SNAFU: Hunters

“Orlov wasn’t just leading a search-and-destroy operation,” said Zakharov. “According to this he was also tasked with a mission by Gleb Bokii, a senior NKVD official conducting research into paranormal phenomenon. Code-named Operation Hades, it was an investigation into the origins of the ghouls.” He flicked to the next page. “In the village of Turukhansk Orlov discovered this file. It’s the testimony of a White officer named Grishin, who was captured and interrogated by Red partisans in March 1920.”

Kravchenko exhaled smoke, contemplating the glowing tip of his cigarette. “That’s shortly after the first reports of ghoul attacks.”

Zakharov carefully leafed through the file itself. The original testimony had been taken down in longhand and then a summary typed up. Some sections were so faded and stained they were illegible, but he was still able to read enough to piece together the essential facts.

At length he said, “Grishin was an aristocrat who belonged to the reactionary Black Hundreds before the Revolution so during the Civil War he joined the White counter-revolutionaries, serving on Admiral Kolchak’s staff. In November 1919, after Omsk fell and Kolchak’s White Army was forced to retreat, Grishin was dispatched on a secret mission.”

The men listened in rapt attention as the wind moaned outside like a lost soul. Despite the warmth inside the tent they unconsciously shivered.

Zakharov continued, his gaze scouring the pages. “An admitted occultist, Grishin claimed his assignment had been to perform black magic rituals in the arctic to summon the ghouls, the idea being that the Whites would use them against the Bolsheviks. Kolchak had supposedly discovered evidence of the creatures’ existence during the two polar expeditions he participated in before the First World War.”

“Well, if that’s true it sure backfired,” said Kravchenko. “Ghouls can’t be controlled and they slaughter everybody regardless of their politics. But if this crazy officer summoned them, why didn’t he unsummon them after he realized his mistake?”

“He said he wasn’t able to undo what he’d done. Even if he could, he was executed after his interrogation. Kolchak had been captured at Irkutsk a month earlier, but during his interrogation he was never asked about the ghouls, which no one suspected the Whites had anything to do with. Kolchak, of course, was executed too. And for some reason this file was never forwarded to Moscow. It was forgotten and ended up collecting dust in Turukhansk until Orlov found it.”

“What about Operation Hades? There was no follow-up by Bokii?”

“He was liquidated during the purges. Paranormal investigation fell into disfavor.”

Kravchenko shook his head in disgust and tossed his cigarette stub into the stove. “They shot everybody who could tell us anything.”

Zakharov carefully slid the file back into the case. “Well, for sure our bosses will want to read this.”

They went to sleep, but Zakharov only allowed his men a few precious hours of rest. Beyond the burned area the forest resumed, but then gradually thinned out. Soon the taiga ended entirely and gave way to barren plains of tundra, in the twilight an empty blue-white expanse stretching to the horizon. Only moss and lichen and grass grew here so nothing blocked the whining, bitter wind that whipped the team.

They encountered a man in a long parka riding a wooden sledge pulled by two reindeer, which he guided with a long pole. He was a Nenets, one of the native tribes living in the arctic. In recent years the government had tried forcing them to give up their traditional nomadic lifestyle, so the man was wary when he saw the soldiers.

Okhchen was an Evenki, another reindeer-herding people, and he rode forward in greeting. Okhchen spoke the man’s language and at one point the Nenets gestured towards a distant blue ridgeline with his pole. Finally the man moved on, and Okhchen reported to Zakharov.

“He’s from a clan fleeing the ghouls, Comrade Lieutenant. Says their hole is on the other side of those hills.”

Zakharov nodded. “That’s where the trail is headed.”

Dusk came. The northern lights appeared, shimmering green ribbons writhing across the black sky casting an alien glow bright enough to read by. The ground became rugged as it sloped up to the ridge. Zakharov could not see any footprints on the bare rock, but Okhchen still discerned faint traces – dislodged stones, chipped ice, bruised moss – and they followed it up to the crest. The opposite side dropped off sharply in an escarpment, the trail plunging down a narrow draw.

They filed down the draw, the horses picking their way carefully over loose scree at the bottom. Okhchen rode ahead and then stopped. He beckoned and pointed.