Shukshin guided the heavy truck, relying on the glare of Belskiy’s red lights. For two hours, they trundled along. Shukshin’s seat shook with each craggy rock and root hidden under the cotton puffs of drifting snow. The café was the last sign of civilization until Boguchany and the road that they had to follow had never known the feel of concrete or asphalt; instead, it was made of ice and frozen soil, carcasses of dead trees and brush.
They took a momentary break at a familiar landmark. In between the dense pine trees overcrowding the side of the road, a small clearing marked their stop. Dusha followed Shukshin, who followed Belskiy to a frozen creek bed. Belskiy bent down and cleared away the snow over the clear ice. Beneath the thick ice, pebbles and stones worn smooth with moving water lay waiting for the spring melt. Near a small dip in the creek stood the half-meter-tall stone statue of Ak Ana, the White Mother, her arms pressed against her breasts. A couple of meager cans of food, bones picked clean of meat, and some empty ceramic mugs lay in front of the makeshift altar. Belskiy knelt and placed a can of beans amongst the offerings. Belskiy took out another can that he had stuffed in his parka pocket and gave it to Shukshin. Belskiy stood in silence while Shukshin knelt and placed the can in front of the statue.
Dusha sniffed at one of the bones and opened her mouth to pick it up.
“No,” Shukshin said. “That is for the White Mother.”
Dusha backed away, her tail still and tucked between her legs.
Shukshin’s stomach growled at the sight of the food. He meant to ask Belskiy if they should take a break for food, but restrained himself. Except for the traditional offerings they were inclined to make along the road, the extra tin cans of soup and beans were designated for emergency purposes. Even if they had extra, Belskiy would probably refuse to let Shukshin eat anything as punishment for his actions at Kolchak’s café. And, Belskiy had all the food in his truck. There would be no sneaking a bite or two behind the stern man’s back.
The trip continued, slow, but uneventful until Shukshin’s truck abruptly stopped. For the second time that day, Dusha hit her head against the dashboard and yelped in surprise. A crashing of boxes of leathers, clothes, and cans of fuel resounded in the rear of the large truck. Shukshin pressed the gas pedal, but the truck only lurched slightly sideways, the metal frame groaning. With a curse, Shukshin laid on his horn, letting the truck belt out its deep growl. Belskiy’s own truck stopped in response. The white reverse lights accented his red taillights and the truck careened back toward Shukshin, the winch clanging against the rear bumper.
Shukshin jumped out of his truck and pulled the cold hook and chain from the winch. Belskiy helped Shukshin finish securing the hook and unwound a short length of the chain before locking it taut.
“At least this is the first time this trip,” Shukshin said, shrugging. A wind blew under his hat and he threw his arm up to prevent the hat from blowing off his head.
Belskiy frowned and turned back to the door of his four-wheel-drive truck. “Hrmph.”
Shukshin climbed back up into the driver’s seat and honked twice. In response, Belskiy’s truck’s wheels dug into the snow and ice, clawing for traction. With a jolt, the truck pressed forward and popped Shukshin’s truck up and out of the small ditch that had devoured his front wheels. Once Shukshin’s rear wheels cleared the ditch, both trucks stopped. The men jumped back into the Siberian air, unhooked the winch, and continued into the afternoon as the temperature plummeted and the blizzard fell relentlessly.
Branches spread wide and pine needles shook in blustering gusts. Trees passed by. Shadows reached out into the fog and obscured the road. Snow and ice crunched under Shukshin’s heavy wheels. Dusha gave up her vigilant watch and napped on the passenger seat. Her front paws hung over the front of the frayed seat cushion. Hours passed under the canopy of clouds and snow. Shukshin estimated that they were at least halfway to Boguchany. Under the hypnosis of the snow blowing past the windshield like so many tiny comets, time stretched in front of Shukshin. If he got out of the truck, spun around, and lay down, there would be no sun, no stars, no moon to guide him over the blowing expanse to civilization. Only by pushing forward, always forward, could Shukshin maintain any sense of direction.
The fog of billowing whiteness grew denser in front of Shukshin. Belskiy’s brilliant red taillights dimmed to hazy, drunk fireflies, far beyond reach. The lights appeared to blink, shuttering and reopening like the tired eyes of a driver on the road far too long and far too late. Then, the lights disappeared. At first, Shukshin thought nothing of it and continued on the road between the snow-covered branches of the craggy evergreens.
Suddenly, Belskiy’s truck reappeared. Headlights shone off into the trees, the truck on its side and only halfway on the road. Tires were still spinning and kicking up snow on the driver’s side.
Shukshin slammed on his brakes yet again. The truck weighed too much, though, and the ice and snow were too slick. He shuddered when his truck tore into the back half of Belskiy’s truck. Dusha whined and was tossed around the cabin. She hit the windshield and bounced off the door. Shukshin reached his arm out to her, but he could not brace her.
The scraping of metal against metal and rubber against ice finally ceased as the heavy truck drew to a stop. In a moment of confusion and misplaced priorities, Shukshin wondered about the cargo. He cursed the spilled fuel, broken cans, and escaping oils. It would come out of his paycheck.
When lucidity reigned again, Shukshin unbuckled himself from his seat and opened the door into the freezing air. He turned on a cold, but working, flashlight and tested it on the trees and shadows off the side of the road. Dusha, shaken, followed him out of the truck. She groaned when she jumped into the snow, favoring a front leg.
Shukshin plodded along the path of torn metal. Bits of amber and red glass from the taillights sparkled in the glow of Shukshin’s flashlight. He approached Belskiy’s truck cautiously. The tires had stopped spinning, but the headlights were ominously glowing, spilling their light into the empty wilderness.
“Belskiy?” A little louder. “Belskiy? Are you okay?”
Dusha padded along behind Shukshin. She growled.
“It’s okay, girl. You’ll be okay.”
Dusha’s hair was raised and her tail was tucked tightly between her legs. She bared icy white teeth in the edges of Shukshin’s flashlight beam.
“Come on,” Shukshin said. “We must make sure Belskiy is okay.”
Dusha did not move. A shiver crawled its way down Shukshin’s spine until it erupted in a quick shake. He regained his composure and peered into the sideways, cracked windshield.
“Belskiy?” He knocked on the windshield. “Belskiy?”
Shukshin climbed onto the truck, the cold, dimpled metal creaking under his weight. Whatever structural integrity had remained in the old truck surely had diminished when Shukshin tore it in two.
When he made his way onto the side – now the top – of the truck, he crawled to the driver’s door and pulled at the handle. The doorframe was bent and gnarled, preventing it from being opened.
“Belskiy?”
Shukshin panicked and began pounding on the side window. Each forceful blow propagated the web of cracks until the window shattered and rained into the cabin. Belskiy’s body was hanging sideways, his head lost in the shadows. Shukshin put the flashlight in his mouth, the beam swinging uncontrollably around inside the cabin as he pulled at Belskiy’s body. His heart raced and sweat trickled down his back under layers of wool and cotton despite the subzero temperatures around him.