Escape (6 page)

Luka wished he had a gun. When his uncle had taught him to use a hunting rifle, he'd been vaguely afraid of it—what it could do to him if he made a mistake, like forgetting to empty the chamber before cleaning it, what he might have to do with it, if his uncle and cousins successfully tracked a deer, for once. But stepping into that cave, aching for the water that delicate siren song promised, plopping, trickling somewhere in the empty dark, he was sure he'd be less afraid if he could hold the cool weight in his hand, finger resting on the trigger, just in case.

The heavy stone he stooped for was a poor substitute, but it was better than nothing. He stepped past the last inch of visible ground, one hand stretched out in front of him, groping in the dark, other hand barely keeping a grip on the rock. Weird how, when he was deep enough in the dark, not being able to see his own feet, his own extended hand made him doubt the existence of his body. He stopped and listened. The echoing trickle of water was closer. Maybe there were snakes. Or bats. Or something bigger? He wondered if it would be better to clap or call out. That way, if he heard something rustling or scurrying or growling, he was still close to the mouth of the cave, and could run away. But he was so horribly thirsty. Maybe if he was perfectly quiet, he could get to the water and get out without waking anything up, if anything was there at all.

Every couple steps, Luka looked back, anchoring himself in space with that glimpse at the bright crescent of light before submerging himself deeper in the dark. His breath rasped, shallow and uneven, and he tried to take deep, smooth, quiet breaths, his ribs aching, whole torso bruised and tender. As he walked, his pant legs chafed noisily, and he tried to creep forward silently, planting his feet wider to keep the fabric from brushing together. The heavy stone in his hand kept almost slipping from his grip. He wanted to change hands, but a rock would be an even more pathetic weapon in his left hand.

When his toe hit something solid, he stooped and felt a low ledge of rock, cool and wet. Groping one-handed, still clutching his bludgeon, he felt for a trickle. But the sound was coming from somewhere else, still ahead and to his left. He stood and turned, honing in blindly as a bat.

Impact. Terror. No air.

A bulky warm mass slammed into his back, crushing Luka's chest against the rough stone wall. Something sharp clawed against his scalp, yanking at his hair. A bear, about to tear him to pieces. Attacks never happened in the village. But in the woods, sometimes. Yarik's father had been killed by a bear when Luka was eight. Yarik had watched it happen. Maybe that's why Luka thought of a bear. He'd never been afraid of the woods, before that. But Yarik's face when he'd come back to the village, and then the sight of Micah's shredded face and arms, had planted a recurring nightmare in Luka's brain. Eight years later, he still had it at least once a month.

But when something sharp and cold touched his throat, and suddenly the smell assaulted him, Luka knew it was a man. One of the camp guards? Maybe they'd come back to make sure he was still tied to the tree. To make sure he was dead.

The fear that had been battering and shaking him since he'd stepped into the cave melted away. Thick, heavy calm settled over Luka, rooted him in place. Quiet. Dark. Still. Maybe this peace was how it would be, after. There'd be pain, with the cut, but then all the bad things would be gone. The fear would be gone, forever.

A human sound ruptured the smooth surface of Luka's calm.

“Do you want to live?” Eršban accent. Not familiar, not any of the guards who'd mocked and beaten him, or anyone else he knew from the refugee camp. The man's fist pulled harder on his hair, forcing Luka's head back, forcing his throat to elongate, taut and vulnerable against the knife. Luka gasped as a wire-thin line of pain seared his throat and panic went rushing back in. “Do you want to live?”

“Yes.”

“Then don't piss me off.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a weapon on you?”

“No. Yes. I have a rock.”

“A rock?”

“In my hand.”

“Drop it. Not on my foot.”

Luka extended his arm to the side and let the rock he'd been desperately clutching slip from his cramping fingers.

“Anything else?”

“No.”

The man let go of his hair and the cool hard pressure on his throat lifted. Rough and sudden, the man grabbed both of Luka's wrists and forced his hands overhead, against the rough rock, scraping his knuckles.

“Don't move.”

Hands burrowed up under his jacket, sliding over his waist, his torso, his hips and thighs, down his calves, his ankles. What the hell was happening? Luka tried to breathe. Tried to think.

There was a wet squelch as the man took a step back on the slick stone. “Turn around.”

It was hard to will his body to obey, but after a few seconds, Luka faced his attacker, almost invisible in the dark.

“Are you alone?”

Should he lie? Pretend he was a soldier instead of a refugee stuffed into someone else's uniform? Say five others from his platoon were just outside? Maybe the man would leave if he thought he was outnumbered.

“If I catch you lying to me, I'll cut your throat. Who else is with you?”

“No one.”

“You're in the Bokan army.” How could his attacker see his uniform when Luka couldn't make out more than a vague, moving mass? “So what are you doing here by yourself?”

Luka couldn't tell him the real story. Even a censored version would provoke too many questions. And he was a shitty liar.

“I was with a group, trying to get to the refugee camp. I got separated. Lost.”

A hand grabbed the collar of Luka's jacket and swung him around, then shoved him forward toward the crescent of light. When they got near the mouth of the cave, the man yanked him to a halt and clamped his hand over his mouth.

“If I hear or see anyone else, I'll cut your throat. You still sure you're alone?”

Luka nodded.

Holding Luka in front of him, using him as a shield, the man slowly approached the mouth of the cave, emerged, looked around, then retreated again, dragging Luka inside with him, then letting go.

Luka turned. A stranger. In an Eršban uniform. Big hunting knife in his hand. Pistol at his hip. Long dirty hair. Black, bushy beard. Wild, dark eyes. He looked like a homeless person. Like a serial killer. Like a grown-up, overgrown feral child. A bearded menace.

“How close is your camp?”

“I don't know.”

“Someone sent you to do reconnaissance.” An accusation.

“No.”

“How'd you get separated?”

He'd know he was lying. Luka tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. “There was an accident.” Luka realized he was clutching his ribs, aching worse than ever after the Eršban soldier's rough handling. Maybe his cuts and bruises would lend his bullshit some credibility. “Maybe they thought I was dead. Or maybe they just couldn't carry me. When I woke up, I was alone.”

Hard to read the man's expression behind the unruly beard, but Luka decided the glint in his hazel eyes was skepticism. Then, behind the scraggly whiskers, a half smile, like the suspicion that he was being lied to made him happy. Like he was looking forward to slashing the blade of his knife through Luka's throat, already stinging from a shallow cut.

“Sit down.”

Biting back a groan as pain ripped through his battered chest, Luka sank to the damp ground. The soldier pulled a rucksack from behind a boulder or outcropping of rock, and extracted a coil of cord. The sight of the rope broke him. The tiny remnant of strength that had survived what the guards had done to him crumbled.

He made himself breathe. Swallowed back the sob rising up his throat. When the soldier grabbed his arm and saw the raw, seeping flesh of his wrist, he met Luka’s eyes. Panic poked at his aching chest. What could he make up to explain those wounds? But the soldier didn't ask. He wrenched Luka's arms behind his back. Luka held still while the man tied his elbows back, hoping that small submission would buy his way out of the obvious question.

The soldier squatted down and peered into Luka's eyes for several seconds. “I'm not going far. Stay quiet, and don't move.” He stood, then slipped out through the crescent of light and disappeared.

Everything inside of him collapsed. His soul flattened, crushed under the sudden knowledge that he was going to die. The soldier was out there looking for Luka's comrades, and when he was sure Luka was alone, that he didn't need him for a human shield or a bargaining chip, he'd kill him. Or he'd leave him there, tied up, to die of dehydration. Or he'd let him go, and some other Eršban soldier would shoot him, or the Bokan army would find him and put him in front of a firing squad for desertion because they'd never believe he was a refugee someone had stuffed into a military uniform against his will.

When he heard the soldier's boots scrape on the rock outside, then saw his silhouette blot out the crescent of light at the entrance, Luka's heart stopped. Now. He'd do it now.

The bearded menace squatted in front of him again, and pressed the blade of his knife against Luka's throat. His heart thumped hard, and he waited for the pain of the cut, the sudden spilling of his life from a gash in his throat. But the soldier came at him with his free hand. Dirty fingernails that needed to be cut. Three fingers touched his bottom lip and drew it down. Then, still holding the knife against his throat, the soldier unbuttoned Luka's jacket and pulled his shirt up. Luka couldn't breathe. Couldn't swallow. God, this man was going to do something grotesque. Horrific. Slice him open.

“That line about being in an accident was bullshit. Tell me you're sorry.”

A tear dropped onto Luka's cheek and slid toward his jaw. “I'm sorry.”

“What really happened?” The knife bit into Luka's skin.

“They beat me up.”

“Who?”

“Soldiers.”

“Eršban soldiers?”

“No.”

“Bokan soldiers did that to you?”

“Yes.” Luka took a deep breath and braced himself for answering the next question.

“When?”

A much easier question than the one he'd expected.

“Why?” the hermit soldier asked.

Luka stiffened. “Three nights ago.”

“Where?”

“
Ingushetia. It's a refugee camp.”
Breathe. Breathe. Maybe he won't ask
why
again.

“Where's that?”

Maybe he was about to earn the word written across his chest. “Outside of Alkhazurovo.”

“That's a hundred kilometers away. How'd you get here?”

“They drove me.”

“And your wrists?”

“They tied me to a tree.”

“Where?”

“Not far. Maybe fifteen kilometers from here.”

“How long were you out there?”

“Two days.”

“What did you see?”

“See?”

“Did you see any troop movement?”

“No.”

“Any soldiers? Any people?”

“No soldiers. Just an old man on a horse.”

“How'd you get loose?”

“The old man.”

The soldier looked at Luka's jacket, with the word traitor written across it, just above his insignia. “Why'd he help you?”

“I don't know.”

Still holding the knife at Luka's throat, the soldier rummaged through the sack. “He freed you. And you took his food.”

“He gave it to me.”

The soldier laughed. “You killed him. Didn't you?”

“No. No I didn't. I've never killed anyone in my life.”

“You tied him to that tree he freed you from, and left him to die.”

More tears spilled down Luka's cheeks, and a knot of shame twisted his guts. “He gave it to me. A little food and a jug of water. Then he got back on his horse and left. I swear.” The man would kill him, either way. He had no idea why he cared so much that his captor believe him. That he not die with this Eršban soldier thinking he'd murdered the man who'd helped him.

“Was he Eršban? Or Bokan?”

“The old man? I don't know.”

“He didn't ask you about this,” The soldier dragged his knife across the epithet on Luka's chest, “before he cut you loose?”

“No. He didn't ask me anything. He just said he was sorry he couldn't take me with him, and he got on his horse and went on his way.”

The soldier stared into his eyes. “So. You lied to me. About the accident.”

“I'm sorry.”

“These days, moving from place to place, I come across things. Something looks like it might be useful, now or later, I pick it up and I keep it with me until I need it, or until it's more of a hassle than it's worth. Lying to me is the opposite of being useful. Don't lie to me again.”

“Okay.”

The blade stopped digging into his skin. The soldier grabbed the empty jug from the sack and disappeared in the black depths of the cave. When he returned, the jug was full. He cut Luka loose and handed him the jug. “Drink as much as you can. We leave in ten.”