Notes from My Captivity(25)

I flop back on my sleeping bag and fall back to sleep.

Dan wakes me up.

“Almost dawn,” he whispers, lifting the flap of my tent. I crawl out to greet him. He’s slept in his clothes, is rumpled and ready for action.

“Well?” I say.

He looks truly crushed.

“We’re going back, kid.”

I don’t try to argue with him. I know it’s over. And to be honest, I feel relieved. I no longer have the heart for this. And the article I was going to write doesn’t feel nearly as important. Dan had a dream and I ruined it. Even if there is no family, I didn’t want his great expedition to end this way.

“I understand,” I tell him.

He nods and then smiles ruefully. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“The Russians are passed out on the ground. Right there where they were partying. They didn’t even make it to their tents.”

We walk over to the dead campfire, where they lie facing the morning sky. They actually look pretty content, considering the hangovers that will greet them once they awaken. Lyubov has a faint smile on her face. Her arm is stretched out, her fingers curved and touching Viktor’s face. Sergei lies nearby, peaceful as a boy.

Dan taps Viktor’s boot with the tip of his own. “Hey! Time to get up.”

Viktor doesn’t move.

Dan leans down and shakes him. “Viktor!”

Nothing happens. And I realize that Viktor’s eyes aren’t quite closed. Dan touches the side of his face and pulls back in shock.

“My God,” he says.

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask frantically. I bend over Lyubov, grab her arm and let it go immediately. It’s stiff and cold.

She is dead.

I look at Sergei and I realize his eyes are open.

Sergei is dead.

Viktor is dead.

They are all dead.





* * *



I myself thought I knew death, until I saw death. Death was not the way I imagined it to be.

Sydney Declay



* * *





Nine


I can only stare at them as a wave of pure horror takes over my body. Sergei’s lips are half parted. His skin is light blue. The mountains close in. The low sun burns. I fall to my hands and knees and vomit.

“I don’t believe this.” Dan moans. He’s running his hands over Sergei’s face and throat. Prying his eyelids apart. He moves over to the others, shakes Viktor.

“Viktor! Please! Come on, Viktor. . . .”

I vomit again.

“Okay, okay, okay.” Dan is on his feet, rubbing his eyes with the flats of his hands, his movements jerky. “We have got to stay calm!” He looks down, notices me. “Adrienne, get up.”

He pulls me to my feet and gives me a hard, desperate hug, then wrenches away and looks around wildly.

“Help me find Sergei’s gun, Adrienne!” Blindly we both rush into Sergei’s tent, clawing through his belongings.

His gun is gone and so is his satellite radio. We rush from tent to tent now, throwing clothes and shoes and dried food around. All our cameras, iPods, the other satellite radio, GPS devices, laptops, tablets, phones, even the flashlights—are gone.

“Oh no.” The moan comes out of my throat as the realization sinks in—we have no weapons and no way to call for help. And we are the only ones left alive.

We stumble out of the last tent, enter the clearing again with the dead. Dan is wild-eyed, sweaty. The sight of my stepfather coming unglued makes my heart pound in my chest. My body feels like it wants to explode into a million tiny camouflaged pieces that can be hidden among the rocks and trees.

“Stay calm!” he shouts.

I don’t know if Dan is talking to himself or me. A cold rush of pure fear starts in my stomach and goes in all directions. I had this same terrible feeling when I was ten years old and my mother came through the door and I saw the look on her face and knew it meant my father’s machine had been turned off. I stare down at the bodies as if they’re going to blink, smile, move, sit up. Congratulate themselves on the prank they just pulled. And yet they do not. Viktor has a little smile. Lyubov’s head is turned. Sergei’s hands are crossed over his chest. His feet are bare and his boots are nowhere in sight.

“Why are they dead?” I ask. “I don’t understand. Who took the radios? Who took the gun?” The words tumble out and my own voice hangs in the air, high-pitched and quivering.

Dan closes his eyes briefly. “This is not happening.” He puts his hands to his head and screams at the mountains, “This is not happening!” His armpits are soaked in sweat.

I have a sudden thought. I run back to my tent, reach into the inner pocket of my backpack, and feel around.

A chill runs through me.

The salt packets are gone.

Osinovs. The name enters my body as though a gash in my skin. Have they done this? Stolen our weapons, our communications, our salt? Who else could it be but them? I always wanted the truth, but now I just want lies: that there is no family, and they have not been here, and they did not kill the Russians. When I crawl out of the tent and try to stand, my legs are shaky. I walk unsteadily over to Dan, who’s wildly stuffing his clothes into a bag.

“Get your things, Adrienne,” he orders without looking at me. “We’ve got to leave right now, do you hear?”