Anthony J. Melchiorri

SHIPWRECKED IN SIBERIA

“Let’s go.” Belskiy’s raspy voice cracked through the early morning darkness.

Shukshin looked toward the window of the drafty room where Belskiy stood. A shimmer of orange approached the horizon, chasing away the loitering stars. The thick covers, matted and clumped, were still more welcoming than the blankets of snow outside.

“Yes,” Shukshin said, “but I’ve got to feed Dusha first.”

Belskiy muttered something incomprehensible about the dog lying next to Shukshin’s feet and left the room. His boots smacked against the creaking floorboards and down the wooden stairs.

Shukshin sat upright in his bed and swung his legs over the side. His ragged undergarments were soaked in a hot sweat beneath the sweater and trousers he had worn to bed. Still, the air around him stung the exposed skin of his face. Dusha stretched at his feet, her front legs spread wide, her long tail arched in the air, and her tongue curled out of her mouth.

“Good girl.” Shukshin rubbed her head, twisting his fingers in the coarse fur behind her perched, alert ears. “Good girl.”

Dusha wagged her tail, licking Shukshin’s knuckles. He opened his hand to her, revealing the calloused and rough skin of his palms. She licked that, too. Her brown eyes gazed up at him and her tail beat the air.

Reaching into the olive canvas bag at the foot of his bed, Shukshin pulled out a husk of dried bread. He tore it into crumbling pieces, feeding them to Dusha. Dusha lapped up the food, letting Shukshin pet her.

When Dusha finished, Shukshin stood up. He stretched out, and breathed in the cold air. Shukshin picked up his bag and motioned for Dusha to follow him. She wagged her tail in agreement and padded after him.

Shukshin sat across from Belskiy at the small table in the front of the inn’s meager café. A grizzled woman brought him a plate of round, doughy syrniki topped with sour cream. The syrniki was not cooked thoroughly and Shukshin bit into a sour, creamy layer of cottage cheese. He winced and Belskiy laughed at him.

“Is this not fit for Queen Shukshin?”

With a glare, Shukshin emitted a disgruntled groan and continued to slurp down the food. The food, though lukewarm, provided a stark contrast to the dry, frigid air. That was enticing enough. Shukshin ate half the syrniki and gave the rest to Dusha, wiping his hands clean on his pants. Without a word, Belskiy stood and nodded his head toward the front door, already donning his thick gloves with fur lining. Shukshin followed suit, motioning to Dusha to follow him. The three walked in a line out the door of the inn, letting a rush of cold air ornamented with blusters of snowflakes burst into the inn. Shukshin paused in the open door, realizing he’d forgotten his canvas bag. Belskiy held the door as Shukshin retrieved the bag.

“Hurry, hurry!” The burly woman, her shawl wrapped tight around her head and a wolfish scowl on her face, threw her hands in the air, waving the men out the door. “We don’t want to freeze to death in here!”

The heavy gurgle of the diesel engine accompanied the distant howl of gray wolves. The call to the pack pierced through the incessant growl of the old KAMAZ truck. Following Shukshin, the drone of the truck’s engine and its oily black smoke coughing into the air was as familiar as his shadow. He could not turn the thing off lest the truck freeze itself to death in the taiga.

In the short walk from the inn to the truck, Shukshin’s beard and eyebrows were white with frost and snow. He opened the door, letting Dusha jump into the cabin of the truck. The dog shook the snow and ice out of her fur. She jumped into the passenger seat and curled up, biting at the ice that stuck between the pads in her paws.

Shukshin grabbed a metal scraper from the cabin and shut the creaking door, its hinges screaming in pain at the cold that had settled in its dented metal shell. After hoisting himself high enough onto the front bumper, Shukshin managed to clear away the ice from the windshield. He looked ahead in the biting wind. Illuminated by the truck’s headlights, gusts of snow and ice streamed across the stark landscape. Belskiy cleared away the ice and snow that caked the man’s old four-wheel-drive UAZ-469. The image before Shukshin staggered and broke like a decaying black and white film. He wished he could be back in Tomsk, watching the scene as if it were indeed only a movie, sheltered from the cutting chill around him. Instead, the wind whipped at his face and stung at his eyes. Tears welled up as he tried to protect his eyes with a gloved hand. “Are you ready yet?”

Belskiy looked back at Shukshin and waved his hand. He said something in return, but his voice was lost in the wind. Belskiy disappeared into the light truck, so Shukshin opened the door to his beastly vehicle. He climbed into the worn seat. The fabric covering underneath him gave away to cheap, cracked plastic. From the vantage point in the big diesel KAMAZ, Shukshin could see over the smaller 4x4 that Belskiy drove. Belskiy’s 4x4’s engine roared, shaking the vehicle from the rusted hood to the winch attached to the rear frame of the small but punchy vehicle.

Shukshin gripped the steering wheel, his arms vibrating with the shaking of the truck as he applied pressure to the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward. Snow crunched under the truck’s heavy tires as he followed Belskiy onto the blanketed roadway. Through the combined rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers and the hypnotic swirl of the falling snow, exhaustion and the warm air that circulated the cabin begged Shukshin to shut his eyes. Dusha, however, sat alert in the passenger seat. She barked at Shukshin when the truck jerked or wavered. Her eyes settled somewhere beyond the rumpled blue hood of Belskiy’s vehicle.

The burgeoning sunlight peaked above the horizon and glinted on the tall snowdrifts that graced the trunks of towering pine trees, bent in the wind. A blanket of packed snow buried the road. Shukshin had to use the clearings between the trees and the occasional erect steel bar with a minuscule, ripped, whipping orange flag to judge where the road hid beneath the white.

The two-vehicle convoy crawled through the wintry flurries and broke through mounting snowdrifts forming in the roadway. If Shukshin let his mind wander, he imagined their trucks were equivalent to majestic ships, with sails spread across the horizon, exploring the high seas with determination and vigor. Dusha stared hard into the snow as though searching for land from the crow’s nest on the mast of a frigate, completing the vision. Certainly, the week-long journey across hundreds of icy kilometers to deliver supplies to remote villages made him a noble, brave explorer of the taiga. Snow drifts were not so different than white-capped waves, though the crew of his vessel consisted of a sole wolfish mutt.

Driving onward, the sun crept up along their starboard side. Shukshin risked taking his hand off the wheel to rub Dusha’s head, watching her eyes close and her tail thump against the back of her seat. With a start, Dusha opened her eyes and barked with a ferocious, deep woof. Shukshin’s heart raced and his hands shot instinctively to the brittle plastic wheel, holding his breath in worried concentration. Belskiy’s red taillights gleamed in the downpour of snow and Shukshin slammed on his brakes. The truck lurched sideways. Shukshin spun the wheel madly. He struggled to achieve a balance between keeping his truck on the road and preventing it from flipping. The heavy beast skidded forward, still approaching Belskiy’s stopped truck. Dusha barked in excitement. Shukshin laid on the horn as a final effort and the truck bellowed.

Belskiy’s taillights disappeared and the truck fishtailed for a moment. The unhooked end of the tow on the winch swung wildly and the truck abruptly shot forward, finally obtaining a panicked grip on the road. Shukshin’s foot had gone numb, pressed onto the brake pedal, and his lungs burned. The truck stopped after a final jolt and settled evenly on all four rugged tires.

After a deep sigh, Shukshin remembered to breathe again. Dusha stared at him, her head cocked.

“Sorry, girl. Sorry.”

A dull slam of the UAZ’s door sounded out in the mounting blizzard and Belskiy threw his arms in the air, approaching Shukshin. His maddened voice grew louder and more distinct as he grew closer. Shukshin opened the door and jumped down from the truck.

“Are you fucking stupid?”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Watch where you’re going or we’ll both end up dead, gods be damned! If I die out here, it’ll be because of the cold, not because you wanted to hug me with your fat truck and your dense head.”

“Sorry. Sorry.”

Belskiy huffed and put his hands on his hips, leaning slightly forward against the wind. The two bearded, stocky men stared at each other for a moment. Frost and snow fell on them, melting against their pink skin and refreezing. They stood like warm statues, only their exhaled breath indicating vitality.

“Why did you stop?”

Belskiy continued to stare at Shukshin, silent for several long seconds. “Reindeer.”

Shukshin used his hand to shield his eyes, but no reindeer could be seen between the dense trees. No tracks were visible, either, but then again, he hardly expected to see evidence of hooves in the accumulating drifts and the white haze caused by the blizzard.

Without uttering any other explanation or issuing another command, Belskiy returned to his smaller truck. Shukshin followed suit. Dusha licked at his hands and face when he came back into the cabin, greeting him as if he had been on a month’s journey.

They drove on into the whiteout. Shukshin debated telling Belskiy that they should stop and wait out the storm. He toyed with the radio handset next to him, pressing in the button to talk to Belskiy, but decided against it. Dusha whined as Shukshin turned the windshield wipers to a faster speed. The wipers whipped back and forth, but the snow piled on harder. Didn’t ships lower their sails in a strong gale?

As the clouds grew more ominous and gray and the hours dragged on, the day appeared more like night. Still, Belskiy drove on and Shukshin’s clumsy transport rumbled after. Red brake lights glared at Shukshin from Belskiy’s bumper and Shukshin slammed on the brakes once more. Dusha slammed into the hard glove box in front of her and yelped.

“Sorry, girl. Sorry.” Shukshin reached for her, but she cocked her head at him again. “I didn’t want to hit him, girl. Please, forgive me.”

Dusha stretched her neck out and rubbed the top of her head against Shukshin’s palm. As she pressed her head into his hand, a wave of relief spread through him.

Shukshin picked up his handset to radio Belskiy. “What is it this time?”

Belskiy’s voice crackled through Shukshin’s radio. “Food.”

Then, Shukshin spotted the orange lights burning like lighthouse lanterns through the gray mists of snow and silhouettes of unwavering tree trunks. The last café they would see for miles appeared to him as he trudged through the snow. His feet sank up to his knees. Dusha jumped and fell, jumped and fell, following in his footsteps.

Warm air blasted into Shukshin’s face when he followed Belskiy through the door. No other vehicles had been parked outside and the empty tables and chairs only confirmed Shukshin’s suspicions about the severity of the weather. A wooden door swung open at the back of the room and a woman, eyes framed with heavy dark circles, nodded at them and told them to sit wherever they liked. The woman straightened up when she recognized Belskiy and Shukshin through the layers of snow, hair, and clothes that covered their bodies and faces.

“Hello, Irina,” Shukshin said.

Belskiy offered a slight nod and rough grunt as his greeting.

Dusha whined and wagged her tail, rubbing her body against Irina’s legs, and Irina scratched the dog’s shoulder blades, making Dusha wave her tail even more madly.

“Did you have to pull off the highway because of the storm?”

“We pulled off for food,” Belskiy said, sitting down, his lips puckered and his brow furrowed.

Shukshin nodded at the woman, scratching at his beard. “Has anyone else come up this way?” He took a seat across from Belskiy and Dusha lay down by his feet.

“No one. You men are the first. Brave or stupid, I’m not sure.”

Belskiy shrugged. “What’ve you got for us today?”

“The usual special,” Irina said. “Onion soup, potatoes, and sausage. All six months fresh.”

Belskiy harrumphed and Shukshin offered a desultory smile.

“I knew you would be pleased,” Irina said, with a laugh that sounded more like a smoker’s cough. She meandered back to the kitchen. The pungent smell of cut onions wafted into the small dining room.

Belskiy picked at a blackened fingernail and refused to meet Shukshin’s gaze. They sat in silence, accompanied by a stuffed boar’s head and a dusty elk head adorning the otherwise bare, ashen walls. The place smelled of soot and smoke, a souvenir of the poor circulation and dry heat from the wood stove that prevented the building’s inhabitants from freezing to death.

The door to the kitchen opened, but instead of Irina coming out with plates of steaming food, her husband Kolchak sauntered out, his face beaming and his wife yelling.

“Come back and finish this yourself, you oaf,” Irina said.

But, her verbal accosting had no effect on the toothy grin plastered across Kolchak’s face, stained pink with rosacea.

“You boys back again?” Kolchak’s breath smelled of alcohol and onions. He spun a chair around, sitting in it backwards and leaned against Belskiy and Shukshin’s table. Dusha growled at him when Kolchak leaned the chair back and pinched her tail.

“Watch out for Dusha,” Shukshin said.

“I shouldn’t even allow the bitch into this eating establishment,” Kolchack said.

Shukshin frowned at him. “Is that what you call this dirt hovel?”

Belskiy let out a guttural laugh and leaned across the table. “Dusha is probably the finest woman that has crossed the threshold into this shithole.”

“You’re forgetting about my dear wife,” Kolchak said.

“We’re not,” Shukshin said.

“Bastards. Leave now.”

Belskiy laughed and patted Kolchak on the back. “Oh, you old fat fool. Always a pleasure to see you.”

“I am not joking,” Kolchak said. His face turned a brighter red, blood filling his cheeks with a mad heat. “I will not let you liken my wife to your bitch.” He kicked Dusha in the ribs and the dog yelped.

Shukshin stood up from his chair and pushed Kolchak over in the imbalanced chair. He followed the move with a swift kick to Kolchak’s ribs. “Do you like that?”

Shukshin stomped out of the café, Kolchak groaning, and Dusha followed. For a moment, he stood in the falling snow and let the chilling wind calm his hot nerves. Belskiy slammed the door behind him.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Me?” Shukshin said. “There’s something wrong with that man. He’s a crazy drunk.”

“I don’t care whether he is crazy or not,” Belskiy said, “but my stomach is demanding to be fed. What the hell are we going to do?”

“Make it to Boguchany tonight. We can eat where someone appreciates our service.”

“Are you blind? Do you really think we can make it through this?”

Shukshin cocked an eyebrow. “You seemed sure enough earlier.”

“Fine,” Belskiy said. “Fine, fine, fine. If you get us both killed, though, I will haunt you for eternity.”

“If we are both killed, how will you haunt me if I’m dead, too?”

“Fuck you, Shukshin.”

Belskiy returned to the UAZ and Shukshin went back to his gurgling behemoth. Dusha jumped into the passenger seat, her eyes already intent on the road ahead. The snow whirled around the truck in a dizzying screen of white fog and torrential ice.

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.

He fiddled with Belskiy’s belt buckle. Shukshin unlatched the man and felt the full weight of Belskiy’s body drag him into the cabin. He struggled to gain a foothold and hooked his feet into the broken frame of the four-wheel-drive vehicle. Shukshin pulled back at Belskiy’s heavy body and lost the flashlight from his mouth in the process. It fell into the snow behind the truck. Using his own bodyweight to free Belskiy from the truck, he jumped back off the truck. Belskiy caught for a second on the broken window, but slid out after him and slumped across Shukshin in the snow.

Shukshin caught his breath and rolled Belskiy onto the snow. He straightened Belskiy out against the upturned truck and delved into the man’s coat collar to probe for a pulse. A gentle, weak throb made Shukshin’s heart jump into his throat.

“Belskiy?”

“Mmrgh.”

“Belskiy! You’re alive!”

“Mmrgh.”

Shukshin scrambled for the flashlight and shined it directly into Belskiy’s face. The man was a pallid shade of gray and only the whites of his eyes showed before his eyelids shut.

“Belskiy!” Shukshin felt for the man’s pulse again.

His arteries still throbbed, maybe weaker than before. Shukshin could not tell, so he slid his hat up slightly and held his ear to Belskiy’s mouth. He could feel warm, wet air escaping Belskiy’s nose, followed by the weak inhalation of cold air.

Dusha barked wildly and appeared around the rear of the truck, her face held low against the ground and her shoulders tense.

“He’s alive, Dusha. We have to save him!”

Dusha ignored Shukshin and slipped past him, her haunches taut and her low growl making Shukshin quiet and nervous. With a deliberate slowness, Shukshin wheeled around and aimed the flashlight directly into the cause of Belskiy’s accident.

An enormous bear had sauntered in front of the truck, his head held crooked to avoid the direct light of Shukshin’s beam. With a deafening roar, the beast stood on its hind legs and held its front paws in the air. Each wicked obsidian claw gleamed in Shukshin’s light. Shukshin could not move. His thoughts and his body were as frozen as the taiga around him. His gun was in his glove box and Belskiy’s was entirely unreachable in the mangled UAZ. He had nothing to defend himself with except for puffy layers of cloth fabric that barely protected him against the cold.

Dusha threw herself in front of Shukshin and Belskiy. Her growl could barely be heard above the bear’s own deep utterances, but she stood resolute. Shukshin, still sitting, dragged himself behind the unconscious Belskiy.

“Dusha,” he whispered, “come here. Come here, girl. Let’s go.”

His voice barely left his mouth before falling flat against the blowing wind and frozen ground, drowned out by the standoff of the two animals. The bear took a step forward and let out another ice-shattering roar. Dusha lunged at the bear, pouncing at the beast’s matted brown coat, and tore her teeth into his fur. She bit madly at his stomach.

In one fierce swipe, the bear sent her flying into the darkness to his right, beyond the crashed truck’s lights. Shukshin let out a boyish whimper and crawled backwards again, his eyes locked on the bear. The bear did not growl or roar, though. Instead, its beady black eyes and wet snout bobbed side to side as it rambled toward Belskiy. With an uncannily human-like groan, the bear bent its head down and locked its mouth around Belskiy’s arm. It pulled the man back into the beams of the truck’s headlights and meandered between the trees until it disappeared into the shadows.

Shukshin sat in the snow, still frozen. A short while later, a human-like scream emanated from the bear’s direction, but quieted just as quickly as it had sounded.

Grabbing the truck beside him for support, Shukshin righted himself and stood up again. A sudden rush of blood from his head made him dizzy and he closed his eyes, almost falling forward into the snow. When he reopened his eyes, he saw another shape, smaller than the bear, go hurtling into the woods.

“Dusha!” Shukshin ran after her. “Dusha!”

Her paw prints decorated the flat lines where the bear had dragged Belskiy. Already, snowflakes were drifting into the little pockets and Shukshin worried he would not be able to track her for long.

His flashlight provided minimal guidance as the beam whipped around the trees and rocks. Something tugged at Shukshin’s feet and he fell into the snow. The flashlight flew from his hands and hit a tree. With a shudder, the light flickered and turned off.

When Shukshin got to his feet and wiped the snow out of his beard and face, he smelled something coppery, wet. He smelled his gloves again. His heart dropped at the familiar scent. The draining of an elk after a hunt, the butchered pig. In the dull moonlight that glowed through clouds and filtered between pine needles and snow, Shukshin spied what he had tripped on.

Belskiy’s body, mauled and gored, laid bare on the snow. Dark shadows and pools formed around his body and Shukshin did not need to guess what stained the snow, even with his limited night vision. At once, his stomach heaved and wretched. Shukshin threw up the meager contents of his stomach. The sight of the vomit caused him to gag and throw up again, but there was nothing left. He fell against a tree. Holding the evergreen trunk for support, he wiped his mouth.

A yelp from beyond the trees brought Shukshin to attention. He managed to regain his composure and chase the sound. The snow had let up, but the clouds still obscured and distorted the stars above him. Snowflakes that escaped the trees with the keening wind blew into his face as he sprinted as best he could toward where he had last heard Dusha.

The deep piles of snow deposited across the ground grabbed at his ankles and his calves. His pants began to soak through and weigh down. It was as though sandbags were materializing around his ankles and pulling him into the rolling tides, deeper and deeper.

A shape moved in the distance. A shadow; a silhouette.

He stopped and squinted into the distance, trying to make sense of the four-legged creature. He swallowed hard when the animal appeared to be heading for him and he crouched. He wished to succumb to the icy environment around him, to freeze and disappear into a block of ice.

But, the creature’s size diminished as it grew close and he recognized the familiar trot accented with a fresh, exaggerated limp. Dusha.

He patted the dog and kissed her forehead. She returned the affection, licking the snow from his beard and rubbing up against him, whining. Her front right leg appeared swollen near her paw. He picked it up in his hand and she yelped in pain.

“I’m sorry, Dusha, I’m sorry.”

She accepted his apology by dragging her warm tongue across his face and whining loudly. Shukshin wrapped his arms around her and pulled her in tight.

With a start, Shukshin looked around. He had let himself be distracted by the reunion. The snow had begun to fall in earnest again, remitting the small break in the blizzard. Shukshin stood up in panic, commanded Dusha to follow him, and retraced his footsteps. As they trudged through the slush and ice, the footsteps appeared to grow shallower and less distinct, merging into the untouched alien landscape sculpted by the winter storm.

Shukshin clung to his retraced steps, not believing that they were filling up before him, like a sailor clings to the broken mast of the storm-wrecked frigate. Soon, even the mast slipped underwater, broken and waterlogged, rotting and wave-tossed. The spaces where his feet and legs had plunged into the snow were clotted with the fresh deposits left by the howling winds.

Recognizing a rock jutting from the snow, Shukshin’s optimism bloomed momentarily before he recognized that same rock again. A tree, maybe, bent a certain way. A dead branch, still protruding from the snow, parts remaining uncovered. They ran for hours in unrelenting darkness and determined squalls, unable to find the road. With a sickening feeling, he thought that he may have already passed the road but not recognized it in the absolute darkness and uniform obscurity the snow created.

Everything blended together until the insides of Shukshin’s clothes were drenched in sweat and the outside layer was soaked with snow that had caked on and subsequently melted with his expended body heat. He stopped and yelled into the night, then slumped and knelt in the snow.

Dusha cocked her head and howled with him until Shukshin fell into the snow beside her. He began to cry, water welling up into his stinging eyes as the wind egged the tears on. Shukshin dug a hole in the snow for some semblance of shelter and Dusha curled up against him. He shivered and buried his face into Dusha’s fur. He could not feel his nose and his ears stung when he applied any pressure to them. Dusha shook under his head and she tried to ball herself up further, wrapping her tail around her face, pulling herself closer to Shukshin.

The storm covered them with a fresh, soft blanket, lulling them to sleep. Unsure if he was succumbing to exhaustion or death, Shukshin let his eyes close and his consciousness fade.

Shukshin woke up to a clear and dry sky. The sun poured down on him as intensely as the snow had. Trees donned white-capped branches and daggers of ice pointed to the ground. Heat from the falling sunrays built up in icicles and caused them to drip, hit the snow, and refreeze around him. The soft patter of these drops accompanied a gentle breeze that whistled an almost cheerful tune through the pine needles.

Still, Shukshin shivered. He could no longer feel his ears. He had long since given up on his nose, accepting the sensation of a stranger’s bulbous tumor growing in the middle of his face. Dusha opened her eyelids, but her normal inquisitiveness was masked, dull and tired. Shukshin patted her head, but she only responded with a single raise of her tail. She struggled to keep her eyes open and Shukshin examined her with intense worry.

“What’s wrong, girl? What’s wrong?”

He reasoned she was tired or the cold was affecting her. But, something else nagged at him. Her yelp from off in the distance that past night haunted him. An ephemeral ghost, a memory that Shukshin thought he may have made up.

But, besides her swollen paw and the ice frozen between each of her padded toes, he could find nothing wrong with her. He sat for a moment against the tree, petting her and trying to coax her to alertness.

She refused and settled into his lap again, content to lie with her eyes closed and her tongue lolling out of the side of her mouth.

“Dusha? Wake up.” Shukshin’s voice quivered.

Dusha’s heaving chest slowed and she choked and gasped for air. A sickening sound escaped from her throat like two wet pieces of rubber flapping against each other.

“Dusha! Dusha!”

Her ribcage stopped rising and falling. Steam escaped in a final plume from her nostrils and broke against Shukshin’s face.

For the second time in a matter of hours, Shukshin sobbed and heaved uncontrollably. He stroked Dusha’s limp body and stared up through the pine needles and snow, pleading into the clear blue sky.

He picked her up in his arms and trudged on. A vague, dull thought reminded him that he should search for the road. In Belskiy’s truck, he would find food, a gun, shelter. And, his own truck would take him to Boguchany, other people. It was not that he desired to see other people, but other people meant safety and a warm bed. He might be able to feel his nose again, his ears, his fingers, his toes. It would mean dry clothes, a bed for him and Dusha.

Dusha.

He stopped and began to sob into his chest like a distraught child. Dusha’s body rocked as his chest heaved. Her legs were folded up over her skinny ribcage as though she were caught in prayer. The fur on her stomach was matted and wet, revealing her soft underbelly. The skin was mottled with purple and blue bruises from the blood that had poured from the ruptured vessels between her innards.

When Shukshin recomposed himself, he trudged on again. The sun beat down, teasing his skin with a promise of warmth and escape, but the dry air and gusts of wind served as a harbinger of cold, reminding him that the ephemeral rays of the sun could not save him now.

Shukshin changed directions when panic began to set in. Waves of worry and self-doubt crashed in his mind, drowning out any hope of a rational course of action. His arms burned under Dusha’s weight. The tendons and muscles screamed at him to let her go, bury her in the snow and move on. But he refused, unrelenting.

His tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth, dry and swollen. Hunger called to him with a rumble. A gurgling stomach, a pang of desire. Ak Ana did not need her can of beans, but he could use them now.

With a groan, Shukshin knelt to the ground. He laid Dusha down gingerly beside him and shoveled snow into his mouth. At first, the cold made his tongue freeze and his lips stick together. But, his body burned precious calories warming itself and melting the snow inside him, providing him with water and fulfilling a thirst that had hid behind the hunger pains.

The snow assuaged both his thirst and, temporarily, his hunger. His stomach, filled with water, told his mind he would be fine for now. With his arms still aflame and cramped, he cleared a pit in the snow beside Dusha and sat. He could feel the cold snow beneath him that would soon melt and make his seat uncomfortable. His feet were numb, his legs were tired, and his present desire to rest the labored calf and thigh muscles outweighed the ominous promise of the cold wetness that would soak into him. He closed his eyes and, once again, fell into a darkness that teetered between sleep and death.

Night and day blended into a foggy memory as Shukshin tried to count the days that accompanied his winding path in the wooded taiga. He thought he had spent three, four, maybe five days carrying Dusha’s body. With the cold temperatures, her body did not immediately rot and flies did not desecrate her with their offspring. His face, after a long period of numbness, began to burn, as though fresh red skin was being exposed to the biting wind. His body constantly shivered and it became harder and harder to carry Dusha. Shukshin’s clothes seemed bigger, inflated, saggy. The snow could trick him into satiation for only so long and soon he began to curse Ak Ana for taking his food, curse Belskiy for hoarding the food. Precious aluminum cans filled with real food. The frozen pine needles and pine cones were entirely inedible and, after eating the roots and stem of a long-dead plant, his stomach upheaved acid and water. A clear yellowish liquid burned at his throat and tongue as he vomited into the snow. Over and over he expelled the contents of his stomach, until a darker greenish liquid was regurgitated.

His muscles were worn weaker with the incessant vomiting and he had to lie down next to Dusha. Shukshin curled up into a ball and refused to sample the foliage again. An old memory of a tale that his grandfather told him about shipwrecked sailors resurfaced. The memory flapped in his mind like a tattered old sail, full of holes and tears. However, he remembered that the sailors resorted to eating their dead, their comrades, when starvation tore at them and no rescuers presented themselves on the small island or rocky shore or frozen landscape or wherever the sailors were lost.

Shukshin stared at Dusha’s body, eyeing her swollen stomach. He sat up, his stomach still weak, and he scratched at the fur on one of her hind legs, looking for a soft spot. His hunger urged him on and goaded him to devour the dog. He stopped pulling at her fur, stopped tearing at her skin, and stared at his gloved hands. Even now, how could he eat her? She had given her life for him. But, then, she had given her life for him. He could not let himself die after her sacrifice. What need did she have for a body anymore? Dusha’s soul had been set free into the taiga, to howl with her ancestral relatives in packs of roving memories and haunting winds. She wanted him alive.

A deep, throaty growl interrupted his contemplation. The rank smell of its breath and the menacing curve of its teeth stilled Shukshin. He had let the beast approach him, stalk him, and, now, it gave him no choice in the matter of who would eat whom. The bear was in such close proximity that he could see patches of missing fur. Where the beast was not bald, the hair clung to its skin with wetness. In the daylight, its shape was less impressive. Its legs were ragged and thin, and its body consisted of more fur than meat.

He could see why the bear had been prowling when it should be hibernating. It had not eaten enough to stay asleep for the winter. Or, maybe something had happened to its den and it had been forced to wander between the trees and rocks and frozen creek beds to seek food where no food could be found. Until now.

He felt almost sorry for the bear and wondered if he had truly gone mad with the cold. He thought of Dusha, pretending it was her breath on his face, her paws jumping up at his chest to greet him, her tongue wrapping around his face, her jaws clamping onto his neck and skull.

“Good girl, Dusha.”

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank everyone that helped breathe life into this book: Katarina, John, Frank, and Steve for your initial feedback and suggestions; Emily Nemchick, my editor; and James of GoOnWrite.com for my cover design. Any errors that remain are my own.

Mailing List and More

Dear Reader,

Thank you for reading Shipwrecked in Siberia. I hope I’ve done my job and provided a story that transported you into the driver’s seat with Shukshin. This story was inspired by a brief glimpse into the life of Siberian truckers transporting goods through treacherous conditions on a TV documentary that I saw a couple years ago. I couldn’t get the images out of my head. From trucks stuck in snow-covered mud to leaving food offerings at the feet of pagan god statuettes, I just had to do something with those scenes and Shipwrecked in Siberia is what came about. If you’re interested in any future releases and updates, please consider joining my mailing list: http://bit.ly/ajmlist

Or, drop me a line at my website http://AnthonyJMelchiorri.com to stay in touch and see what else I have out. In any case, as an up-and-coming writer, your feedback is crucial to my craft. If you’ve enjoyed the story, consider writing a review from the distributor that you purchased this from or on a review site like http://goodreads.com. Reviews are the sustenance by which authors like me chug along and help spread the word so others might experience our stories.

About the Author

Anthony J Melchiorri is a writer and biomedical engineer living in Maryland. He spends most of his time developing cardiovascular devices for tissue engineering to treat children with congenital heart defects when he isn't writing or reading.

Read more at Anthony J Melchiorri’s site.

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

SHIPWRECKED IN SIBERIA

First edition. May 20, 2014.

Copyright © 2014 Anthony J Melchiorri.

ISBN: 978-1498924115

Written by Anthony J Melchiorri.

Content

Anthony J. Melchiorri
SHIPWRECKED IN SIBERIA

Acknowledgements

Mailing List and More

About the Author

Copyright