Return to Dyatlov Pass

~ Prologue ~

Ural Mountains, Soviet Union

March 1959

The moment before she died, Lyudmila wondered how it had gone so terribly wrong. Concealed within a makeshift snow cave for warmth and protection, she huddled close to Nicolai, though her friend’s body had long grown cold and stiff.

“Remember, Mila,” he’d counseled her. “Whatever you do, do not scream. However frightened you get, whatever happens, you must stay quiet. You will be the one to survive, to tell our families what befell us.”

Her tears had frozen on her cheeks long ago. The air was so frigid it would not allow her to grieve properly. Whatever loneliness and pain she felt at losing her last remaining friend, the man who had given up everything to protect her, must stay locked away. When she’d made it safely home, she would mourn him. But not yet. For now, her focus had to be on survival.

Lyudmila had spent most winters exploring these mountains on skis. She was well versed in the symptoms of hypothermia and frostbite. If she didn’t find a way to raise her body temperature soon, she wouldn’t draw breath much longer. Ignoring the tingling in her weary arms, she pushed herself away from Nicolai, crawling on her stomach through the snow to the crumpled heap that was Alexander. Of the little group in the cave, Alexander had been the first to die. She averted her eyes from his frozen face as she undid the laces on his boots and tugged. The boots were too big for her, but they were warmer than her own. With the wool socks she’d collected from Semyon, she could make them fit.

She forced several more socks and a boot onto her stiffening foot, flexing her toes while she bit on her lip to keep from crying out. The burning in her extremities, however torturous, was welcome. It meant her feet weren’t frostbitten—yet.

A crack from the surrounding forest startled her, making her pause with her hands on Alexander’s second boot. Another crack, followed by a series of rustles and the pattering of cedar branches falling on snow. Lyudmila whimpered before clapping both hands over her mouth, pressing hard enough that her front teeth broke through the skin on her upper lip, flooding her mouth with the metallic tang of her own blood.

“No,” she moaned under her breath. “No.” She looked at Nicolai, who lay on the other side of their shelter. He was so far away, too far for her to make it in time. She should never have left him. When the others had occasionally mocked her, dismissing her as the youngest in the group, only he had believed in her. He’d called her brave. Though her corneas felt glazed with ice, Lyudmila’s eyes welled with tears once more. She dared not let them fall. Her tormentors were attuned to the slightest sound, like foxes poised to hear their dinner scurrying under the snow. She would not scurry, but she would slide back to Nicolai’s side. Even in death, he would protect her.

Ignoring her shrieking nerve endings, Lyudmila began the slow, agonizing crawl to her friend. She was a dozen feet away when she heard the worst sound of all, the one they’d come to dread more than any other.

The sound of meat being torn from bone.

Biting her lip again, she focused on Nicky to keep from screaming. Her upper thighs, strong from years of skiing, propelled her forward along the snowpack. Swish, swish. Swish, swish. She timed her movements to match the horrible chewing, careful that the slightest rustle of her snow pants was concealed beneath the other sound, but she’d forgotten.

Forgotten the siren call of fresh blood.

In spite of the frigid temperatures, sweat beaded her forehead and trickled down her nose from her efforts. Swish, swish. Swish, swish. Dearest Nicky. Soon he would be close enough to touch. The last remaining warmth from his body would renew her courage. At his side, she would survive this night, and in the morning, with his good coat protecting her from the elements, she would attempt to make her way down the mountain to safety.

Lyudmila was inches away from Nicolai’s body when a flash of white broke through the snow in front of her, seizing her friend’s skull and popping it like an overripe grape. As the deep crimson of Nicky’s blood painted their sanctuary the color of death, she forgot her last promise to him.

She screamed.

She was still screaming when her tongue was torn out, along with the inside of her mouth.