David Nickle - Rasputin's Bastards

Except he didn’t sound German.

He sounded Russian.

And while there were plenty of Russians in the village, and Heather figured she must have seen them all by now — she didn’t ever recall seeing this one.

“Who the fuck are you?” she demanded.

“I should ask the same, yes?” The corpse stood up, primly moving one hand over its private parts while it beckoned her with the other. “Come down. I don’t bite.”

“Fuck off,” she said, taking a step backwards. “I’m going to kill myself and you can’t stop me!”

“Why would I stop you?” said the corpse. “Aren’t we both dead already?”

Heather squinted down the steps at him. “Do I know you?”

The corpse squinted back. “I don’t know,” he said. “You are — one of the children, yes? Maybe you know me as an ‘old bastard’? Ha!” The corpse threw both hands into the air in a sudden revelation. His lake-shrunk member bobbed grotesquely between his legs. “That is it, yes? You have come to see horrible old Kolyokov off, before his spirit dissolves into the nothingness of the ether.”

“Kol-yokov?” Heather started back down the stairs. If this was a trick to get her to stay a while longer at summer camp — well what could she say? It was just intriguing enough to work. “Sounds Russian. You another KGB guy?”

The corpse was pacing in circles now, hands waving in the air with extravagant sarcasm. “Yes, yes, mock poor Fyodor Kolyokov as he vanishes into the Godless void. For what is he, but a pestilent bastard who would only harm his young prodigies? A foolish old monster! Well — we will see if you like your benighted Babushka any better!”

And with that, the corpse Fyodor Kolyokov whirled on a pale, rotting heel and headed back for the water. “I should have known better!” he spat as the lake water lapped higher and higher on his thick calves.

“Wait!” Heather started to run down the little stretch of beach.

Fyodor Kolyokov waved a hand dismissively and stepped in up to his waist. “What does it matter?” he muttered. “I am long enough dead that I should have the good grace to die properly. Fuck, this is cold on my balls! For a warm brine again…”

Heather was running full tilt when she hit the water, and her momentum sent a silvery wave of it smack into Kolyokov’s pale dead ass. He squealed, clutched at his sagging butt and stumbled — but before he could fall into the water, Heather had him by the arm. His flesh felt like loose rubber, but she didn’t let go, and step by step pulled him cursing and thrashing back to the shore.

“You are not going anywhere,” she said through gritted teeth as they stumbled back through the wet silt at the water’s edge.

“How true,” he spat. “Trapped in incessant metaphor… I am fixed. Denied even a clean passing.”

“Oh fuck off and get over yourself.” Heather gave him a two-handed push in his middle, and sent Kolyokov sprawling on his ass in the shallow water. “Now. What do you know about this Babushka? It’s all I ever hear around this fucking village.”

Kolyokov smiled down at her and shook his head. “What a mouth on you, little girl,” he said. “Babushka? That is what they call her now, yes. This woman you have tried so hard to rejoin. And she’s trapped you here, hasn’t she? Like a moth in a jar.”

“I wasn’t trying to rejoin anyone,” said Heather. “But you’re right about one thing: I am a moth in a jar. Every time I let slip.”

Kolyokov narrowed his eyes and his smile faltered. “I see.” He stopped, ankle-deep in water, and pulled his hand back. He regarded her appraisingly. “Your American accent is very good, little girl. Vladimir taught you that, did he?”

“That little shit?” Heather laughed. “No way. And I don’t have an accent. You’re the one with the accent.”

Kolyokov nodded, and slowly, his smile reasserted itself.

“I see,” he said again.

“See what? What the fuck is going on?”

But Heather was shouting it at the old zombie’s back, as he climbed up the rocky beach to the stairs. As he climbed, it seemed as though the colour returned to his flesh, in tiny patches on his back and his ass — like watery ink drops, spreading themselves over age-mottled parchment.

They settled at the top of the stairs, where they had a view of the lake. Kolyokov said he wanted to be somewhere where he could watch the horizon, and once they sat down he never took his eyes off it. It was as though he thought he was a sailor, watching for signs of a coming storm.

“Now,” said Kolyokov, “tell me how old you are.”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Very good.” He laughed. “You say it like a little girl still: ‘How old are you my dear?’ ‘I am almost SIX!’”

“Fuck off. My voice isn’t that high.”

“No,” said Kolyokov. “It isn’t. Because this is all bullshit now, isn’t it? Your voice, your size. You’re living in something like a memory. You’re really a grown woman. But just now someone’s stuffed you into yourself as a child. Do you know why that would be?”

“Tell me.”

“It makes you feel weaker,” said Kolyokov.

They sat quietly for a moment. Heather glared at Kolyokov. “I’m not weak,” she said. “If I wanted to, I could make you do anything in the world.”

Kolyokov looked down at her from the corner of his still putrefied eye. “By beating me up? Or maybe by seducing me? Maybe out in the real world of Physick. But here? You’re too little to do either.” Now he looked away, casting his eye back to the lake. He squinted at it — like he was appraising a painting. “This is a very pleasant metaphor,” he said. “What does it signify?”

“Metaphor?”

“I’m sorry. You’re confused in here, and I am not helping any. Just tell me — what does this place signify? It seems familiar.”

“I’m not confused. This place is bullshit . It signifies complete bullshit . It’s a bullshit summer camp in bullshit California that Holden took us to when I was little — it was run by the Transcendental Meditation people and they—”

“Ah! Of course! CIA.”

“Are you going to let me finish?” Heather stood up. Her fists were angry balls at her sides. “What do you mean, CIA?”

“The camp was a CIA camp,” said Kolyokov, “if it’s the one I’m thinking of. And yes… yes, I think it is. I think I have been here.”

“What?”

“It was before you were here. It was probably before you were born. The CIA was using this lakeside camp to train sleepers. Quite a few of them passed under the gates of Kamp Kiwichiching before they shut it down.” He stood up. “Yes! I remember it now! That is why it was so familiar! The lake I only saw by moonlight, as we swooped in. We were very nearly captured here — they had placed their dream-walking sentries about the camp. But the Americans were amateurs at this sort of thing in those days. They had barely mastered what they called ‘remote viewing’ then.”

“No,” said Heather. She didn’t like where this was going. She took a deep breath and went on. “This is a Transcendental Meditation camp. Transcendental Meditation . Hippie Pete runs this camp. Not the CIA.”

“This,” said Kolyokov, “is an imaginary place. And the place it was modelled after? It was never a Transcendental Meditation camp. It was a place for making sleepers. People who would do their master’s bidding, without even knowing it were so. Sleepers would spend years here. That’s how long it took in those days, to lay in the metaphors. No simple business.”

Heather swatted at Kolyokov’s flank. “Fuck off!” she yelled. “ Mi mi mi mi! ”

“Ah. You are attempting a mnemonic block. Clever girl.” Kolyokov smiled sadly. “But that won’t work here. And it won’t work out there for long, either, once the people who are controlling you figure out a way around it.”