Before the day was out, the group's luck took three more turns for the worse.
It started with the threatening skies.
They had suffered through yesterday’s snow squall, which hadn’t amounted to much, barely dusting the ground. Now the air felt warmer — and wetter. The wind had shifted around to blow out of the southwest.
“It does feel like more snow, Hillbilly," Vaccaro said.
"You would be right about that, City Boy," Cole agreed. “Maybe a lot of snow."
The heavy gray skies seemed to press upon them, but the snow held off. They covered as much ground as they could, knowing that once the snow started to fall, it would slow their progress.
"Hasn't started yet," Vaccaro pointed out. "Maybe it will blow over."
Cole didn't answer. Morning blended into afternoon. The miles passed in a blur, with the only stops for water. Nobody even bothered to light a cigarette — they were too winded.
Just before nightfall, fat flakes the size of silver dollars began to float down lazily out of the sky. Within minutes, however, the snowflakes diminished in size and began to come almost straight down. It was as if a million down pillows had been ripped open in the heavens above.
They kept going in the dusky light, hoping to add another mile or two to their progress.
"We ought to stop," Cole announced. "We'll need some light to build shelters from this snow."
Honaker ignored him. "No, we keep going," he said. "We have flashlights if we need them."
Gloom surrounded them. A dark shape flashed past, and then another. Vaska's laika growled, the raised ruff around his neck feathered with snow.
“Did you see that?” Vaccaro asked nervously. "Some kind of animal. A big animal.”
"We ought to stop soon and make shelter," Cole said. "The Ruskies ain't the only thing on our trail."
“We need to keep going as long as there’s any daylight,” Honaker insisted. “For all we know, those Russians could be right behind us.”
Despite the need for shelter, Honaker made no sign of stopping. He acted as if he could somehow leave the snow behind, if only they kept moving.
The landscape was changing. They left the rocky, shrubby terrain and entered a marshy area, with hummocks of grass frosted by snow, interspersed with frozen ponds and pools, their frozen surfaces covered by a neat layer of snow, like a white tablecloth at a fancy restaurant. They were lucky that the temperature was below freezing. The bog would have been impassable in warm weather.
"Stick to the grass," Cole warned. "There’s no telling if the ice is thick enough to cross."
The trouble was that in the growing darkness, it was hard to find sure footing. In the murky twilight, each step was becoming an act of faith. The grassy hummocks were too narrow in some places for the entire group to pass easily.
Whitlock was crossing one of the frozen pools with Ramsey hanging off his shoulders. The new snow squeaked under his boots. One man might have made it, but the weight of both men was too much. The ice cracked with a noise like a gunshot.
Whitlock felt the ice going, and half-shoved, half-threw Ramsey toward the grassy bridge being crossed by Inna. An instant later, he plunged through the ice. They had a glimpse of Whitlock as he bobbed up and gasped for air.
His hands scrabbled at the edges of the hole, and for a few seconds it looked as if he might get a grip on the ice.
But his hands slipped.
And then he was gone.
It all happened so fast. By the time Inna shouted in alarm, the dark water had already claimed him.
The glacial kettle pool was deceptively deep, because not so much as Whitlock's head was visible. All that remained was a patch of black water, surrounded by cracked ice.
Cole was the first to react. Water was Cole's worst nightmare — he had nearly drowned as a boy when he was caught in one of his own beaver traps in a wintry creek. The fact that he had survived the creek and the cold trek home had taught him a valuable lesson about keeping calm. He had often felt since then that if he could survive that near-drowning, he could handle just about anything.
He rushed past Inna and threw himself down on the ice, which crackled ominously. Seconds later, Whitlock's head bobbed to the surface like a cork. His hands scrabbled for a hold at the slick edges of the ice. Cole grabbed the collar of Whitlock's coat and heaved for all he was worth.
He had been hoping to drag Whitlock onto the ice, but it was pointless. The ice was cracking apart under him so that he couldn't get any leverage. The muscles and tendons all along Cole’s arms and shoulders popped with the strain, but Whitlock outweighed him, and now the other man was soaking wet. It was all Cole could do to keep Whitlock's head above water, never mind haul him to safety.
The ice crackled ominously. Another few seconds, and Cole was going to join Whitlock in the water.
Just then, someone got a firm grip on Cole’s ankles. He heard Samson's deep voice boom, "Hang on!"
Cole felt a mighty tug on his legs. He glanced back. The others had formed a kind of human daisy chain across the ice and onto the firmer ground of the grassy hummock. Samson was stretched out across the ice behind Cole, hanging onto his ankles. Vaccaro was bent over, holding onto Samson, and it looked like Vaska was, in turn, gripping Vaccaro's feet. Even Ramsey was doing the best he could, tugging weakly at one of Vaccaro's legs. Inna stood nearby, hands held to her face in an expression of horror. Honaker simply watched, his rifle cradled in his hands. Cole had the uneasy thought that all Honaker needed to do to take them all out was level the weapon and start shooting. Why on earth would that thought even come to mind — and at that moment, of all times?
Already, the cold sapped the strength from Cole's wet hands, but he wasn't about to let go of Whitlock. He forced his grip tighter, imagining that those weren’t hands at the ends of his wrists, but steel traps.
Slowly, laboriously, Cole felt himself being pulled across the ice. He couldn't even use his elbows, so all he could do was hang onto Whitlock. It was soon clear that steady pressure wasn't enough. They needed one good yank to get free of the hole, just like you would use to land a fish.
"On the count of three, everybody pull!" Vaccaro shouted. "Cole, hang on! One, two—"
It felt as if his legs were being tugged right out of the hip sockets. His shoulders screamed in protest.
Whitlock came out of the hole and flopped on the ice, water streaming from his clothes. Still, Cole didn't release his grip. There was another giant tug, and then they were safely off the ice.
They all stood around, panting, hearts hammering, exhausted from the effort.
Cole took stock. Sharp as glass, the edges of the ice had made some cuts on his wrists that stung even worse in the cold, but the bleeding was nothing serious. More troubling was the fact that his hands were just about frozen and he was wet to the elbows, but the rest of him was mostly dry. He’d be all right as long as he kept moving. Whitlock was soaked to the bone. Saved from drowning, he now shivered uncontrollably in the cold.
The narrow hummock in the middle of the bog was no place to make camp for the night. However, a quarter mile off he could see a dark line of trees in the gathering dusk. Solid ground.
"Come on," he said. “Let’s find some shelter in those trees yonder and then get Whitlock out of these wet clothes before he freezes to death."
"We can camp right here," Honaker said. "Whitlock might not make it to the woods. It's goddamn cold out."
"Then I reckon we had best get a move on," Cole said. “The trees will block the wind.”
Ignoring Honaker’s protests, Cole grabbed Whitlock's left arm. Vaccaro got the idea and grabbed Whitlock's other arm. It was as if they were giving him a bum's rush. With Whitlock's own legs working as best they could, they crossed the bog and headed toward the woods. The others followed, with Samson hauling Ramsey in a fireman's carry.
For the first time since the escape from the Gulag, Cole began to wonder just how the hell they were ever going to make it to Finland.
It wasn't a good sign that Whitlock's legs were mostly dragging now.
Vaccaro stumbled, almost dropping Whitlock. He must have been having the same thought about the mission, because he managed to pant, "Goddamn, Whitlock, you better not turn into a popsicle on us."
"Faster," Cole grunted.
They reached the forest and the trees closed in around them. Immediately, Cole felt safer here, more protected than they had been in the open. The thick evergreen boughs filtered out some of the snow, causing it to fall more slowly. Although it was dusk, the snow reflected what light remained.
They dumped Whitlock in a wet, shivering heap in the snow. The others gathered around.
"We need to build shelters," Cole said. The time had come to give them all a crash course in building shelter. He nodded at a fallen log about three feet off the forest floor. "That deadfall there is a good start. For another shelter, we can set a pole in the fork of a tree. Then cut these here pine branches to make the roof. If you have time, cut a few boughs for the floor, to get yourself out of the snow and off the cold ground."
Cole drew his big Bowie knife and began hacking at the evergreen boughs in the understory. The heavy, razor-sharp blade easily chopped through branches as big around as a broom handle. He began to pile them so that they slanted from the deadfall to the ground, creating a sloped roof. Despite the cover of the forest, snow began to pile up on the branches he cut.
The others set to work making two-man shelters. Honaker and Samson teamed up, first wedging a long branch into the fork of a tree so that it sloped down to the ground, then piling branches against it. Vaska had done this before and worked with efficient strokes of a hatchet to build an evergreen cave for himself and Buka. Cole and Vaccaro completed the shelter using the windfall in minutes.
Cole's arms and chest had gotten wet trying to pull Whitlock out of the water. The activity of building the shelters had kept him warm at first, but now the cold setting in with nightfall was quickly sapping his body heat. He stripped off the wet shirt and thermal top and put on dry clothes, although he had to make do with putting his damp coat back on. He wished they could build a fire to dry out, but it wasn't worth the risk.
As if reading his mind, Honaker said, "We ought to build a fire."
"If we start a fire, them Russians will be on us fast as ants on sugar," Cole said. He pronounced the word as far. "Do you reckon this is a good time to tangle with them?"
"If we don't start a fire, Whitlock is gonna freeze to death," Vaccaro said quietly. "Look at him."
Hypothermia set in when a person's body temperature fell by ten degrees. The plunge into the bog had easily done that to Whitlock's core. He shook uncontrollably. When he tried to speak, the words emerged in a thickened stammer. His movements appeared sluggish.
"There is another way," Cole said. "Body heat. Skin to skin, wrapped up in a blanket."
"Don't go looking at me to when you say that," Vaccaro said. "What do I look like to you, some kind of Nancy boy?"
"It ain't like that," Cole snapped. "It's about keeping Whitlock from freezing to death."
Inna stepped forward. "I will do it."
"All right. Let's get his clothes off."
Getting Whitlock out of his wet clothes wasn't easy — the wet cloth stuck to his sluggish limbs, and it didn't help that their own hands were freezing. Their numb fingers fumbled at the buttons. Finally, they were able to get him out of his wet clothes and wrap him in a blanket.
Inna was already stripping down. Cole held up a blanket to give her some privacy.
"Thank you," she mumbled, draping the blanket around herself. Cole bundled up her clothes to keep them out of the snow, and handed them to Inna. He happened to notice the tiny pistol in her boot and pulled it out. The gun barely filled the palm of his hand.
“Why, Miss Inna, what’s this for?” he asked, amused. “You could maybe shoot a rat with this little thing.”
“What would you Americans say? It is insurance.”
Then she and Whitlock crawled into the deadfall shelter. "You need to get right against him and then wrap the blankets around yourselves."
"I know," she said, sounding slightly annoyed. "Hillbilly, do not forget that I am the one who worked in the infirmary.”
“Roger that.”
Although Ramsey had not gotten wet, he was also shivering — when he wasn't wracked by bouts of coughing. "Too bad we don't have an extra nurse to wrap herself around me," he said with a smirk. "Some guys have all the luck."
"Go on in there and huddle up against them as best you can," Cole advised. "It's the best we can do without a fire."
Ramsey did just that, and Cole cut more boughs to close off the front face of the deadfall shelter. The falling snow would add another layer of insulation.
"Now what?" Vaccaro asked, tilting his head into the falling snow. In the growing darkness under the trees, Cole could barely see him.
"Smoke 'em if you got 'em," Cole said. "We ain't goin' nowhere until daylight. The snow ought to cover our tracks soon enough, so I’m not worried about Barkov. Let's get some sleep."
"All right, but don't go spooning up against me now," Vaccaro said.
Cole cackled. "When it gets right cold in the middle of the night, City Boy, ain't gonna be no strangers."
Huddled inside the shelter, Inna felt like some forest creature. The rough-cut fir boughs smelled pleasant, and in the silence she could hear the soft patter of snow accumulating around them. It reminded her of how she had built forts out of blankets and chairs as a child. She had felt safe then. Cozy.
There was something reassuring, too, about sharing simple body heat with Harry. Although it was wrong, she had to admit that she had dreamed of such a moment, when she could be flesh on flesh, skin to skin, with this man. He still shivered, and she wrapped her legs and arms around him as if she could soak right into him, her belly pressed into his back.
"Inna, I—"
"Shhh," she whispered. What was there to say? She was simply glad that he was alive.
A few spasms still worked their way through his body. Inna maneuvered so that she lay on top of him, like a blanket. She could feel every contour of his body, every rib and muscle. She could feel that he was a man, stirred by her warm body. She took his cold hands and guided them to the warmth between her thighs. He flinched. To his icy fingers, the heat felt like a furnace.
Their lips brushed, and then Harry was kissing her, deeply and longingly. His lips still trembled with the cold. It was a kiss that had been delayed for weeks and months by the ever-watchful eyes surrounding them in the Gulag. Indeed, it had proven easier to escape than to steal a few moments of such intimacy.
They held their breath, not wanting to be overheard. Ramsey lay nearby, wrapped in a blanket, already passed out from exhaustion, judging by his measured breathing. Perhaps he was just pretending, hoping to give them some measure of privacy.
She spread her legs and took him into her, which only seemed natural and beautiful. They lay that way for several minutes, simply coupled together, sharing warmth. She clenched him tight inside her. His hips shifted and lifted her, up, up, again and again, both of them moving together, struggling to be as quiet as possible. Inna smothered her cries in his shoulder. Finally, they both seemed to melt into the other. She lay there listening to his heart thudding in his chest, thinking that, just perhaps, it was not such a bad thing to be here in this snow-covered shelter forever.
Together, they drifted off to sleep.
Cole crawled into his own shelter, glad of the slight warmth it offered. Vaccaro was already sound asleep. Cole had thought he might stay awake for a while, standing guard, but exhaustion seeped through his limbs and he found himself falling asleep. Before he did so, he looked up at the sky through the gaps in the branches that made up the roof of the shelter. Snow had a way of reflecting the light, so that the sky was more gray than black when framed against the treetops.
Many times as a boy he had slept rough in the woods rather than return home to face his drunken pa. He would wedge himself under some rocky outcropping and look up at the shimmering stars, picking out the shape of the constellations that his pa had taught him when sober. When you knew the names of the stars in the sky, you were never alone. Orion the Hunter, with his bright belt of three stars in the southern sky, and Cassiopeia the vain queen, kept him company.
The snow must have been letting up, because he thought he glimpsed a single star through the thinning clouds. It was a comforting sight. The clouds drifted across again, and Cole slept.
Cole always had been a light sleeper. He couldn’t say what woke him. Maybe the sleeping part of his brain detected the almost inaudible crunch of snow crystals under a paw, or possibly some part of his subconscious heard the sound of the wolf’s warm breath turning to fog just beyond the opening of his shelter.
That was all the noise that the predator made, but Cole’s eyes flicked open. He held himself perfectly still. The snow created a soft, suffused glow like starlight, and against the backdrop of the forest he saw the wolf looking in.
Slowly, he raised himself to a sitting position facing the opening in his shelter. The eyes that stared back could have been cousins to his own. They glittered in the light reflected by the falling snow. Cole tried to see something in the wolf’s eyes, some glimmer of intelligence. They were a hunter’s eyes, but far from human.
Cole observed the long snout, felt the warm breath inches from his face. The wolf watched him back. They seemed to glare at each other like two old gunfighters, each daring the other to make a move.
The moment was broken when, quick as a copperhead’s strike, Cole balled his fist and struck the snout. The beast yelped and fell back, momentarily stunned, before baring its teeth and approaching the shelter in a crouch, growling. Now, there was no mistaking the wolf’s intent. Cole went at him again, making a snarling sound that wasn’t quite human, this time with his long, gleaming knife in his fist.
He slashed at the wolf and the beast fell away. In the clearing, another ghost-like shape went past, and another. The silence of the lithe shapes was more unnerving than the sight of them.
The camp was under attack, not by Russians, but by wolves.
Not more than twenty feet away, Inna woke because feather-soft snowflakes dusted her face. She blinked awake, surprised that it was not entirely dark; the fresh snow all around them in the forest reflected the light and suffused the air with a kind of soft glow. Harry was sound asleep. Ramsey too.
More snow hit her face, not so gently now, and she thought it must be Cole or one of the others shifting the outer boughs of the shelter.
"What is it?" she whispered, but there was no answer.
She propped herself up on an elbow and peered at the boughs as they separated, expecting to see a familiar face. Instead, two yellow eyes appeared, and then a long, dark snout. It was the face of a wolf, wide as a shovel, fetid canine breath steaming in the narrow space of the shelter.
Inna screamed.