Potboiler

Pfefferkorn, still frowning, nodded.

“As I said, it is a rare honor to meet someone new.” Fyothor patted Pfefferkorn’s shoulder and left this hand there, as though Pfefferkorn was a wayward child. Pfefferkorn’s heart hiccuped. Before he could think of something to say, the troika appeared in a slowly churning cloud of dust. It came to a halt and they climbed aboard. Fyothor murmured to the driver and handed him some notes. The driver nodded. Rather than execute a three-point turn to take them back toward the city center, he cracked his whip and the troika began to inch forward.

Pfefferkorn’s frown was now genuine. “Where are we going?”

“It is a lovely day, yes?” Fyothor said. “Let us enjoy it.”

They rumbled alongside fields amok with clover. Sunlight enameled the languishing carcasses of Soviet tractors. Soon the space between farmhouses lengthened, as pitted asphalt turned to dried, rutted mud, and the whirr of insects rose high enough that Fyothor had to bellow to be heard. Pfefferkorn wasn’t listening. The thought of being outnumbered and outweighed, with only his fists and feet for weapons, had him in such a state that for a moment he neglected to frown. He felt the ends of his moustache turning skyward and brought them back down.

They came to a fork in the road. A corroded sign indicated three kilometers to the ruined nuclear reactor. The driver took the other, unmarked road. Pfefferkorn stirred.

“It is not far,” Fyothor said.

Up ahead, a line of trees demarcated the northern edge of the Lykhabvo Forest, off-limits to tourists and locals alike as part of the exclusion zone. Fyothor had the driver pull over. He handed him a few more notes and told him to wait.

“Come,” Fyothor said, putting his arm around Pfefferkorn’s waist and marching him into the woods.

79.

The effects of high-dose radiation were evident all around them. Oaks and maples bore asymmetrical leaves the size of guitars. Psychedelic ferns genuflected in the breeze. Nine-toed squirrels with patchy fur scampered over boulders blackened by lichen. Beneath the smells Pfefferkorn associated with a normal forest (sweet decaying vegetation, savory sunlit rock) lay an unnatural, chemical base note. He could get cancer just by being here. But that concern was overridden by a more pressing one. He and Fyothor were alone.

“Pretty, yes?”

Pfefferkorn, frowning, did not reply. He was trying to figure out why Fyothor had left the troika driver behind. If two men went into the forest and only one emerged, that demanded an explanation—unless it was the expected outcome. So the driver had to be in on it. But then why trade four arms for two? The answer must be that Fyothor didn’t consider Pfefferkorn dangerous. This had to be counted as an advantage, albeit a slight one that might not hold much longer. The sooner he acted, the better. He spied a half-buried stone with a sharp edge. He visualized himself diving to the ground, rolling toward the stone, prying it up, and using it—all before Fyothor had a chance to react. Too many potential snafus, he decided. He didn’t know how big the hidden part of the rock was. It might not come up easily or at all. He passed. They walked on, following a widening creek. Fyothor, his hand around Pfefferkorn’s waist, was talking about the hardships he had endured growing up, a large family and a tiny hut. There was no word for privacy in Zlabian, did Pfefferkorn know that? Pfefferkorn, still frowning, scanned the forest floor. It was spongy with mutant foliage, pine needles as long as pool cues curling in piles. There were countless broken branches, any one of which would have made a decent club had he stopped to pick it up. He waited for his training to kick in. Yet his body was rubbery and accepting as Fyothor urged him on. Muscle memory, Pfefferkorn shouted to himself. Solar plexus! Pressure points! It was awful, being jostled along toward death like a rag doll.