the other missing from its gilded box. The thief must have dropped the diamond in the night, and then unable to find it in the dark, absconded with the one remaining Twin. The man is now missing, escaping with half of my prize for this fiasco. I am losing hope of surviving this ordeal, but now have only half payment and a growing attachment to the only two people I can trust — the girl and boy. The man I recognized, the thief, was Vasily Serta, one of the more intelligent guards, and a man I had trusted.

Postscript: The screams and the striking of wood has not only continued, but has grown far worse in the last few days. Five men are now missing, joining the thief, vanishing into the night. If they are deserters, that is something I can deal with; however, the alternative is something that scares me far more than freezing or starving to death, as I feel there is something stalking us in the night.

Last remaining page of journal—

2 November, 1918

The wagons have all broken. The men and I have hidden them and the gold in a large cave in the facing of a small plateau, and then covered the openings with tree, rock, and snow. They should never be found by anyone as lost as we. Upon study of this immense cave, we discovered the paintings of primitive man. Strange designs of hunts, of daily living, and of one particular painting of an animal that struck fear into all who saw it in the flickering light of the torches — a beast of huge proportions that walked upright like the hunters it towered over. Why did this ancient depiction frighten me so? Is it the sounds we hear at night? Or the men that we discover gone almost every morning now? Or is it the fact that we all feel the primitive intuition that we are being hunted, stalked, and taken in the night?

The forest around us is impenetrable and the river is starting to choke with ice. True winter has struck early. The men will soon be coming for the children, so I have decided it is better to die here and now, than to contemplate the fate that awaits the sickly boy and the proud young girl. I go with the knowledge that evil things come to evil men, and thus I would be satisfied with that particular outcome, but for the children. Especially the girl. I have become dependent on her bravery and intellect — she is no fool.

After much study of the ancient forest that surrounds us and the very terrain of our travels thus far, I have come to the conclusion that no man has ever passed this way before. At night, the trees crowd in and act as a smothering agent, at least to the hearts and minds of the men. The natural animal noises all cease after the sun goes down with the exception of the strange pounding of wood on wood. I have come to the bizarre conclusion that these are signals of some kind, an intelligence that is making a mockery of the most ruthless men in the world. This is unlike any forest I have ever ventured into.