Murmansk-13

“Ilya is in the storeroom with the girl,” Oleg said hovering between the door and the office chair in which Kirill now looked so very small. “I can hear them.”

“So?” Kirill creased his face.

“So you can speak to the men at the barricade, convince them to come with us,” Gennady looked imploringly at Kirill. “It’s not too late. We will outnumber Ilya.”

Kirill gulped and let his head fall into his hands. When he answered his voice was a whisper. “No.”

Jamal and Gennady sank back to their haunches. Katja’s whimpering shivered above the cadence of the failing District. The toxic essence of gasoline stifled and poisoned the air. The lights flickered as Kirill’s eyes darted to the clock once more.

“Then I’m sorry, Kirill,” Oleg said quietly and repentant. “Truly, I am.”

The former Red Army infantryman stepped forward, despite a dispassionate mien, his intention was apparent. Kirill had no time to cry out, instead he fumbled for the unloaded junk gun, spilling the pistol to the deck as Oleg grabbed his throat. The leather chair rammed against the bulkhead as Kirill flailed against Oleg’s grip.

Jamal watched, numb, as Kirill’s eyes widened and bulged from their sockets. Gennady bowed his head and whispered something Jamal believed was a prayer. “Have mercy upon me, O God, after thy great goodness; according to the multitude of thy mercies do away mine offences…”

“I wish things could have been different,” Oleg’s grip remained firm, Kirill’s flailing grew weaker, his eyes rolling up into his head. “I will mourn for my soul and for your family.”

Kirill stopped moving, but Jamal could see the veins and tendons in the back of Oleg’s hand remain taut. The room was suddenly silent save for the mutterings of Gennady. “O All-honourable Abode of God, grant unto me the heavenly, the supersensual abode, after that thou hast kindled my expiring and unradiant light by the holy oil of thy mercy.” A tear slipped from Gennady’s cheek, dashing dust from where it fell against the laminated deck.

Another moment passed before Oleg finally loosened his grip. He stepped back and regarded Kirill’s corpse as if in a daze. “We must act quickly,” he began, not averting his eyes from Kirill. “Before he is found.”

“Then get these fucking restraints off,” Jamal was surprised by how ragged he sounded.

“I don’t understand,” said Gennady as Oleg finally turned away and pulled out a kitchen knife concealed in his waistband. The large deserter began sawing away the cable ties binding Jamal’s wrists and ankles.

“We needed someone on the inside, someone Ilya and Kirill trusted,” Jamal flexed his hands, trying to quell the pins and needles as blood re-entered the capillaries in his fingers. “Oleg came to me, told me what was happening. I just wish I’d acted on it sooner, maybe we coulda avoided this.” Jamal regained his feet wearily. His legs felt heavy. “I woulda acted on it, but I thought this ship,” Jamal had to catch himself as a rush of sudden emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “I thought this ship would save us from this.”

Gennady slumped to the floor as the restraints parted under Oleg’s knife. “It wasn’t your fault, Jamal. Neither yours Oleg. Ultimately I failed you all.”

“As cathartic as this is, our window is getting smaller,” Oleg secreted the knife back in his waistband and stood between Jamal and Gennady.

“I’m not leaving without Andrei and the girls,” Jamal tried to peer through the frosted glass to see if anyone outside had been alerted. Kirill’s supporters milled a safe distance from the guardroom door. A fifth man was foraging in the dwindling supplies crate. The remaining District seemingly abandoning rationing in the belief that Gennady had truly been hoarding stores.

“They kill us if we go out there,” Oleg said, although there was no disagreement in his assessment. “Especially you.”

“I know. But I need to make things right,” Jamal shrugged. “Well, as right as I can. I brought them here when I knew it wasn’t…

“Anyway, I have a plan. But I need to borrow your blade, Oleg.”

☣☭☠

The sounds and smells of District Four rushed into Gennady’s office as Oleg cracked the door open. While gasoline and carpet glue were familiar, the prevalent smell of rot seemed the most fitting. Jamal felt the weight of the kitchen knife in his hand, the textured plastic grip in his palm as full sensation returned to his extremities. A couple of Kirill’s men had abandoned the guardroom door, for how long and to where Jamal couldn’t guess, but they hadn’t headed toward the office. He knew he and Oleg had to act fast. “Memorise where that door and that door are in relation to one another. We’ll work our way back.”

Oleg nodded.