Story: "A Winter of Tears"

[Silenced Sonix]

Well, seeing that the tatu.us forums are down for the moment, I'll just post this here for now...

Damn, these post can't take long messages, so I'm posting each new chapter in a new post. Hope the mods don't mind...

"A Winter of Tears" - by James Kenwood, a.k.a. Silenced Sonix

-----------------------Part I
“Look at them – they’re like rats…”

In the twisting maze of the subways, people flocked by like sheep - busy, uninterested, ignorant. They walked their daily paths like the trains they boarded, always on time, always the same. Konrad did not care for them. He was out on business, and business was all he could afford to think about. Pulling his coat closer, he stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets, trying desperately to warm his fingers, trying to get some warmth back into flesh that the wind and the cold air had torn at with merciless blades of ice and sleet. From his position at the one junction, he could see the two entrances that led to the frozen streets above, could see the little mixed clouds of snow and rubbish that twirled and danced over the steps like so much filth. He gave one last look at the entrances, cursed, moved deeper down into the belly of the subway tunnels. The tiles on the walls of the tunnels had once been white – now, streaked with the grime of several years and countless by-passers, they gave the tunnels an air of desolation, a gloomy atmosphere seeming to prevail even where the lights burned their harsh, electric flames. With boots stamping down on the floor to relieve the cold, he moved into another corner, looked around again, saw the lone cigarette vending machine. A grunt of satisfaction was followed by a few quick paces to the machine, his one hand delving deep in his pocket for some change, the other already reaching out to press the buttons that would deliver his beloved little nicotine rods into his waiting hands. Gloved fingers, still numb from the cold, reached out and dropped the coins down the appropriate slot, hovered for a moment over the grid of buttons, made a selection. With a slight whir and clunk, the packet of cigarettes dropped in the tray at the bottom.
“Finally…” Konrad bent down, stuck a hand into the machine, withdrew his packet of cigarettes with a shivering hand. Tearing off the plastic covering, he walked around to the machine’s side, already pulling out a lone cigarette, sticking it between two lips that hat the slightest tinge of blue in them. His hands dived into his pockets once again, fumbled for a few moments, withdrew a metallic lighter with three interwoven golden circles engraved on it. Cupping his hands around the cigarette, he flicked the igniter once, twice, grunted as the flame finally ignited. Pulling the smoke deep into his lungs, he leant back against the vending machine, holding the sweet, unfiltered smoke in his chest like a last breath of life. A few moments passed – people walked by, ignoring the man with the cigarette in his mouth, ignoring the look of bliss on his face, ignoring everything and everyone except their own little lives. With a final hiss, Konrad released the muscles in his chest, felt the smoke burning outwards through his nose, felt a surge in his blood that could only be nicotine.
“Your habits will be your death, Konrad.”
“Jeez! What the fu…!” Konrad flew up, stared at the shape that loomed over him. Konrad himself wasn’t a short man, but the man who stood in front of him was about a head taller than he was, his shaven head gleaming in the harsh overhead lighting as he stared Konrad down through a cloud of nicotine fumes.
“Shit man, I just got here a few minutes ago – I was just going…” Konrad stopped as the man in front of him held out his hand palm up, the black leather of his glove seeming to glow in the light of a flickering fluorescent tube-light that was bolted to the wall above their heads. On the ring finger of the glove, a silver band of steel gleamed, the skull on the other side of the ring grinning at the floor below with two golden eyes.
“I trust you have the package, yes?” The man’s voice was as cold as the wind outside, and steady as a rock. The tips of his gloved fingers curled up, making beckoning motions.
“Yes, yes, the whole of yesterday – and the day before that too, actually,” Konrad answered as he tugged a large envelope from one of his coat’s inner pockets. The envelope was bulged out from the contents, and seemed quite stiff, the flap tucked in but not glued. Placing the envelope in the waiting hand, Konrad’s heart missed a beat as the man’s other hand shot out towards his chest, his inner pocket suddenly heavy with the weight of a white, money-filled envelope as the man’s hand withdrew again. Opening the flap of the envelope he had received from Konrad, the man took out the top photo, studying it with a set of green-brown eyes that never seemed to blink. The photo showed two girls in front of a shop, their arms heavy with shopping bags, their faces intently staring to the left of the photo. One of the girls was a red-head, her hair falling around her shoulders in cascading waves of lusciousness. A set of red sunglasses were clipped over her nose, and her mouth was frozen in some unknown syllable, which had most likely been directed at her companion, a dark-haired girl of a shorter stature. The second girl’s dark hair had been cut short, some form of gel spiking it out in every wayward direction. The photographer had zoomed in considerably from where he had been standing, getting a beautiful silhouette of the two faces in front of the dark shop window behind them.
“Perfect,” the man answered, slipping the photo back into the envelope. He looked up at Konrad, who had recovered from his initial fright and was busy lighting up another cigarette, the first smoldering on the floor between them.
“You have done well, Konrad – I’m sure we’ll be able to work together for a long time still…. But that is for later – I will call you in,” the man glanced at his watch, an all-metal Casio product that seemed weathered and quite old, “two days time. Until then, rest and recuperate your strength – we’ll have work to do after that.”
Looking up from his cigarette, Konrad was about to answer, but the man had already disappeared into the crowd of subway-goers, his departure having being so silent, that Konrad had not even realized he had gone.
“Fuck… I hate it when he does that,” Konrad mumbled, stepping away from the vending machine and into the stream of people. After a few seconds, he too was gone, and the cigarette machine was alone again, the only evidence of the encounter a lone, half-smoked cigarette on the floor beside the machine.

[Silenced Sonix]

-----------------------Part II
“Flight 817 now arriving from London.” The speakers hissed static for a moment and then shut down. In the mirror on the wall opposite Shapovalov, a gaunt face stared back at him, a line of brown-gray stubble running over the cheeks, a dark scarf draped over its shoulders. It mirrored his motions as he reached down for the last time, closing the running faucet and wiping the last of the water from his face with a paper towel. For a brief moment, he paused, the paper towel still halfway over his face, stared down by the reflection of his own eyes, his thoughts distant yet worrying. The flight that had just landed, flight 817 from England, was the reason for his concern - the two girls were on it. They had just finished their tour of England, and were going to spend Christmas here in America – resting, recovering, sightseeing. They had briefly discussed the possibility of some concerts, but nothing had been finalized to date – Shapovalov doubted whether they would perform at all during the few weeks of the festive season. The creaking of door hinges interrupted his thoughts as the door to the bathroom opened, noise from the outside hallway spilling in as another man entered, closing the door behind him with a gloved hand. It had been snowing for weeks now – in England, and even here in America – and the cold was bitter, biting into one’s flesh like a knife. The man who had entered came and stood next to him at the row of basins, removing his glasses and massaging his eyes with gloved fingers, apparently trying to get rid of some headache. He wore a long black leather coat, a set of snow-encrusted jackboots seeming to grow from the bottom lining of the coat as Shapovalov looked down. Putting his glasses back on, the man bent down and opened the faucet in his basin, drinking straight from the tap without taking off his gloves. His hair was shaven down to the scalp, in sharp contrast to the mop of hair that Shapovalov had grown during their stay in England. Turning and crumpling the paper towel that he had used, Shapovalov moved over to the waste bin, dropping the ball of soggy paper onto the heap of other used towels. Behind him, he heard the faucet close, leathering creaking as the other mans straightened out again. Turning back, Shapovalov felt a brief moment of alarm as he saw the other man looking at him with hooded eyes as he leaned against the row of basins, the man’s arms folded over his chest, a metallic watch half-visible from underneath his one sleeve. Shapovalov looked away to the line of toilet cubicles, looked back, saw that the man was still staring at him.
“Can I help you?” He tried to sound nonplussed, watching the man as he waited for a reply. The man’s eyes seemed to be varying shades of green and brown, dark and suddenly threatening behind his tinted glasses. A smile cracked over the man’s face, disappearing just as suddenly as he raised a hand and coughed briefly into his fist, a silvery ring on his hand flashing a toothy grin at Shapovalov. In the back of Shapovalov’s mind, something clicked and a stream of memories came flooding back to him – the years of school, the lectures, the history, the Great Patriotic War… In his mind, he could still see the pictures and photos of the troops, fighting and dieing amongst the ruins of most of western Russia. Nazis. That was what the ring reminded him of – Nazis. He had seen the pictures of their generals and officers, grinning skulls on their caps and epaulettes; their own faces seeming to scream of death and murder, of the thousands of deaths they had been responsible for. He caught his stream of thoughts and memories, but still managed to miss the first part of the man’s sentence.
“…Shapovalov, right?”
“I’m sorry, can you repeat that?” Shapovalov asked, trying to hide his discomfort as the man grinned back at him, the image of a grinning, fleshless skull suddenly flitting into his mind.
“Oh, I see,” The man looked down at his hand, held it out so Shapovalov could see the ring more clearly. It was made of some silvery metal, a drop of gold seeming to fill each eye-socket with a beam of artificial sunlight as the ring curled around the man’s gloved finger.
“It’s the ring, isn’t it?” He grinned and took the ring off, dropping it in one of his inner pockets. “Don’t worry, Ivan – it doesn’t mean anything. Not to me, at least.”
“Sorry, you must be mistaken – my name is not Ivan.”
“Oh, I’m sorry – would you prefer I use your surname? Shapovalov? Ivan Shapovalov?” The man grinned again, and a strange darkness seemed to descend over the room, the sudden flickering of the overhead light throwing a series of sudden shadows through the bathroom as Shapovalov’s head shot up, trying to see why the light could possibly have flickered. They were in an airport – lights didn’t flicker, and electricity didn’t fail.
“I’m sorry sir, you must be mistaken. I’m not this Shapoval character you think I am. I came here to pick up some relatives of mine.” Shapovalov’s mind spun. How did this man know who he was? They had kept the entire trip to America secret – no press, no TV, nothing. It was also rather unlikely that the man had merely recognized him from some random TV show or newspaper article – during their stay in England, Shapovalov had put on a few pounds, and a trip to the hairdresser had done wonders for his hair. How then could this man possibly have recognized him?
“Well sir, I’m love to talk to you some more about this Shapoval, but I have relatives to pick up. Good day.” Shapovalov strode past the man, pulling the door open with a quivering arm that felt like it would fail at any moment. Behind him, the man said a last line of words, but Shapovalov was halfway down the corridor before the significance of the words struck him.
“What did you say?!” Shapovalov spun around, bursting into the bathroom with a smash as the door’s handle hit the wall behind it.
“How did…” The bathroom was empty. A few rapid paces propelled him through the length of the room, checking each cubicle as he went past. Nothing. The man with his leather coat and jackboots, his strange ring and intriguing eyes, was gone. Then his eye caught the trail of wetness on the floor. The man’s jackboots had been covered in snow when he had first entered the bathroom, and a trial of melted snow now drew Shapovalov’s attention to the door of the maintenance entrance. Steeling himself, Shapovalov tried to calm his pounding heart, reaching out to the door’s handle with a hand that shivered more from fear and shock, than from the cold. For a moment, his hand rested on the icy metal knob, and he could almost feel the tension flowing, like a stream of raw electricity coursing through the palm of his hand. Gathering his courage, he twisted the knob. It refused to turn.
“C’mon, you stupid…” Shapovalov grunted, putting more force on the knob, trying to force it to turn, even though his mind was telling him that it was locked. A noise behind him spun him around again, fervently hoping it was the man. It wasn’t – one of the bodyguards that they had hired had come into the bathroom, and now looked at him with a slight frown.
“Is everything alright, sir? Miss Helda sent me – there has been a problem with the girls.” An instant later, Shapovalov was standing chest to chest with the guard, trying to stare him down, even though the guard was almost a head taller than he was.
“A problem?” Sarcasm loaded his voice, dripping like an overfull syringe of poison. “What problem?”
“Well, it’s their luggage sir… the airport officials say they can’t find it. They think it…” the guard’s sentence remained unspoken as Shapovalov exploded into one of his rants.
“Of course they can’t bloody well find the luggage! We have it! Here! With us! Already here! Here, in America! God, this is almost worse than Moscow!” The last sentence was a roar that sent the burly guard a step back, his face a shade of red embarrassment. Shapovalov took a deep breathe, trying to calm down, clenching his hands into fists as he stood in front of the bodyguard, trying to come up with something to say.
“OK, I’m sorry – things just… oh never mind. Tell Helda… tell Helda to tell the officials everything is fine, and that we already have their luggage.” Shapovalov shook his head a few times, trying to clear the confusion and disarray that clouded his mind, closing his eyes against the raging turmoil in his head. He heard the guard’s footsteps as he moved to the door, opening it and holding it open.
“Are you coming, sir?” The voice that came to Shapovalov had a tinge of worry in it.
“Yes, yes, just give me a moment. Tell Helda to get everything together so long – I’ll be there in a moment.” There was an unseen nod from the guard, and the door closed again, leaving Shapovalov alone in the room once again. The dark man’s last words kept on spinning in his head, like a record that had run its course. He thought of the words again, felt a line of goose bumps run down his back.
“They won’t be leaving with you, Ivan.”

[Silenced Sonix]

-----------------------Part IIIa (too long for one post)
“Everything still going to plan?”
“Perfect, sir. They’ve just entered the customs lounge, and we’re waiting for them at the passport counter. Hold on…” There was a brief pause, and the dark man could hear a faint mutter of voices through his cell phone. There came an affirmative, and the speaker on the other end of the line returned.
“Sir, we have them.”
“Good. I’m on my way.” A leathered finger stabbed down on the cell phone, terminating the call. The phone disappeared into a pocket of the man’s leather coat, the leather fabric of his sleeves whispering as it brushed against his black shirt, his other hand already fishing a pager out of one of his outer pockets. The pager held a pre-constructed message, and a push of a button broadcasted it to the others that waited for the signal. As he put the pager away again, the man picked up a movement out of the corner of his eye, something different from the pattern that had been going for the past few minutes. It was Konrad – he wore a large green military parka, a black duffel bag carried in his one hand as he strode through the crowd of people that streamed in both directions. He was headed up to the upper level of the terminal, to one of the higher galleries where the dark man knew Konrad could have a better viewpoint over the terminal. He knew Konrad well by now – he knew what an excellent marksman Konrad was, how a session at a private ranch here in America had shown him to be murderously accurate: using a small sub-machinegun, he had sent bullet after bullet into a target smaller than a man’s head at extremes of ranges. The dark man smiled to himself as began walking to the customs area, weaving in and out of the crowd with ease as he moved, his boots shaking off the last remnants of snow as he moved over the tiled floor. He could feel the excitement starting to build up inside his chest, could feel the anticipation as he open one of the doors that led to the inner parts of the customs offices and disappeared in through it. He had tried to keep the excitement at bay, and had chided some of the others as they had prepared for this day, but now even he could not keep the excitement from coursing through his blood, filling him with an energy that defied description. His ring was back on, and the smiling skull glittered as he strode down the narrow corridors, curios looks from some of the staff meeting only a set of cold eyes behind a pair of tinted glasses, his pace never slacking. He had work to do, and work always came first.

[Silenced Sonix]

-----------------------Part IIIb (second part)
“Filthy slut.”
“Excuse me?” The woman in front of them turned around, one hand holding on to her handbag that hung from her shoulder, the other still busy fiddling with her cell phone. She had been on the same flight, Flight 817 from London, and the girls had been watching her for the duration of the trip. She was the typical heterosexual slut-type – long, blonde hair, tight jeans, a top that managed to show some belly even in this freezing cold as they stood in the line at the customs counter, waiting for their turn to have their passports checked and stamped.
“Did you say something?” Her lips pouted slightly, and they could clearly see the red lipstick that covered them, giving her the appearance of a cheap prostitute.
“No, I’m sorry miss – my friend here was speaking to me.” Lena quickly answered in English, even though she knew the woman could not possibly speak or understand Russian. Yulia, who had made the remark, had a bored expression on her face and was looking at some far-away object, purposefully ignoring the woman in front of them.
“Oh…whatever.” The woman turned around again, scratched around in her handbag for a moment, and then returned to her conversation on her cell phone.
“Yulia! Shame on you!”
“Are you covering for her?” Yulia asked, turning back with a mischievous look in her eyes. The flight had been deathly boring, and they were both itching to get to their hotel, to their single room with that double bed. They had cleared out their luggage problem with the officials a few moments ago, and would meet Shapovalov on the other side of customs. For now, they had a few moments together in the line, before they would once again fall back under Shapovalov’s watchful eye.
“Covering for her? Why would… what would I cover for?” Lena protested, trying to stare her lover down, even though she couldn’t keep a smile from creeping over her face as Yulia suddenly grinned at her, flashing a set of white teeth.
“Let’s see, no?” Stepping forwards as the line moved up a few paces, Yulia stepped closer to the woman, brushing her hand against the woman’s jean as she bumped into her. The woman stumbled over a piece of hand luggage that had been standing in front of her, and they both went down, Yulia managing to grab hold of the woman’s clothes to try and stop their fall. There was a crash as they hit the floor, the woman’s handbag spilling open, her cell phone going skidding over the floor and coming to a rest at the bottom of one of the walls, its red cover popping off with a snap.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t …” Yulia tried to make up for her blunder, helping the woman up and patting her top down with her hands, trying to conceal a smile as she glanced at Lena.
“You Russians! Get off me! I’m not hurt!”
“What? Why do…” Yulia asked in her broken English, but the woman was already off to pick up her cell phone, collecting bits of her handbag’s scattered content as she moved across the room. Some of the other passengers were looking on with mild interest, a man in a dark coat at the back of the line giving Yulia a disconcerting smile as she looked in that direction, his glasses seeming dark even within the lighted interior of the airport. Yulia looked at Lena again, before looking across the room again to find the woman she had knocked down. The woman had apparently found all her things, and was being helped with her passport at one of the desks as the girls waited for their turn at one of the other desks, an angry frown on her face as she straightened her clothes and tried to piece her cell phone together again.
“How did she know we’re Russian?” Yulia asked Lena, who had also caught sight of the dark man at the rear of the line, and was trying to look at him without being too direct.
“Lena!”
“What? Oh yes, the woman…” Lena paused for a moment, looking the woman up and down again.
“Well, we were talking in Russian the whole time, maybe she knows some? I don’t know!”
“From me calling her a dirty slut? Two words - that’s a bit chancy, don’t you think?” Yulia frowned, trying to come up with an answer. Something about the woman just seemed wrong, and it was nagging at the back of her mind, not wanting to come to clarity. She shook her head in frustration, tried to concentrate again. How had this woman know they were Russian? She had sat far away from them during the flight, and there was no possible way their voices could’ve carried that far in the aircraft, so no luck there. Back at Heaththrow? No – they hadn’t seen many of their co-passengers beforehand, and they had only noticed the woman shortly after take-off for the first time. What then?
“Lena, don’t you think…” Yulia asked, but was interrupted by a call from an empty customs desk.
“Next please!” The man at the desk was still busy on his phone, muttering a few last words into the handset before putting it down as the girls approached with their hand luggage at the ready.
“Passports, please. Thank you!” The man took their passports and began with Lena’s, filling in forms and typing away on his keyboard, his eyes jumping from Lena’s open passport to his screen as he worked. At the desk next to them, the woman Yulia had bumped into had finished as Yulia looked on, looking into her bag again and groping around inside it as she took her passport, trying to find something. Seeing Yulia watching her, she gave her a filthy look and walked back down the line of people, her eyes constantly searching the ground for some last item that she didn’t seem capable of finding. Yulia looked away, feeling slightly guilty. Typical – she always managed to push things too far.
“Ah, miss?” Her attention was drawn back to the man who was busy with their passports. He had finished with Lena’s passport, and was holding the other passport out to Yulia, the pages spread open where the photo of the bearer of the passport was. Instead of her own face, the smiling face of the woman she had knocked down looked back at Yulia from the page.
“Miss, I think you have the wrong passport. I really don’t believe this is you.” His eyes were cold, challenging Yulia to argue as she looked at the photo again with disbelief, her skin suddenly seeming even colder.
“No! This is a mistake! Our passports… the woman I bumped into must’ve taken mine!” Yulia pointed to the other customs desk, her English faltering as the face in front of her refused to yield. Beside her, Lena left their bags and ran back down the row of passengers that still waited, searching desperately for the woman, puzzled stares following her down the length of the row. Her thoughts were spinning, buzzing crazily within the confines of her head. The woman just had to be there! How could she have left without her own passport?
“Miss, if this other woman had your passport, she would’ve realized it if she was at that desk a moment ago,” the man answered, pointing to the desk that Yulia was still pointing to. “Are you sure there even was another woman?”
“I wouldn’t lie about something like this!” Yulia retorted angrily, feeling the heat starting to creep up her neck, the flush starting to rise as her fear suddenly turned into rage. Why here? Why now? Just as they come here to have a little break, this has to happen! Why, why, why? She was just getting ready to start again, when a voice spoke up behind her, the tone soothing and calm.
“Is there a problem?” It was the dark man from the rear of the line – during their little episode, he had walked up and now stood behind Yulia and slightly to her left, a black sports bag held loosely in his one hand, his leather coat open to reveal a tight black shirt underneath, the contours of an fine athletic body showing under the fabric. He smiled down at Yulia, and she instinctively felt safe, even thought she didn’t know the man at all, even though she hadn’t seen him at all on their flight.
“Are you responsible for these two ladies, sir?” The man behind the desk prompted, his face still frozen as he looked them over. Lena had joined them by now, and was standing on Yulia’s other side, looking at the man that now stood beside Yulia with a slight frown, trying to draw a connection between him and their current predicament.
“Not by law, but in fact by contract. Here…” The man flashed a black leather badge at the official behind the desk, who took it and studied it for a moment before handing it back, “I’m a professional bodyguard. I work for the ladies, Miss Volkova here and her friend, Miss Katina. You were enquiring about their credentials?”
“Yes. It would seem this lady here has lost her passport,” The man behind the desk answered, nodding his head in Yulia’s direction.
“That won’t be a problem. We have extra papers for them. Mister Shapovalov,” and he smiled down at Yulia again,” provided for accidents and had these drawn up just before we left.” He slung his bag onto the counter and rifled through it, quickly coming up with a small ledger that he opened and passed to the man behind the desk. Eyebrows arching, the man went through the papers and then looked up with a smile.
“Of course, sir! I’ll just need to copy this to our database, and then everything will be in order.” Turning back to his computer, he began typing, fingers dancing over the keyboard as he copied Yulia’s data onto his computer to create a valid passport substitute.
“So you’re one of the new bodyguards, right?” Yulia asked, keeping a wary eye on the man behind the desk as he worked. Things had taken a turn for the unexpected, and she wasn’t sure that she trusted everything that happened at the moment, even though this new bodyguard seemed so trustworthy and in control.
“Yes, my team and I were hired a few days before you left England. Mister Shapovalov didn’t want to take any further risks after that incident in Czechoslovakia, so we were contracted to follow you two, but to remain unseen, for both our and your safety. This, however,” he pointed at the official, who was busy finalizing some last details, “hasn’t helped our job a lot.”
“Thank you, here’s that temporary passport. Sorry for the inconvenience.” The man behind the desk held out a sheave of papers, including the bodyguard’s portfolio. He gave Yulia a pen, showed her two places to sign, and then stamped the form twice when she was finished.
“Have a nice day, ladies.” The man behind the desk was all smiles now, grinning at Lena a last time before turning back to the remaining passengers and calling the next set. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, the bodyguard picked up the two small bags the girls had brought with them and started walking towards the exit of the customs lounge, flanked by the girls, his boots clicking across the tiles as they crossed the last distance to where they would be back in the main terminal. Both the girls were highly curious by now, and it was Lena who broached the first question.
“You said you were part of a team. Where are the other ones?”
“Oh, them.” The man smiled, his teeth glittering in the light of the overhead lights. “They went through customs before you. I was the last one, just to check up on you two and to make sure you didn’t get in trouble.” He smiled again, and shouldered his bag as it threatened to slip down his shoulder. “Lucky for you I had the extra documents with me.”
“Ah, here’s Anton. He’s also part of my team.” He pointed out one of the men who had been one the flight with them, a small man who looked like he was a light boxer of some kind. As they passed, Anton fell in behind them, an American newspaper in his hand, a sports bag also slung over his one shoulder, a brief nod passing between him and the tall bodyguard as he met and kept their pace. The automatic doors at the end of the customs lounge had barely slid open before another man, apparently the third member of the team, joined them. He wore a green military parka, and had a large duffel bag slung loosely over his shoulder, the ease with which it folded and bounced across his back suggesting that it was empty.
“Ladies, meet Konrad. He’s number three. Yes, we’re… Hang on.” Passing one of the girls’ bags to Konrad, the first bodyguard, who had still not mentioned his name, fished into his inner pocket, taking out a small cell phone and listening to the caller on the other side as he pressed the answer button.
“No sir…yes, sir, everything’s in order…” A brief pause as he seemed to get a string of commands. “Are you sure, sir? Don’t you want to talk to them first, sir?” He held the phone out to the girls. “It’s Mister Shapovalov. He wants to talk to you.”
“What?! Isn’t he here?” Lena took the phone, trying to keep the anger from filtering into her voice. It was typical of that crazy producer of theirs to run ahead and leave them here. Putting the phone to her ear, she wanted to speak, only to find that the phone was dead.
“Excuse me, but… the phone’s dead?” She held it out to the first bodyguard, watched a puzzled frown shoot over his face.
“Well, he said something about them heading into a tunnel, they must’ve entered it already.” He shrugged his shoulders, a lop-sided grin on his face. “You know how bad the reception is down there.”
“Any instructions on the girls, sir?” It was Anton, his paper tucked into a corner of his bag, his hands stuffed into his hands against the cold that had steadily been creeping into the air from the outside.
“Well, we’re suppose to…” The first bodyguard never finished his sentence. A roaring fireball erupted in the upper part of the main terminal, one of the galleries lighting up like a hellish torch as an explosion tore through the terminal, windows shattering, chunks of concrete crashing down in waves as the one side of the gallery tore loose and slowly yawed to the ground, cutting a deep scythe into the floor of the terminal as it impacted the ground. The shockwave rippled through the terminal, knocking people down on the broken chips of glass and concrete that littered the floor, the first bodyguard pulling the two girls to the ground as the shockwave reached them, Konrad and Anton barely managing to stay on their wave as the wave raced past. For an instant of an second, there reigned an almost unearthly silence, broken only by the hungry licking of the flames as they spread, lighting the bundles of unmoving clothing that littered the floor near the collapsed gallery, the two girls cringing beneath the bodyguard’s arms as the lay on the floor, not moving for fear of what was going on around them. Then the screaming started. Men, women, children – everything with a voice that could scream, screamed. The bodyguards were on their feet again, pulling the girls up, grabbing their luggage, running to the exit. Bleeding people lay all around them in droves – faces disfigured, limbs wrecked, blood spilt like cheap wine. Halfway to the exit, Yulia stumbled, the shock of the experience driven home to her by the sight of a small bleeding child desperately trying to wake his mother, a mother who had died instantaneously from a concrete block that had mangled her body from the waist down into a bloody pulp. Her knees simply went watery and she collapsed to the floor, skidded through a grisly pool of blood and chips of glass, coming to a stop against a block of concrete that had dug into to floor at an angle, a dismembered arm lying next to it in a pool of dark blood and gristle. A shriek tore from her lips and she pulled her head down, lying shivering on the floor, trying to disappear from the horror and carnage around her, trying to forget what she had seen in these brief moments.
“Come! There might be more bombs!” It was Konrad – he grabbed Yulia by the arm and hoisted her over his shoulder, setting off on a bouncing jog as they headed for the exit, Anton, Lena and the first bodyguard already outside, the wailing of voices and sirens mixing ever thicker and louder. They had almost reached the exit when Konrad slipped, his feet sliding out beneath him in a pool of blood, Yulia landing on top of him with a thud that bashed his head into the floor and his right shoulder into Yulia’s stomach. Through the pain and terror that fogged her mind, she simply cowered on the floor, Konrad cursing a blue streak as he struggled to his feet again, grabbed her again, ran the last few paces to the door with her. Her clothes covered in blood and her jacket torn off during the helter-skelter flight through the terminal, the cold of the outside air was the first thing to really get her back to her senses. At the curb, where the first ambulance had already pulled up, a black van was idling, blue fumes rising into the air, the back doors open, the first bodyguard beckoning them on.
“C’mon, damnit! Hurry!”
“Here!” Taking her by the waist, Konrad hoisted her to the waiting bodyguard, who caught her and unceremoniously bundled her into the back of the van where Lena already cowered. Anton was busy unpacking a case of equipment in the rear of the van, his back to the side of the van as he worked in front of him, a string of soft curses running from his lips.
“Lena!”
“Yulia!” They hugged each other fiercely, clinging together for life and death, trying to draw comfort form each other, trying to forget the horror and destruction they had witnessed inside the airport. The back doors were thrown shut and the van moved off with a jolt a few moments later, the first bodyguard closing his door even as Konrad shifted the van down and sent it skidding towards the exit of the parking lot, balancing the van on a precarious strip of un-iced tar.
“What was… what…” Both the girls were sobbing uncontrollably, neither capable of any coherent speech as they lay shivering in the back of the van.
“Give me your arm, I’ll just…” A hand stretched Yulia’s arm out, and she felt the prick of a needle on the inside of her elbow. The procedure was repeated with Lena, and they didn’t even have time to object as the tranquilizers took over, mugging their vision, knocking them down. The last thought that crossed Yulia’s mind as the van rumbled raced through the streets and onto a highway, was the face she had seen when Konrad had fallen down in the terminal, and she had fallen with him. Right in front of her face had lain a piece of someone’s spectacles, a set of dark blue rims with lighter dots in them, the lenses shattered out and the one edge covered in blood. It was the face beyond, the face that had had a massive piece of heavy glass jutting from the one eye socket, which had really gotten her attention – it had been the face of their tour manager, Helga or Helda, or someone like that. She hadn’t been able to remember the woman’s correct name, but she had remembered that that the bodyguard had said that Shapovalov had left, and that they were headed through some tunnel. In her narcotics-muddled brain, she just could not imagine how the woman could’ve gotten from the tunnel back to the airport so fast, but she was soon unconscious, and cared not.

[Silenced Sonix]

-----------------------Part IV
“Derrick!… Derrick!… Derri…”
Over the raging wind, the howls and shrieks of his pursuers grew louder, chasing him over the plains, giving him speed as he ran. Around him, flat desert plains stretched for as far as the eye could see, the sand thin and red, dusty. He was running – both for his life, and away from it, its history, the memories. Ahead of him, barely visible on the horizon, the sun was setting, a small red rim still peeping out over a distant series of mountains, the darkness already encroaching on him over the sands, the last flaring remnants of light his only hope as he ran. His boots and clothes were already covered in a thin layer of reddish dust from his journey, a set of paced footprints tracing out behind him into the darkness, leading his pursuers ever onward, a constant reminder that they would catch him eventually. Behind him, the voices called out again, taunting, jeering, rising over the wind like banshee wails. He glanced back over his shoulder as he ran, saw his pursuers for the first time. They were four figures on horseback, charging over the sands like juggernauts at sea, the horses kicking up plumes of fine sand as they steered down on him, riding in a line abreast of each other. The riders were lying low across the horses’ necks, their capes billowing out behind them like grotesquely deformed bats, the horses snorting wildly, theirs eyes seeming to burn of their own accord. Derrick looked ahead again, tried to concentrate, tried to run faster, felt the numbness in his legs from the running, felt the fear behind his eyes and around his heart, could almost feel the horses of his pursuers breathing down his neck.
“Derrick! Come to us! Join us!” The voices tore at his sanity with icy fingers of glee, became a flock of dark bats that spun around his head, distracting him, sending him crashing to the ground in a tangle of limbs as a rock that had appeared from no-where tripped him. He felt bones in his leg give, break, the snap of breaking bone ringing through the air as he rolled through the dust, tearing through the dusty sand like a comet of dusty red and black. There was a moment of silence as he was alone in his little world of pain, his leg seeming to scream like an opera singer on glass, the nerves jangling from every movement as he sat up, trying to shake the pain off as the riders circled around him, the horses trotting up small clouds of dust. Through a haze of pain, he watched the riders as they dismounted, tracked their progress as they boxed him in on all four sides, striding over the sands until they were within a few feet of them. The fear in his chest felt like exploding as he looked upon the riders, recognizing them as they came to a halt around him, silently watching him with eyes that burned and flared like small flames. Directly in front of him, a metallic behemoth stood, armored feet firmly planted in the sand, weapons and trophies of war hanging from its suit of armor, the helm filled with a smoky pit through which two red pinpoints of red glared down on him. A gauntleted hand held a massive broadsword, the edges serrated, stained with a dark brown substance. To his left, a skinny thing stood, hunched over, vaguely human in appearance, but grossly disproportioned. Its skin was tight and had a grayish tinge to it, stretching tightly over its ribs as it labored for breath, each rising and falling of its chest drawing a feeling of what seemed to be pain across its emaciated features. Around its stomach, the flesh had shrunk away, etching off two hipbones that poked at the air with vengeful angles of bone, its loins covered with a scrawny rag, its legs thin and covered in odd knobs. It too grasped a sword, a thin rapier that swished through the air with barely a sound as it swung in his claw-like grip. Vague words and terms surfaced in Derrick’s mind – the Four Horsemen, the Riders of Apocalypse. Death, Famine, Plague and War. Names began fitting to the figures – the metallic giant in front of him was War, the zombie-like creature to his right, Famine. To Derrick’s left and behind stood the remaining Horsemen, Plague and Death. Plague was a bloated, corpse-like figure, its belly swollen to abnormal sizes, putrid sores and boils covering the patches of filthy skin that poked from beneath the tattered rags it wore. A cloud of flies circled it constantly, and Derrick was horrified to see maggots crawling through the creature’s flesh, the stink of rotting meat reaching his nostrils as he lay in the sand, his leg still throbbing with pain. Plague had a rusted scimitar that it clutched in its one hand, fluids and slimy ichor oozing from its wrist and dripping down the length of the blade, dropping to the sand in stinking puddles of rot. Behind him, the last figure spoke up, and Derrick craned his neck around, suddenly desperate to look upon the face of Death, to see what lay beyond this life. The figure was looking away to where the sun was setting, a broad set of shoulders visible to Derrick from his position on the sand, a dark cloak covering the figure from head to toes. The other riders had taken their cloaks off when they had dismounted, but this one still wore his, a broad-baled scythe slung across its back on a worn leather strap.
“Derrick… finally we meet…” The figure was still watching the horizon, watching the last visible piece of sunlight as it crept ever downwards. It reached back with a gloved hand, slinging the scythe off its back with an ease that spoke of eons of practice, gripped it loosely as it watched the sun. Over the far-away mountains, the sun lingered for a brief moment, and then sunk away, fleeing the scene as if it too was terrified by the riders. The figure bowed its head down, seeming to nod to the disappearing sun, and then turned to face Derrick, its booted feet scuffing the dust into new patterns. Its cowl was pulled down low over its face, and the shadows lurked over its features, hiding it from Derrick’s gaze. As if on cue, the other figure began closing in on Derrick, stepping closer in perfect time.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Derrick. We’ve been waiting for a long time now.” The figure with the scythe spoke up, its feet stomping down on the sands, leaving boot-prints that seemed to be filled with a darkness of their own. It grasped the scythe more firmly, lifting it in preparation for a blow. Derrick tried scrambling backwards, felt War’s cold metallic boots against his back before he had gone more than a few paces. To his right, Famine closed in, shuffling over the sands with its rapier at the ready. Terrified, Derrick tried to head to his left, only to bump into Plague’s rotting form, a gob of ichor and thick, sticky blood splashing over his left hand from the tip of Plague’s scimitar.
“No!… No!… NO!” The last word exploded from Derrick’s mouth as he saw Death’s face as it raised its scythe for a blow to his head. It was his own face that leered back at him from within the shadowy depths, the lips curled into a disdainful sneer, the eyes cold and burning. It even wore the set of tinted glasses he normally wore, the lenses a misty gray from the sun’s last beams
“YES!” Death screamed, and brought the scythe down in a flash of darkness.

“Derrick! Derrick, wake up!” In the darkness of the motel room, Anton tried to wake his boss from the nightmare he was evidently going through, shaking the moaning figure by the shoulders, trying the get a response. Sweat ran down Derrick’s face in small rivulets, and his pillow was soaked from his angst, his legs starting to kick spasmodically. A moan escaped from his lips, was followed by another, louder scream that echoed through the night’s silence, raising hairs on Anton’s back
“NO!” In a blur of movement, Anton was down on the floor of the motel next to Derrick’s bed, Derrick’s heavy form crouching over him, his left hand holding Anton by the throat, the right clasping a handgun that had appeared from no-where and was forcibly pressed to Anton’s forehead. For a few tense moments, nothing moved – Derrick gasped air into his lungs, shuddering after each breath, trying to get his senses and fears back under control. Anton croaked from beneath him, tried to say something, choking on the air as Derrick let go of his neck, pulled the gun away from his head. Hands over his bruised throat, Anton sat up, tenderly massaging the skin, feeling the pain as he tried to swallow, tried to come up with something to say. On the edge of the bed, Derrick was sitting with his head bowed down in his hands, elbows resting on his knees, his eyes screwed shut. His lips were moving, making mumbling noises, the handgun forgotten on the bed-cover next to him. Anton got to his feet, one hand still protectively over his throat, and looked the figure in front of him over.
“Derrick, are you sure…” Anton tried, but Derrick was already getting up, moving towards the bathroom with a slow, heavy tread. At the doorway, he paused, looked back at Anton, opened his mouth to say something, shut his mouth again without saying anything. Standing next to the bed, Anton began feeling decidedly uneasy. It was not normal for their leader to act like this, not now, not now when they had just accomplished their greatest goal. He watched Derrick turn again, entering the bathroom, going to stand over the basin with hunched shoulders. From the bathroom, his voice floated back to Anton, oddly disjointed and hollow.
“What were you doing here at this time of the night?”
“I came to ask you… well, me and Konrad…” The issue he had wanted to discus with Derrick had disappeared from Anton’s head, and he simply couldn’t remember what had brought him to Derrick’s room.
“Was it important?” The voice rasped from the bathroom, and Anton looked down, feeling embarrassed.
“No, I don’t think. At least, I can’t remember what it was. I came in here and you…” He gestured at the bed, the covers thrown off in disarray, the handgun that still lay where Derrick had put it down.
“Would you mind, then?” The voice had regained some of its familiar ice, and Anton felt strangely relieved. As long as the boss’s voice still sent chills down your spine, everything was probably normal. The time to start worrying was when Derrick didn’t say anything and went quiet. Anton had noticed that people tended to die when that happened.
“Yeah, sure… See you tomorrow!” Anton stepped across the room, pulling the door open and stepping out into the corridor, closing the door behind him again. In the morning, he would try to get an explanation – right now, Derrick didn’t look all to right in his mind. Turning to walk back to his room that he shared with Konrad, Anton noticed a stickiness on his hands, brought them up to the light to see what it was. A layer of stinking fluids covered the palms of his hands, and as he felt around his neck, he could feel the same stickiness on the skin there, covering the bruise that had started to grow from where Derrick had almost crushed his neck. Lifting one hand to his nose, he took a sniff, screwing his face up in disgust as the stench of rotting meat and blood came through to him. Whatever it was, it stank like hell – he’d wash it off first thing when he got back to his room. First check up on the girls though – they were still sleeping from the shots they had received at the airport, and would probably start waking late tomorrow morning. Then the explaining would have to start – always fun, that part. Careful not to touch anything unnecessary with his hands, he moved down the corridor and disappeared through the door that led to the part of the motel where he and Konrad were staying. There was a whiff of outside air, and the lingering smell of rot dissolved, spreading away through the corridor, lingering in the carpet for a moment, and then disappearing for good.

[Silenced Sonix]

OK, finally - comment, anyone?

[Echoed]

First off, damn well written. The descriptions are engaging and detailed. The structure of the story is interesting too. Switching points of view and such, for a taste of each person's point of view. There's a sense of temporary closure, and it leaves ample room for the imagination to pull what it wants from this story.

Briefly put, very cool. ^_^

~Echo.

[Silenced Sonix]

Thank you, I'm flattered.

[Ripptyd]

Dude...You kick some ass.
I can't explain it better than what Echoed has said.

[goku]

Silenced Sonix, awesome!

You're incredible!

[Silenced Sonix]

I'm starting on part V sometime this week, should be up soon.

[YLuelniaa]

interesting

[Silenced Sonix]

------------------Part V a
It was still dark outside the next morning when Derrick left the motel, securely wrapped in his black coat, hands gloved and stuck deep down fur-lined pockets, jackboots crunching through the thin layer of snow on the sidewalk as he paced down the street. His face was grim and his eyebrows arched downwards ever so slightly as he walked, his thought spinning through his head at speed, uncovering events in the past, bringing back snatches of conversations, names, places, dates. It was the dream – the dream had awakened something in him, and for the first time in years, his conscience was giving him a lecture – a very bad one. In his head, two tiny voices were screaming at each other, attacks and defenses, insults and comebacks – a never-ending array of words that tore at his sanity with small, prying fingers. Beside him, a truck rumbled by, stopped some distance in front of him at a shop in a flash of red taillights and petrol fumes. The rear doors swung open, and a teenage boy leapt down to the ground, turning to lug a pile of bound newspapers from the truck’s interior. He jogged into the shop and reappeared a moment later, returning to the back of truck to pull out a second pile. By the time he turned back with the newspapers held in both hands, Derrick was standing barely two feet away, hands in pockets, his sudden arrival spooking the youngster so that he took at step back in surprise. A patch of damp ice proved too treacherous a surface, and before the boy could stop himself, he went down, arms flailing, newspapers scattering everywhere. His head hit against the edge of the opened door, a dull thud reverberating through the icy air, his face contorting into a silent scream of pain, a choked cry escaping his lips as his head hit a second barrier, the road. A clump of hair and skin clung to the edge of the truck where he had hit his head, and a dark pool of blood was streaming out from the back of his head, coloring the dirty ice into new shades. A groan escaped from the boy’s lips, and he closed his eyes for a moment.
“Hey mister…” the boy croaked, not moving his head, “Hey mister, please… please help me. Please!” His voice was soft and Derrick could hear the pain as he strode closer, bent to take a closer look at the boy’s face. He was about nineteen years old, and Derrick could see the first stubbles of beard forming on the boy’s jaw, the eyes screwed shut with pain, the pupils appearing ever so diluted. He reached down and took one of the boy’s hands in his, feeling the tremors that coursed through the boy’s arm and into his hand. He bent closer, watched the boy’s eyelids close, his hand registering the first tinges of pain as the boy’s hand clamped down on his and his eyes pulled shut.
“Listen to me boy, you’re going into shock. You know what that means?” Derrick spoke softly, still watching the boy. Underneath the boy’s head, the puddle of blood had stopped growing, dirty red icicles forming on the road and clinging to his hair.
“It means you’ve lost a little blood,” and he could feel the boy’s hand tighten again, “but it’s not that bad, okay? Don’t try to talk, you’ll just waste energy. Now, I’m going to get up and try to find some help, but I’m going to have to leave you here for a moment. Understand?”
The boy just groaned again, clutched at Derrick’s hand, his fingers deathly pale against the black of Derrick’s gloves. Derrick began to rise, but the boy held on to his hand, beginning to whimper, tears forming at the sides of his eyes and slowly coasting down to the road below. Derrick stopped, put his other hand over the boy’s own shaking hand, spoke again in a reassuring tone.
“You will see me again, I promise. I just need to go find some help.” He felt the pale hand relax, took it and placed the boy’s hand on his chest, watching the rapid rising and falling of his chest. He bent down again and picked up a dry newspaper, tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat and got up again. Walking to the pavement, he fished out his pager, pretended to fiddle with it as he walked past the cab where the driver still sat. A blue parka hunched over a pair of shoulders, and a red baseball cap pulled down low was all that was visible of the driver, his face turned to the interior of the cab as he seemed to search for something. Derrick rapped against the side of the truck’s door, watched the head as it turned and faced him with eyes that spoke only one language – the language of boredom and disinterest.
“Hey man, could you move your truck back a little? My pager’s lying just in front of your wheel, and I don’t want to bend down – the ice is too damn slippery. Would you mind?” Derrick looked the man square in the eye, eyebrows rising as the driver grunted at him and shifted the truck into gear. Bending down and pretending to look beneath the tire, Derrick motioned the driver backwards, counting the distance as the truck lumbered backwards.
“I can see it! Just a little more, man, just a little more…” He waved back, bending down to reach for the gutter. His head was barely level with the tire when the sickening crunch of a three-ton truck’s tire crushing the delivery boy’s head reached him. He scratched in the snow and put his hand in his pocket again, straightening up as the driver began to dismount. He had obviously heard the noise too, and could’ve felt the bump as the tire had run over the boy. A muttered string of curses followed him as he strode to the rear of the truck, Derrick watching from the front of the cab.
“What the fuck is it now, I wish that damn boy would hurry his ass… Oh my God!” The last part of the sentence was screamed out, the driver flinging his arms back in shock at the sight of the crushed body.
“No! What the fu… No!” Falling to his knees, the driver tried to extricate the boy’s body from beneath the wheel, futilely pulling at the already stiffening arms with frantic hands.
“Hey mister, help me, please help…” Derrick was gone. The driver looked around him, his mind in a spin at what to do. Jumping to his feet, he hurried into the shop where the first bundle of newspapers had been delivered. His day had just had a very, very bad start.

[Silenced Sonix]

Lol, a pieve of madness amongst the chaos that this story has turned into... Cheers! And never forget the paperboy - they are important, y'know!

[Echoed]

Still finding it cool. *Laughs.*

~Echo.

[Silenced Sonix]

Yep, mine doesn't focus on the girls as the head characters - the head characters are Derrick and Shapovalov, who's gonna wake up in a hospital soon. Now I just actually have to write that...

[pacmangirl]

this is certainly not like something i've read before.. The imagery is just amazing..

[Veritas]

You have a real talent there Silenced - I'm enjoying every paragraph of it!

[Silenced Sonix]

Everybody who has enjoyed the story so far must now thank Ann t.A.T.u. - she gave me a new piece of inpiration to break me out of the deadlock that has surrounded the story for the past month or two. I hope to have a few more parts up soon, so hang tight.

PS: Ann t.A.T.u., I love you girl!

[Ann t..A.T.u.]

Hey Slienced Sonix its no prob im glad i could do something i love ur fic keep it comin