Cold War

Chapter 12

Master pipefitter Sergei Yevgenyevich Buyanov was not at all happy to be out in the snow, walking the station’s pair of guard dogs.

Ordinarily he wasn’t supposed to handle them at all; that had been Salnikov’s job. But Salnikov hadn’t come back from Sobchak’s little errand, so someone had to take the dogs out, and Buyanov had been ordered to do it. He had made the mistake of admitting that he knew something about dogs.

The dogs didn’t seem very happy about the state of affairs, either, and it wasn’t just the cold, Buyanov was certain of that. Instead of trotting along as they usually did, sniffing at anything interesting, they hugged the station’s walls and seemed to be constantly whining, heads down, or else staring out into the icy gloom of the arctic night and making unhappy noises in their throats.

At first Buyanov had thought it was just him, that the dogs didn’t like him, that they missed Salnikov, but when they didn’t improve, and it sank in that they always both looked into the darkness in the same direction, he reconsidered.

There was something somewhere out there that they didn’t like.

But there wasn’t anything out there, Buyanov told himself. It was quiet and clear. The storm had ended, at least for the moment-everyone who had been here for more than a single winter seemed to agree that this was probably just a lull and they could expect howling winds and blinding snow to come sweeping back down on them at any time, but right now the air was calm-so cold and still that it seemed almost solid, as if all the world were encased in crystal.

Did the dogs sense a new storm coming?

That couldn’t be it-there were storms here all the time, and Buyanov had never heard of the dogs being spooked like this before.

There had been all those stories about the missing squad, about ghosts or monsters or some crazy American commando mission, but Buyanov hadn’t believed any of that-and he didn’t see anything. He stared repeatedly in the direction that seemed to worry the dogs and couldn’t make out anything but snow, ice, and the overcast sky.

”What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded, tugging at the leashes as the dogs crouched, staring out into the wilderness. “There’s nothing out there!”

Just then a puff of wind swept down at them from the nearby hilltop; snow swirled around Buyanov’s boots. As if that had shattered the stillness gusts and eddies began to appear everywhere.

That new storm was definitely coming, Buyanov decided, and might break any moment. The storm was coming, and he wanted to get back inside, where it was warm, where he wouldn’t have to worry about these crazy dogs, and where he wouldn’t find himself half believing children’s stories about snow demons or ghosts. Next thing you know, he told himself, I’ll start believing Baba Yaga’s out there, coming in her chicken-legged house to snatch me up for her stewpot.

”Come on!” he said angrily, giving both the leashes another Yank.

The dogs didn’t move. The big female growled, deep in her throat. This wasn’t just worry, Buyanov knew-he did know something about dogs, or he wouldn’t have spoken up and wouldn’t have been given this duty. That was a serious warning, that growl, and Buyanov knew it. That wasn’t playing, or any sort of low-level threat; that was a “back off right now or I’ll rip your throat out” growl, nothing halfhearted or playful about it. If any dog had ever growled at Buyanov like that, he’d have backed down immediately.

She wasn’t growling at him, though. She was growling at something out there.

”There’s nothing out there,” Buyanov repeated, baffled and frightened. “Just the wind.”

The dog barked angrily, once, her hot breath a dense cloud in the cold air. The wind picked up just then, and snow sprayed up from the hillside, glittering white in the light from one of the station’s few windows, like a flurry of diamond dust.

The storm was coming, no doubt about it, and coming fast. Buyanov realized suddenly that that eerie stillness must have been the calm before the storm that people spoke about. Wind roared in the distance.

”Come on,” he said, pulling at the leash.

The big dog jerked back, and the leather strap slipped from Buyanov’s glove. The dog immediately charged up the hillside, her legs churning through the drifts as she bounded away into the darkness and swirling snow.

”No!” Buyanov shouted. “Come back, damn it!”

The dog didn’t come back, and by the time the echoes of his own shout had died away Buyanov couldn’t hear her anymore over the mounting howl of the wind.

”God damn it,” Buyanov said as he dragged the other dog growling and yapping around the final corner to the door. The dog planted his feet, but Buyanov was bigger and stronger, and with just the one dog now he could rely on brute force to haul the animal to the door.

He shoved the heavy steel door open and caught a faceful of warm, damp air that felt like a foretaste of heaven; the entryway was unlit, but light spilled out from somewhere farther inside, tempting Buyanov.

He did not yield. He had to track down and recover the other dog.

”Get in there,” he said, shoving the other dog inside. Then he flung in the leash and slammed the door, shutting the dog inside and himself outside in the storm.

He would have to be careful when he returned, he reminded himself, and make sure that the stupid cur wasn’t waiting there to lunge out the instant the door opened again.

Right now, though, he intended to find the first dog and haul her back.

”I should let you freeze, you stupid bitch,” he muttered as he located the dog’s tracks and began following them up the hillside. The wind was fierce now, already approaching gale force; he shielded his eyes with one gloved hand, trying to see clearly through wind and snow and night. He would have to move quickly if he didn’t want to lose the trail-drifting snow would cover it in minutes, he was sure.

”When I find you, I’ll…” he began, but then he stopped; he couldn’t think of any appropriate vengeance that he would dare take on Salnikov’s dogs. “By God, I’ll do something, you miserable…” He peered into the darkness; he was over the hilltop now.

Something slammed into him, something big and soft and heavy that hit him hard. He toppled backward into the snow and felt the cold crystals spray into his boots and gloves and collar, felt the icy hardness of the ground as he landed flat on his back.

He blinked, clearing the snow from his eyes, and saw what had hit him.

His missing dog lay on his chest, her face mere centimeters from his own. Her eyes were blank and staring, and blood was trickling from her open mouth.

”What…” He sat up, enough adrenaline pumping through his veins that the dead dog’s weight might as well not even have been there. As he rose the dog rolled down to he lifelessly across his legs.

Blood was everywhere, on his coat and his boots and his leggings and thickly matted on the dog’s fur.

The dog had been gutted. Something had ripped open her belly in two long slices, side by side.

”What could have done this?” he asked, staring.

Then he realized that the dog had not jumped on him; the corpse had been flung. What could have thrown it with such force?

He looked up, and there they were, three of them, standing in the snow, watching him.

They were bigger than humans; the shortest was well over two meters. They were shaped more or less like men, but their faces were hidden by metal masks, their hands ended in claws. They wore no coats, despite the cold, and bristled with unfamiliar weaponry. Their skin was yellow, where it showed; their hair, if it was hair, was worn in long, decorated, snakelike braids that flapped eerily in the wind.

”My God,” Buyanov whispered.

They stood, motionless, watching him, for a long moment. Buyanov stared back.

Gradually sense returned. These, Buyanov realized, were undoubtedly the snow devils, the arctic ghosts, that had taken the soldiers. When he understood that, he expected to die within seconds of that first sight.

Then he saw that they weren’t approaching him. They weren’t killing him. They were just standing there.

They had gutted the dog, but she had undoubtedly attacked them. They had almost certainly killed or captured the missing soldiers, but they, too, had presumably intruded where they weren’t welcome.

Buyanov hadn’t done anything to anger them, had he? They were going to let him go, he told himself; that was why they hadn’t killed him. He hadn’t meant them any harm, so they were letting him go.

He scrambled to his feet, shoving the dead dog aside, and backed slowly away.

They didn’t move.

Buyanov bowed awkwardly. “Thank you, my lords,” he said, stumbling over the unfamiliar pre-Soviet words. He had never before in his life called anyone “lord,” had never heard the term used except in satires and historical dramas, but what else could he say to these creatures, these ice demons?

He turned, trying to decide whether to walk or run. He took two short steps, trying to maintain some trace of dignity, then glanced back.

The nearest of the demons took a step closer. It moved swiftly, with an appearance of immense power. Its face was hidden by its mask, unreadable, but Buyanov read hostility in the way it stood, the way it moved; he ran.

As he neared the station he began shouting, “Open the door! Help! Help me!” He slammed into the door, too hysterical to work the heavy hatchlock mechanism at first, and pounded on it with both fists.

A moment later the door swung open, and two worried faces peered out at him.

”Sergei!” someone said. “What happened?”

”We saw the dog roaming the corridors,” another said.

Buyanov staggered in, and the larger of the two men caught him as he fell, exhausted from his panicky run.

”Get that door closed,” the man holding Buyanov called to the other. “It must be sixty below outside!”

”Anatoli,” the other man said as he slammed the door, “look! What’s that on his coat?”

”Looks like frozen blood,” the man holding Buyanov said. “Sergei, what happened?”

”Devils,” Buyanov gasped. “Devils on the ice. I’ve seen them, Dmitri!”

The other two exchanged worried glances.

”We’ve got to warn the oth-” Buyanov began.

He was interrupted by a loud booming as something slammed into the door from outside.

”What was that?” Anatoli shouted.

Then all three men froze at the sound of tearing metal. An instant later the gleaming tip of a jagged blade punched through the door.

”But that door is steel,” Anatoli said. “Ten centimeters of steel!”

All three knew that to be true; the door was a massive slab of solid metal, designed to withstand the mightiest storm-or the explosion of the pipeline itself.

It didn’t seem to matter; the jagged blade sliced down through the door slowly, sawing back and forth, like a knife through hard cheese.

”My God!” Dmitri said.

”Warn the others!” Buyanov said. He rolled off Dmitri’s knees, caught himself against the wall with one hand, and started to get to his feet.

As he did the ruined door slammed open, and there were those things. Buyanov moaned.

”Devil!” Anatoli said.

Then, without warning, moving faster than human eyes could follow, the foremost of the three creatures rammed a spear through Anatoli’s chest. Anatoli crumpled; with his lung pierced he couldn’t even manage a dying scream.

For an instant everyone remained frozen, Anatoli hunched over the blade that had killed him, the other two staring in shock.

Then the initial shock passed.

”Bastards!” Dmitri shouted. He ran for the nearest alarm box.

One of the creatures ran after him, moving inhumanly fast, so fast Buyanov could not properly follow the motion; as Dmitri’s hand reached for the alarm handle the thing’s hand slammed down on the top of the Russian’s head.

Dmitri staggered and fell to his knees, still reaching for the alarm handle. Buyanov watched, still too astonished and terrified to move.

The thing swung its other hand back, and two curving, crooked blades snapped into place, extending from its wrist past its clenched fist.

Still holding Dmitri’s head with one hand, the creature plunged the pair of curved blades into Dmitri’s back.

Dmitri convulsed, jerking wildly, then collapsed limply into death-but in his final spasm his hand closed on the alarm handle and yanked it down.

Buyanov saw all that just before a taloned, yellow-skinned hand smashed across his face, knocking him to the floor. He looked up and screamed.

The last thing he saw was the approaching sandal as the thing set one foot on his face; then the creature leaned its full weight on Sergei Yevgenyevich Buyanov and crushed his skull as if it were the shell of an annoying beetle.