Zakharov had a green flare fired to signal that all the ghouls seen had been destroyed. Then he grimly collected the identification booklets of his slain men for safekeeping. The bodies were stripped of weapons and equipment and loose stones were piled over each to erect a crude cairn. The iron-hard permafrost made grave digging a herculean task they had no time for. They paused for a somber moment of silence, then mounted up and rode on, taking the extra horses with them.
Because of the classified nature of these operations the government did not award a campaign medal for participation. Zakharov would not even be allowed to write consolation letters to the families. He could recommend deserving men for posthumous decorations, but the citations would themselves be classified. Relatives would never be told the circumstances of their loved ones’ deaths, only that each had died “fighting gallantly in defense of his beloved Motherland.”
They returned to the original trail. Night descended, the gloom faintly illuminated by the cold gleam of the stars. The temperature dropped still further, down to fifty degrees below zero. The trail was clear enough for the team to continue following it by starlight for several hours before finally stopping to camp.
A sentry was posted and trip wires for flares were strung around the camp perimeter. Everyone would take his turn standing watch while the rest slept. Zakharov determined their location again using a sextant sighting of Polaris.
First priority, as always for mounted troops, was the horses, which were picketed, groomed, checked for injuries, and allowed to graze. Finally a tent was erected and the team sat inside to eat, huddled around the oasis of warmth provided by a little iron field stove.
Zakharov saw to it that his men were taken care of first before wolfing down his own meal of black rye bread, buckwheat porridge, and hard sausage washed down with hot tea. He made a point of refusing officer’s rations and eating the same food as enlisted men. An allotment of vodka was also authorized under regulations, but he strictly forbade it. Back at base the men could drink and carouse as they pleased, but on a mission he needed everyone sober and sharp.
Afterwards they cleaned weapons, oiled them with cold-weather lubricants to keep the mechanisms from freezing, and reloaded magazines. They talked and joked and enjoyed the luxury of a smoke, rolling strong, coarse tobacco in newsprint to make crude cigarettes.
The glint of metal betrayed a little Christian cross one private wore around his neck and kept hidden under his jacket. Zakharov, as usual, pretended not to notice.
He had seen too many good men die needlessly — and far too young — to entertain any belief in God. But like his soldiers he was the son of a peasant and understood their ways — their rough humor, their towering profanity, their taboos and superstitions — and he indulged them whenever possible. He also ignored their occasional grumblings about the regime. Zakharov was a pragmatic Communist. So long as his men fought that was all that mattered.
Zakharov snapped awake amid the frantic neighing and stomping of the horses. Even as he and the others in the tent fumbled for weapons the harsh, white glow of a trip flare suddenly lit up the camp and two bursts of automatic fire shattered the stillness.
Zakharov darted outside. Kaminsky was on sentry duty, smoke curling from his machine gun’s muzzle.
“Over there,” he said, nodding in the direction. “Two of them. Got both when the flare blinded them.”
The team scrambled to defensive positions around the camp as the flare fizzled out and darkness returned. They waited in tense silence as their night vision recovered. The dark woods seemed fraught with menace, a gibbous moon glowering above. But nothing happened, and at length the horses settled down and became quiet again.
“I don’t think there are any more of them,” said Okhchen.
The team relaxed. Zakharov went over to Kravchenko, who was squatting beside one of the ghoul ash piles, deep in thought.
“We were lucky,” said Zakharov. “There were only two and the horses smelled them before they got too close.”
Kravchenko grunted. “That’s what worries me.”
“Why?”
“Ghouls don’t appear to be intelligent, Comrade Lieutenant, not in our sense of the word, but they’re not stupid either. They’re cunning like any predator. They’ve been shrieking back and forth all day, communicating. Communicating about us and the other teams. Our flares pinpoint our locations.”
“Unfortunately we can’t help it. We have no radios.”
“For sure the ghouls know all about us — what we are, where we are, how many of us there are. So why are they attacking us just a few at a time or in small packs? If there aren’t that many of them, then why not avoid us entirely and hunt for easier prey?”
“I don’t know. When you put it that way, it doesn’t make sense.”
Kravchenko stood. “No, it doesn’t.”
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, but the team slept fitfully and rose before dawn. After a quick breakfast they resumed the hunt by moonlight. The trail turned due north.
As the first feeble rays of sunlight filtered through the trees Okhchen spotted something away from the trail and rode over to take a closer look. He got off his horse and examined the ground. Zakharov went to see what he was looking at. Okhchen brushed away snow to uncover yellowed, splintered bones, scraps of khaki fabric, a few black buttons, and the slashed remnants of boots and accouterments.
“Another ghoul victim?” asked Zakharov, dismounting.
“Yes, Comrade Lieutenant, but this fellow died a long time ago.” Okhchen bent and plucked from a frayed pocket an identification booklet, its red cloth cover stained and faded. He was illiterate so he showed it to Zakharov.
Zakharov grunted with interest. “NKVD.”
A rusted Nagant revolver lay nearby and he picked it up. Flicking down the loading gate, he rotated the cylinder to check the chambers. All seven rounds were spent. “He didn’t go down without a fight.” He glanced over the remains and noticed a skull fragment with a small, round hole in it. “Looks like he saved the last bullet for himself.”
“He was carrying this,” said Okhchen, holding up a map case of brown leather, battered and cracked by the elements but otherwise intact. He peered inside. “It’s filled with old papers.”
Zakharov took the case and the identification and put both in his saddlebag. “I’ll look at them later. We need to move on.”
They hurried on. Far to the west a yellow flare arced like a comet above the forest. Shortly thereafter they heard faint gunfire. The flurry of shots intensified.
“One of the other teams has found ghouls too,” said Kravchenko, reining in.
The shooting tapered off and ceased. A green flare went up.
“And they eliminated them,” said Zakharov. “Let’s go.”
At length Okhchen halted again, studying the ground. Zakharov saw tracks branching off in the trampled snow. Ahead, beyond this divergence, the trail became wider and heavier with more spoor than before.
“The ghouls split up here,” said Okhchen. “Those tracks going west are probably from the pack the other team ran into.”
Zakharov nodded. “That means we’re following the main trail. Good.”
Ahead lay a great swath of taiga devastated by wildfire, likely sparked by lightning last spring or summer and destroying thousands of hectares before finally burning itself out. Isolated tree trunks scorched by flame stood stark and black in a landscape of utter desolation. Hooves crackled and snapped on burned timber buried under the snow crust. They stopped to camp.