Gregg Hurwitz - The Survivor

“I haff climbing accident. The rope, it…” Yuri made a snapping noise.

The ranger whistled. “Well, I suppose you’re wondering why I pulled you over.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You tossed a cigarette out the window.”

Yuri smashed his palm to his forehead, a big show of self-recrimination, and swore at himself in Ukrainian.

The ranger bobbed his head, amused. “Where you boys from?”

“Ukraine.”

“I got a sister-in-law from Russia.”

“Different country,” Misha said.

Yuri turned his head slowly and offered Misha a covert glare.

“St. Petersburg,” the ranger said. “Beautiful.”

“Yes,” Yuri said.

“I tell you what. I know how you folks smoke there, so I’ll just give you a warning. This is fire-hazard country. You can’t be doing that here.”

Yuri gave him a thumbs-up. “Okeydokey.”

“And careful climbing. Watch yourself. I don’t want to have to search-and-rescue you.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The ranger nodded and started away.

“Officer,” Misha called out, the handcuffs hidden in his lapel pocket giving off a faint jangle as he leaned forward.

Yuri’s hands clenched the wheel.

The ranger came back to the window. Misha held out the map and the piece of paper. He pointed to the address of the cabin. “We are looking for a friend’s house. But the street is not on the map.”

The ranger looked at it. “Oh, right. There’s a turnoff here. See? Marked by a big stupid Santa Claus sign. Take that road a quarter mile and you’ll see the house. No more’n five minutes.”

Misha smiled. “Thank you very much.”

Yuri rolled up his window and eased out onto the road. They drove awhile, finally spotting the ridiculous plywood sign of Santa astride a motorcycle-WHAT’S YOUR WISH FOR THE NEW YEAR?

The cell phone rang, and Yuri answered on Bluetooth, Pavlo’s voice hissing through the speakers: “He’s coming. Get here now. ”

The reception flickered in and out, and Yuri pulled over in the shade of the plywood sign to hold the connection. “What happened?”

“He went to New Odessa, passed threat to me through the Georgian. Said he is coming for me. I served time on the Arctic Circle, and he thinks he can say anything to threaten me?”

A rare show of outrage. Yuri and Misha looked at each other. “We will be right there.”

Yuri clicked off the call.

Misha tapped the window with a knuckle, indicating the turnoff right beyond their front tires. “We are all the way here. Why not go and look?”

Yuri hesitated, casting a glance up the dirt road. “Because Pavlo did not tell us to.”

“How long can one look take?”

Yuri weighed this, then slotted the gearshift into drive and started down the road. They coasted around the bend, the cabin coming into view way up ahead, a stream of smoke rising from the chimney. An older man appeared from the side of the house and started up the porch, bearing a stack of firewood in his arms.

Yuri’s phone rang again, once, and then the signal went dead.

He touched the brakes. Stared down nervously at the phone. No bars.

Up ahead, the screen door banged shut, the man vanishing into the house.

Yuri exhaled through his teeth. “The father is alone. No sign of the Jeep.” He considered a moment longer, then flipped the car around.

Misha made a sound of disappointment. “Okay, then. We will go to Pavlo’s house and prepare for Overbay.”

“Why did he go to the Georgian?” Yuri asked. “Why does he warn us?”

Misha lifted the pistol from beneath his leg, dropped the mag, then locked the slide to the rear so the bullet ejected. It spun shimmering in an arc before his face until he trapped it in a fist. “He wants us all in one place.”

During the drive back to his father’s cabin, Nate’s muscles hummed with energy. The weakness remained, sure, but the current of adrenaline seemed to be recharging them. He passed a few outsize forest ranger trucks, a fancy Jag, a minivan or two, but mostly the canyon roads were quiet.

When he arrived, Janie, the kids, and his father were playing Pictionary before the fire as Casper slumbered on the hearth. Janie’s head snapped around at Nate’s entrance, her face gentle and sorrowful; amid the greetings they shared a private understanding. He had just run a few errands, nothing more. And tonight he’d run a few more.

He quickly excused himself to the bedroom, the game raging at his back, Jason’s booming voice drowning out the competition: “It’s a cat a cat with a wig dogs playing poker the Cat in the Hat chimney sweep CHIMNEY SWEEP!”

Nate peeled off his clothes. His foot dragged across the bathroom tile, which did not bode well, and he had to take extra care stepping over the lip of the tub. In the shower he leaned his head into the stream as if trying to shove through it, warming his tendons and joints as a prophylactic measure against the strain to come. He spoke the mantra in his mind: I can still feel this. My nerves still function. My muscles still work.

After an appropriate delay, Janie appeared. He heard the door click, and she sat on the sink, and they shared in each other’s company silently. After, he shaved, brushed his teeth, and dressed slowly, meticulously, Janie sitting on the quilt, knowing. He pushed buttons into place, threaded his belt, smoothed down his jeans over his socks, his hands trembling slightly but obeying.

The board game had broken up by the time they emerged. Jason and Cielle were out front on the porch swing, Nate’s father cleaning dishes.

Nate found two cans of Campbell’s tomato soup in a cupboard and cranked off the tops with a rusty opener. He cleaned the jagged circles of metal, dried them on the thigh of his jeans, and slipped them into his pocket. As he walked out, leaving the open cans full on the counter, his father just looked at him. Janie followed him to the front door, his father and Casper trailing.

Stepping onto the porch, Nate could feel his heart like a fist pressing up toward his throat. Jason picked quietly at his guitar, and Cielle sat sideways against one armrest, reading a vampire book, her feet wedged into him for warmth. Distracted.

Nate regarded her for a moment, the beat in his throat intensifying, then leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. A fine mist had come up, dappling the nodding leaves framing the porch. The Jeep waited, parked right off the steps. The sky grew darker by the second. He could feel the soup-can tops pressing into the meat of his thigh, and he thought of the brutal use he intended for them. Soon. Too soon.

“I’m gotta go take care of a few things,” he said.

Jason looked up. “Want me to drive?”

The thing was, the kid was serious.

“If you run into Brobocop,” Jason continued, “you might wish I was there.”

“Right,” Nate said. “Yellow belt, green stripe. Jeet Kune Do.” Jason started to protest, and Nate held up a hand. “Kidding. I know, I know, tae kwon do. Chillax.”

“Just sayin’. I got your back.”

“I know, Jay,” Nate said. “Thanks.”

He brightened. “Jay,” he repeated. “Right on.”

Nate’s father lingered near the Jeep, peering through the rear window. The barrel of an assault rifle poked up, barely in view. Nate saw the old man’s posture wilt, his down-bent face loosening with realization, and something in his own chest gave way a little.

Cielle spread the book across her knee. “Where you going, Dad?”

Nate’s father stepped in front of the window, blocking the rifle from her line of sight. Nate gave him a tiny nod of appreciation, and his father looked away, his mouth bunching.