Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
“And those things aren’t going to...” Rolling his neck from side to side as if to work out kinks, Davila winced then cupped his left shoulder with his right hand. “Aren’t going to kill us?” he asked, giving his shoulder a gentle roll backward and then forward.
“Not as long as we leave the door open a bit.” Teasing a knob, John adjusted the wick of a paraffin heater until the orange flames hissed and licked at the bottom of a stainless-steel cap. From his scouting days, he knew the cap was meant to serve as a stove, so he’d filled an aluminum cookpot with snow and squared that on the heater’s cap.
The heater was one of three he’d found in the cargo container along with plastic containers of fuel. After hauling all three heaters and two cans of fuel over, he’d used an axe from a stash of tools in the second container, upended a chair from the office, and hacked off a leg. That, he’d wedged into the door’s hinges before firing up the heater. Once done, he’d gone back to the first cargo container and retrieved a bladder of frozen water as well as a can of coffee, another of tea, a fistful of cold-weather MREs, dehydrated soup packets, a few boxes of crackers and cookies with Russian labels, and batteries for their flashlights. If they were lucky, the bladder’s contents would melt by morning.
“It’s not going to get toasty in here because the space isn’t big enough to allow for enough ventilation,” he said, “but we’re not going to freeze, and we won’t get carbon monoxide poisoning.”
“Sucks about the gen...” Davila coughed, winced, grabbed at his shoulder again. “Generator.”
“Yeah.” He figured diesel would be a precious commodity. If there’d been any left at the end of the presumptive tourist season, whoever worked here probably carted it off. The fact that there were red plastic jerry cans, full of gasoline, was interesting, though. Parviz had extra gas but, if and when they took van out of here, swiping a couple of extra jerries wasn’t a bad idea. “Might be a blessing in disguise, though. Nobody will know we’re here unless they happen by and spot the van, which they probably won’t because of the snow and cold. Soon as the weather clears, though, we’re out of here,” he said, handing Davila a mug of steaming bouillon. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Davila blew away steam, coughed, placed his right palm on the left side of his chest over his heart. “Ow.”
His own did a little flip. “Where’s it hurt?”
“Neck.” Davila worked his head from side to side again. “Sleeping on that cot, I th-think.”
Could be. Davila’s face glistened with fresh sweat, but it was also now much warmer in here than before. Not toasty, but enough so even John’s armpits were moist.
Or Davila might be mounting a fever. Which would be a whole other level of badness.
“What about your chest?” he asked.
“Where the bullet hit? I’m fine. It’s sore, but that’s what happens with bone meets bullet. It’s the cot, I’m telling you. Just not doing me any favors.”
“Yeah, you said that. I think once we’re done eating, it would be good for you to get up and walk around a bit. Just so long as you’re not dizzy. I should take your temp, too.”
“Whatever you say, Mom.” Clearing his throat, Davila sipped, smacked his lips. “What’s the flavor supposed to be?”
“Chicken.” At the look on Davila’s face, he added, “No?”
“Mainly salty with a hint of...” Davila took another small swallow. “Celery? M-mostly salt.”
“Not a bad thing.” Davila needed fluids and as everyone knew, your grandmother’s chicken soup was, most often, a nice sodium-rich fluid. But there’s something else . He had a feeling he was missing something. While Davila’s color wasn’t bad, that cough bothered him. Yet, when he’d taken a listen ten minutes ago, he’d heard only Davila’s breath sounds. No bulging neck veins, no deviation of the man’s trachea, nothing to suggest a worst-case scenario. Too early for anything like an infection, although Davila had been just lying around, and people who did that were cases of pneumonia waiting to happen.
“What are you thinking?”
“What?” He looked up to find Davila’s dark eyes, glittery as a crow’s. “Would you believe all the years I wasted stamp collecting?”
Davila didn’t laugh or even smile. “You do that a lot.”
“What?” He mixed up another mug of broth. “Tell bad jokes?”
“ Deflect with bad jokes.” His surprise must’ve leaked onto his face because Davila’s lips wobbled into a grin. “You pick up a couple things when you’re m-married to a therapist.”
“And here I thought you were so insightful.” Turning to the boy, who sat swaddled in a sleeping bag, he extended a mug. “Matvey, drink. Careful, though,” he said as the boy reached for the mug. “Hot.” He didn’t know the word for hot so blew steam from the soup. “Hot.”
“Spasibo.” Cradling the mug in both hands, the boy smiled, ducked his head then blew on the soup. “ Sup goryachiy.” The boy mimicked what John had done, again. “Goryachiy. ”
“Even I got that one. Let me guess.” Davila sucked in a breath. “ Goryachiy . M-means hot.”
“So I would assume.” Raising his own mug, he toasted the kid. “Spasibo.” To Davila: “I just told him thank you.”
“Got that, too.” Davila paused. “Nice pet. Teaching his master new words.”
“Hey, look on the bright side. Doesn’t chew the furniture or poo on the rug.”
Davila grunted. “When you going to take off the...” He broke off, coughed into a fist then said, in a strangled voice, “Zip-ties?”
“I’ve kind of had too many things to do and think about.”
“Uh-huh. Well, we can’t take him.” Davila palmed his left shoulder. “You know that, right?”
“Is this where I say that’s obvious?” Arching his back, he let out a small moan as his bones creaked and cracked. Something about what Davila had just said—about how he felt—also niggled at the base of his brain. What was it? “Been a little busy.”
“So, what do we do with the kid?”
“Beats me. We have some time to decide.”
“Mmm.” Davila studied the contents of his mug. “Speaking of decisions…”
When Davila didn’t continue, John stopped stretching. “What?”
“I’ve made a decision.”
“Yeah? ”
“Yeah.” Rolling his shoulders again, Davila cleared his throat. “I’m done, John. I’m done.”