Final Winter

Imad strolled over to the four young men and women, confidence in his step, one hand held out in a friendly greeting, the other behind his back, holding the automatic pistol. There was bile at the back of Vladimir’s throat as he saw what was going on, and a part of him that he thought was civilized, a part that he had left behind in Mother Russia, that part of him wanted to warn the four rock climbers out there — children, really — of what was approaching them. For death was walking near, with a friendly smile and a hand held out in friendship. He wondered if this was what it was like in Palestine, when the suicide bombers approached a school bus or a nightclub or a pizza parlor with that same mystic confidence that they were doing God’s work.

Vladimir did not believe in God, had never believed in God. But now, in this American desert, he was sure that he believed in the Devil.

One of the young men called out something and Imad replied in a friendly voice as he approached them. He said something else, and the four came to him. Vladimir thought, how sly, he got them to come to him and—

Imad’s hidden hand whipped out, and Vladimir saw the confusion in the rock climbers’ eyes. What could this mean? How was this happening? How had a safe day of rock climbing and adventure and a lunch eaten in the wilderness and a night ahead planned, perhaps a restaurant with a good meal and cold beer and lots of laughs and lovemaking later — how had it turned into this?

How?

They started to move but, like sheep before a wolf, they moved too slow and they moved separately. If they had been smarter and tougher — there were four of them against Imad -maybe something could have been done. But this was not a day for maybes and—

The first shot seemed to hit the tattooed man in the chest. He fell to his knees. The next shot caught the other young man in the side as he was turning, his goateed face twisted in fear and horror.

Vladimir thought, the Arab boy’s doing well, shooting the men, the obvious threats first, and now—

Now the women were screaming, turning to flee.

Imad shot each of them once in the back.

He paused.

All four young people were moving some. The tattooed man was on his knees, hands at his chest.

Imad stepped behind him, placed the muzzle of the pistol against the back of his skull, fired again. The tattooed man fell forward.

The goateed man was yelling, ‘Please, Jesus, don’t, please, don’t…’ as he tried to get up, one hand on the ground, the other hand against his side.

Imad moved again. Pistol barrel against the rear of the head.

Another shot.

Vladimir closed his eyes.

The girls were screaming and crying and then there were two more shots.

Then silence.

The Russian opened his eyes.

Imad strolled back, smiling, the pistol now tucked in his waistband.

‘We have work to do,’ he said.

Vladimir said, ‘Yes, we do.’

He swallowed and followed Imad back to the Jeep Wrangler. It took a while. From the gear of the rock climbers, he and Imad took out ponchos and tarpaulins. Once the material was spread over the bodies, it was easier to work, for they didn’t have to look at their victims’ faces, didn’t have to look at the blood and exposed bone and brain tissue. Vladimir worked with the Arab in wrapping up the bodies and tying them tight with bungee cords.

It took some work, but the bodies and the gear were eventually placed in the Wrangler. Vladimir was breathing hard and his legs and arms hurt when they were through. He said, ‘It looks like you have experience with this, wrapping up bodies.’

Imad laughed. ‘Yes. Bodies in the desert. Some experience. We don’t have time to bury them, so to wrap them up like this is the next best thing. Keeps animals and vultures away for a while, so there are no curious people wanting to know why the animals are excited. Not good enough to last very long, but long enough for us to be on our way.’

Vladimir nodded, rubbed his shaking hands. Imad said, ‘I will drive this Jeep away and be back in a few minutes. It shouldn’t take long to get out of here.’

Another nod. Vladimir couldn’t think what to say to the boy.

He walked back to the truck and started packing up gear they had used. He stripped away the heavy brown paper and then put on the new license plates. Using large decals, he followed the design schematics and made the truck into something else.

Imad came back after a bit, whistling, and they broke down the scaffolding, not saying anything except what had to be said to get the job done. Vladimir watched the boy work, wondering what was going on behind those calm brown eyes, those eyes that had seen what had to be done and whose owners had then done it. Killed four complete strangers, two young men and two young women, with hardly a moment of hesitation or guilt.

And he, the mighty doctor from the old, terrifying Soviet Union? He had almost pissed his pants like a Gorky Park drunk at the thought. But the barbarian youth, he had killed when necessary — and had done it with skill.