SNAFU: Hunters

“We were lucky,” said Zakharov. “There were only two and the horses smelled them before they got too close.”

Kravchenko grunted. “That’s what worries me.”

“Why?”

“Ghouls don’t appear to be intelligent, Comrade Lieutenant, not in our sense of the word, but they’re not stupid either. They’re cunning like any predator. They’ve been shrieking back and forth all day, communicating. Communicating about us and the other teams. Our flares pinpoint our locations.”

“Unfortunately we can’t help it. We have no radios.”

“For sure the ghouls know all about us – what we are, where we are, how many of us there are. So why are they attacking us just a few at a time or in small packs? If there aren’t that many of them, then why not avoid us entirely and hunt for easier prey?”

“I don’t know. When you put it that way, it doesn’t make sense.”

Kravchenko stood. “No, it doesn’t.”

* * *

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but the team slept fitfully and rose before dawn. After a quick breakfast they resumed the hunt by moonlight. The trail turned due north.

As the first feeble rays of sunlight filtered through the trees Okhchen spotted something away from the trail and rode over to take a closer look. He got off his horse and examined the ground. Zakharov went to see what he was looking at. Okhchen brushed away snow to uncover yellowed, splintered bones, scraps of khaki fabric, a few black buttons, and the slashed remnants of boots and accouterments.

“Another ghoul victim?” asked Zakharov, dismounting.

“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant, but this fellow died a long time ago.” Okhchen bent and plucked from a frayed pocket an identification booklet, its red cloth cover stained and faded. He was illiterate so he showed it to Zakharov.

Zakharov grunted with interest. “NKVD.”

A rusted Nagant revolver lay nearby and he picked it up. Flicking down the loading gate, he rotated the cylinder to check the chambers. All seven rounds were spent. “He didn’t go down without a fight.” He glanced over the remains and noticed a skull fragment with a small, round hole in it. “Looks like he saved the last bullet for himself.”

“He was carrying this,” said Okhchen, holding up a map case of brown leather, battered and cracked by the elements but otherwise intact. He peered inside. “It’s filled with old papers.”

Zakharov took the case and the identification and put both in his saddlebag. “I’ll look at them later. We need to move on.”

They hurried on. Far to the west a yellow flare arced like a comet above the forest. Shortly thereafter they heard faint gunfire. The flurry of shots intensified.

“One of the other teams has found ghouls too,” said Kravchenko, reining in.

The shooting tapered off and ceased. A green flare went up.

“And they eliminated them,” said Zakharov. “Let’s go.”

At length Okhchen halted again, studying the ground. Zakharov saw tracks branching off in the trampled snow. Ahead, beyond this divergence, the trail became wider and heavier with more spoor than before.

“The ghouls split up here,” said Okhchen. “Those tracks going west are probably from the pack the other team ran into.”

Zakharov nodded. “That means we’re following the main trail. Good.”

Ahead lay a great swath of taiga devastated by wildfire, likely sparked by lightning last spring or summer and destroying thousands of hectares before finally burning itself out. Isolated tree trunks scorched by flame stood stark and black in a landscape of utter desolation. Hooves crackled and snapped on burned timber buried under the snow crust. They stopped to camp.

After eating, Zakharov examined the papers of the dead NKVD man. He flipped open the identification booklet. The photograph of a stern young man was inside along with the identification number, issue date, issuing authority, his rank and position, and so forth.

“So who was he, Comrade Lieutenant?” asked Kravchenko, rolling a cigarette.

“Junior Lieutenant of State Security Boris Stepanovich Sukhishvili, 13th Rifle Regiment, NKVD Internal Troops.”

“Those were the ones massacred on the Tunguska six years ago. Far away from where we are. No survivors. What was he doing way out here?”

Zakharov turned his attention to the map case. Inside was a bundle of loose pages tied together that comprised an old file, the paper yellowed with age and stained from moisture. He untied it and began reading, starting with a hastily-scribbled note on top.

“He was trying to get back to his base,” he said. “He was a courier from Vladimir Orlov, the regimental commander. When the ghouls attacked, Orlov realized he was doomed and tried to save this file by sending it off with Sukhishvili.”

“What’s so special about it?”