C Taylor - Nadya's War

Needing a distraction, I sat on my bunk, opened her book, and thumbed to the first chapter. I had to shift in order for the light outside to reach the pages and see well enough to read:

Well, Prince, so Genoa and Lucca are now just family estates of the Buonapartes. But I warn you, if you don’t tell me that this means war, if you still try to defend the infamies and horrors perpetuated by that Antichrist-

“So, Junior Lieutenant, it seems you’ve taken to strong-arm robbery now.”

Given the line I was reading, Commissar Petrov’s arrival couldn’t have been any timelier. He stood at the entryway of the dugout, looking at me as hungry as ever. He also held an air of smugness about him, one that said he’d finally gotten what he’d been long searching for.

“I don’t have time or energy to guess what you’re talking about, Commissar,” I said, barely remembering to interject some proper formality into my reply.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he said as he closed the distance between us. “If you’re going to lie, try not to sweat so much. We both know you stole property from the deceased, with a gun, no less.”

I stood with the strength of a saint accused of blasphemy and kept the book behind my back and out of his reach. “The book is mine.”

“No, Nadya, it’s not,” he said, drawing a thin smile. “The inscription on the inside clearly states it was Alexandra’s, and now it belongs to her family.”

My eyes narrowed, and I wanted nothing more than to pull the man apart, limb from limb. “You’ve got no authority here, and I don’t care what the hell you think you know.”

He struck me on the side of the head with his fist. “I assure you, I have plenty of authority, and this goes beyond a mere book,” he said as I reeled from the blow. As I recovered, he held out his palm. In it was the scorched and slightly melted remains of the syrette I’d tossed into the oil drum the other day. “Recognize it? I missed it yesterday, but this morning I had the inkling to look around one last time. I’m glad I did.”

“It’s not mine.”

“How predictable,” he said, chuckling.

My mechanic stepped in, stopping just inside the threshold, confusion splayed across her face. “You wanted to see me?”

The Commissar turned and held the syrette out for her to see. “What can you tell me about this?”

Klara’s eyes flickered to the needle, and her mouth hung open for a couple of heartbeats before responding. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

Petrov snickered. “I think that’s all you needed to say,” he replied. “The only thing at this point I should consider is whether or not you’re her accomplice.”

“No. She didn’t-I mean, it could be anyone’s. Alexandra’s even.” With every stumble Klara took, I could feel the graveness of the situation worsen. I’m sure she could too since she fidgeted with her hands and couldn’t find a place comfortable to stand.

“I’d considered that possibility, Klara, when I first found it,” he said. “But logically, it’s much more likely to be Nadya’s. Alexandra would have never stolen from us. And that’s why I wanted you here, so I could see your reaction. You’re as guilty as she is and will suffer the same.”

I leapt forward. “I stole it. Not her. She had nothing to do with it.”

Petrov smirked. “As if I’d believe you two lovers have any secrets between the two of you. I’m going to enjoy keeping you both alive as long as I can.”

I replied by driving the palm of my hand into his nose. A soft crunch filled the air. Blood splattered across my hand and sprayed on the ground. He stumbled back and fumbled for his pistol.

“Don’t you dare!” I yelled, drawing my own sidearm and pointing it at his chest.

“You filthy little coward,” he said. “Drop that weapon right this instant or so help me I’ll have you tortured for a month before your body gives up its ghost.”

“I’m the coward? I’m the coward!” I screamed, backing toward the exit. “I dance with Death every day while you sit behind the lines trying to be important!”

Petrov drew his weapon. I pulled the trigger. My ears rang from the blasts of two distinct shots. Smoke lingered in the air and filled my nose with the smell of gunpowder. The Commissar screamed in pain, clutching his bloody right hand with his left. His pistol laid on the ground, several paces away. Klara retreated with wide eyes and a slew of mutterings.

“You shot me!” Petrov started at me, but froze when I snapped out of my trance and leveled my revolver at his head. “You’ve only sealed your fate at this point.”

My body shook, and it was all I could do not to break out into a run. Dogfighting Luftwaffe seemed a thousand fold safer at this point, but like any fur ball, I knew I had to keep my wits about me and stay one step ahead if I was going to survive. “I’ll be the one deciding what my fate is.”

My hand cramped, and the all-too-familiar fire built in my palm and worked its way down my arm. I backed, knowing I had to get out of there before my burns betrayed me.

“Oh what I’m going to do to you,” he said, grinning. “If you had any sense, you’d turn that gun on yourself.”

I gritted my teeth. Sweat dripped into my eyes, and I kept the weapon trained on his chest as I continued to leave. “Don’t even think about moving,” I said. “I can still use it on you.”

“Nadya! Don’t make it worse!” Klara shrieked, grabbing my shoulder from the side.

I’m glad I had the sense not to turn, for as I shrugged her off, Petrov started for me. My eyes staying locked on him were the only things that kept him at bay. “Hold still, damn you!”

Petrov shifted his gaze to Klara. “Comrade Rudneva, stop this turncoat. She’s trying to kill me. She’s trying to kill us all.”

“Shut up!” I said. “You’re the only one trying to kill anyone around here. You’ve had it out for me from the start.”

Petrov ignored my words and stayed focused on Klara. “She hates the Motherland, hates us all. She’s the same as her father who fought with the White Army. Stop her now and I’ll see you’re never punished for her crimes.”

“No,” Klara said, her voice barely a whisper. “Tell me he’s lying.”

I hesitated, horrified that he’d learned my family’s past. As my shoulders fell and my jaw dropped, a wicked grin spread across his face. In that instant, I realized he’d bluffed, but it had worked.

“See, Klara, it’s true,” he said with a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “She’s from a family of traitors and a traitor herself. Why else did she shoot me? What more do you need? Take that gun from her and take your place in history.”

“Klara, you know me,” I said, stepping back. My hand was cramping so badly I thought the muscles would tear themselves apart, so I shifted the pistol from my right hand to my left and hoped using it with that one wouldn’t matter at close range.

Petrov charged faster than a bull stuck with a branding iron, driving his shoulder into my chest and sending his hands after the revolver. We tumbled out of the dugout. The weapon fired once more before being knocked from my grasp.

Petrov landed on top of me. I clawed his eyes and left smears of blood on his face. He grabbed me by the hair, but his grip faltered. He opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a bright red bubble. Petrov fell to the side, and I scurried out from under him.

Klara was at my side before I even realized the commissar was dead. “Nadya,” she said, her eyes fixed on Petrov’s body. “What have you done?”

I caught myself on my knees and panted. “I had no choice.”

“No. No. This isn’t right,” she said. “How could you do this?”