Russian Amerika: Chapter Forty Two

42 - Inside the ruins of Chena Redoubt

    Bear's mind went from stunned grayness to the alert certainty he was alone in a burning room. He peered around. Numerous bodies reflected firelight.

    Valari crossed his mind for less than an instant before he sought escape. He scuttled across the carnage of the shattered chamber. Fire licked at the logs supporting the damaged roof.

    She hadn't told him about the transmitter. But then he hadn't asked, either. A huge explosion outside the building sent him burrowing under two corpses.

    Smoke curled around his nose and he pushed his way over the bodies. The head on one flopped over and he beheld the face of Slayer-of-Men. Bear relieved the dead man of his automatic weapon.

    Valari had been standing directly in front of this man. What had killed him?

    Pieces of burning wood fell from the ceiling, landing next to Bear. He lost all curiosity about anything other than self preservation. A door yawned open, emitting a slight glow of welcome and offering solid walls leading downward. He stumbled through and braced himself against the rough wall.

    He'd been in this passageway before, years ago. The cossacks had tortured an Indian to death in an attempt to make him confess to pilfering supplies. A frightened Bear had witnessed both the pilferage and the torture.

    The Indian died insisting he was innocent. Bear was pretty sure the Indian was the guilty party, but then he had been drunk at the time. He was drunk for the torture, too.

    With a roar the burning roof collapsed behind him. No turning back now. Was there a back way out of the interrogation block?

    There had to be, he decided, because bodies never came out the front of the building. Heat intensified on his back and he eased down the steps toward the bend in the passage.

    Voices rose out of the dimness ahead of him and he stopped. For a long anguished moment he thought someone was coming back up the steps. But the voices receded and he moved downward again.

    By the time he got to where the stairway made an abrupt right angle, the mild concussion eased to nothing. Dank air flowed past him, feeding oxygen to the burning debris above. He squatted and edged the top of his head around the corner.

    A kerosene lantern hung in the passageway, splashing red light across the cold, icy stones. He saw no sign of a guard. That's because they believed everybody but them to be dead, he thought smugly.

    Emboldened, he rose to his feet and moved purposefully around the corner and down the steps. Just as he remembered, the steps bisected a passageway where one had to turn right or left. His brow furrowed.

    Which way had they turned that long ago day? He had been drunk on vodka and nearly blind with fear. The cossacks had insisted he watch the interrogation as an object lesson.

    At the time he hadn't been all that sure they weren't going to kill him, too. Rarely did he let those memories surface. But the catharsis worked and he distinctly remembered turning left.

    So, on that day he had turned left. What about now? Did the torture chamber have a door that led outside the redoubt?

    Suddenly the steps beneath his feet lurched and he fell heavily on the stones. A muffled explosion sounded from above as the stone basement shuddered and jerked. A more immediate noise caught his attention and he looked back up the stairs to see burning rubble pouring down like molten lava.

    He pushed himself to his feet and staggered quickly down the passageway to the left. Behind him a wall of smelly, smoking debris firmly blocked the passageway. One less choice to agonize over, he decided.

    He tightened his grip on the weapon and moved carefully toward the torture chamber.