Anthony Horowitz - Russian Roulette

We were still walking. The rain was getting heavier. Now it was making its way through the leaves and splashing down all around us. It was early in the afternoon but most of the light had gone. I had taken out my compass and given it to Leo. I could have used it myself of course but I thought it would be better for him to have his mind occupied – and anyway, he was better at finding directions than me. Not that the compass really helped. Every time we came to a particularly nasty knot of brambles or found a tangle of undergrowth blocking our path, we had to go another way. It was as if the forest itself was guiding us. Where? If it was feeling merciful, it would lead us to safety. But it might be just as likely to deliver us into our enemies’ hands.

The forest began to slope upwards, gently at first, then more steeply, and we found our feet kept slipping and we tripped over the roots. Leo looked dreadful, his clothes plastered across him, his face deadly white, his hair soaking wet now, hanging lifelessly over his eyes. I felt guilty in my waterproof clothes but it was too late to hand them over. Ahead of us, the trees began to thin out. This was doubly bad news. First, it meant that we were even less protected from the rain. It would also be easier to spot us from the air if the helicopters returned.

“Over there!” I said.

I had seen an electricity pylon not too far away, poking out above the trees, part of the new construction. They had been laying all three together – the new highway, the water pipe and electricity – all part of the modernization of the area, before the work had ground to a halt. But even without tarmac or lighting, the road would lead us straight to Kirsk. At least we knew which way to go.

I had very little memory of Kirsk. The last time I had been there had been about a year ago, on a school trip. Getting out of Estrov had been exciting enough but when we had got there we had spent half the time in a museum, and by the afternoon I was bored stiff. When I was twelve, I had spent a week in Kirsk Hospital after I’d broken my leg. I had been taken there by bus and had no idea how to get around. But surely the station wouldn’t be too difficult to find and at least I would have enough money to buy two tickets for the train. A hundred rubles was worth a great deal. It was more than a month’s salary for one of my teachers.

We trudged forward, making better progress. We were beginning to think that we had got away after all, that nobody was interested in us any more. Of course it is just when you begin to think like that, when you relax your guard, that the worst happens. If I had been in the same situation now, I would have gone anywhere except towards the new highway. When you are in danger, you must always opt for what is least expected. Predictability kills.

We reached the first evidence of the construction; abandoned spools of wire, cement slabs, great piles of plastic tubing. Ahead of us, a brown ribbon of dug-up earth stretched out into the gloom. The town of Kirsk and the railway to Moscow lay at the other end.

“How far is it?” Leo asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “About twenty miles, I think. Are you OK?”

Leo nodded but the misery in his face told another story.

“We can do it,” I said. “Five or six hours. And it can’t rain for ever.”

It felt as if it was going to do just that. We could actually see the raindrops now, fat and relentless, slanting down in front of us and splattering on the ground. It was like a curtain hanging between the trees and we could barely make out the road on the other side. There were more pipes scattered on both sides and after a short while we came to a deep ditch which must have been cut as part of the water project. Was it really possible for an entire community to near the end of the twentieth century without running water? I had carried enough buckets down to the well to know the answer to that.

We walked for another ten minutes, neither of us speaking, our feet splashing in the puddles, and then we saw them. They were ahead of us, a long line of soldiers, spread out across the forest, making steady progress towards us… like detectives looking for clues after a murder. They were spaced so that nobody would be able to pass through the line without being seen. They had no faces. They were dressed in pale silver anti-chemical and biological uniforms with hoods and gas masks, and they carried semi-automatic machine guns. They had dogs with them, scrawny Alsatians, straining at the end of metal leashes. It was as if they had walked out of my worst nightmare. They didn’t look human at all.

It should have been obvious from the start that whoever had sent the helicopters would follow them up with an infantry backup. First, destroy the village, then put a noose around the place to make sure there are no survivors who can spread the virus. The line of militia men, if that’s what they were, would have formed a huge circle around Estrov. They would close in from all sides. And they would have been told to shoot any stragglers – Leo and me – on sight. Nobody could be allowed to tell what had happened. And, above all, the anthrax virus that we might be carrying must not break free.

They would have seen us at once but for the rain. And the dogs too would have smelt us if everything hadn’t been so wet. In the darkness of the forest, the pale colour of their protective gear stood out, but for a few precious seconds we were invisible. I reached out and grabbed Leo’s arm. We turned and ran the way we had come.

It was the worst thing to do. Since that time, long ago now, I have been taught survival techniques for exactly such situations. You do not break your pace. You do not panic. It is the very rhythm of your movement that will alert your enemy. We should have melted to one side, found cover and then retreated as quickly but as steadily as we could. Instead, the sound of our shoes stamping on the wet ground signalled that we were there. One of the dogs began to bark ferociously, followed immediately by the rest of them. Somebody shouted. An instant later there was the deafening clamour of machine-gun fire, weapons spraying bullets that sliced through the trees and the leaves, sending pieces of debris showering over our heads. We had been seen. The line began to move forward more urgently. We were perhaps thirty or forty metres ahead of them but we were already close to exhaustion, drenched, unarmed. We were children. We had no chance at all.

More machine-gun fire. I saw mud splattering up inches from my feet. Leo was slightly ahead of me. His legs were shorter than mine and he had been more tired than me but I was determined to keep him in front of me, not to leave him behind. If one went down, we both went down. The dogs were making a hideous sound. They had seen their prey. They wanted to be released.

And we stayed on the half-built highway! That was a killing ground if ever there was one, wide and exposed… an easy matter for a sniper to pick us off. I suppose we thought we could run faster with a flat surface beneath our feet. But every step I took, I was waiting for the bullet that would come smashing between my shoulders. I could hear the dogs, the guns, the blast of the whistles. I didn’t look back but I could actually feel the men closing in behind me.

Still, we had the advantage of distance. The line of soldiers would move more slowly than us. They wouldn’t want to break rank and risk the chance of our doubling back and slipping through. I had perhaps one minute to work out some sort of scheme before they caught up with us. Climb a tree? No, it would take too long, and anyway, the dogs would sniff us out. Continue back down the hill? Pointless. There were probably more soldiers coming up the other side. I was still running, my heart pounding in my chest, the breath harsh in my throat. And then I saw it… the ditch we had passed with the plastic tubes scattered about.