The Russians came at dawn. The sun was blistering red, just creeping over the horizon when Matthew was awoken by the distinct marching of feet. They were not afraid to give themselves away; the ground thundered as they approached, iced over and crackling under formidable weight. The snow had not stuck here, but the frost had won over the struggling greenery, and the woodstove was failing- not that it mattered. He had to get out, and fast. He would not fall to the Russians if he could help it.
"Kumajima?" he called for his bear, peeling himself from his sleeping bag and dashing to bolt the front door and grab his shotgun. A thick wooden block slid into place to bar it directly underneath the deadbolt, and as an extra precaution the broken couch was stacked against it.
"Hungry," his bear whined from the kitchen. "Food."
"I'm sorry, Kumamaji." Matthew swept the bear into his arms and bound him in a blanket. The pistol holsters he always wore on his being were tight across his chest, and he loosened them just slightly to slip the cocooned polar bear into the makeshift seatbelt. "There's no time for food. You and I have to hightail it out of here."
"Who?" Matthew sighed and kicked aside the coffee table. There was a hatch in the floor that lifted easily, but he had no oil or matches to light his way. He shuddered at the thought of what could be lurking in the cellar, but he swallowed hard and used the loud-growing march of the Russian troop as incentive to face his fear. He dropped the hatch again and descended into the darkness.
"There's a tunnel down here somewhere, Kumayuki," Matthew whispered. His voice, even below its normal raspy volume, echoed and carried in the dank cellar. "I hate to leave our storehouse, but we can't afford to face a whole troop of Russians on empty stomachs."
"Who are you?" Kumajirou responded noisily, and his owner shushed him and placed a hand along the wall, feeling for a door or handle, his boots heavy on the concrete beneath his feet. Banging sounded on the front door above them and a muffled shout ordered the Canadian's surrender. He gulped and shivered, heart skipping beats aggressively as his gloved fingers groped the wall. Gunshots. They would soon be inside. Kumajirou huddled against his chest and his finger slipped onto a handle just as the door burst from its hinges above them and the angry footsteps assaulted the ceiling.
"It's alright, Kumawara," Matthew sighed in relief. "We're going to be alright." The handle turned and the door swung outward with a heavy creak, leading into a foul-smelling tunnel that would twist up to the surface. Matthew closed and locked the door behind him, knowing it would do no good against the Russians if they could break into the cellar. He ran as quickly as his heavy boots would allow, crashing into the wall more than once, nearly sending Kumajirou crashing to the ground in his haste.
"Watch it," the bear grumbled. Light grew closer, seeping through the iron bars of a grate upon the surface. The tunnel became steep, built for access and not convenience. Matthew raised his arms and pushed upon the grate, cursing under his breath as he felt ice freezing the iron in place. He wasn't quite tall enough to put a lot of force into the shoving, and tears threatened in his panic as he searched for a way to break the icy barrier.
"Hold on, Kumachama," he whispered, and he slung his gun off his shoulder. For the first time since Iraq, all those years ago, he slid his goggles down over his eyes and set it on his shoulder, aiming for the hinges of the iron grate. With five perfect shots, it was blasted away, and he shouldered his gun, clutched Kumajirou tight, and pulled himself up into the frosty wilderness. He glanced back over his shoulder, breathing raggedly in the cold air, his breath coming out all around him hot and white. The cabin sported streams of fire at all angles, erupting in orange-red flame. Matthew gulped, glad for remembering its only escape route, when he heard the unmistakable click of a gun. Slowly, he turned and found himself face-to-barrel with a long rifle.
"Game over," said a stern accent from above him. It reeked of strife and unpleasantry. Slowly, violet eyes tilted up to meet that of his captor, an icy blue peering out from the shadow cast by an evergreen army cap housing five impressive stars.
"I'm sorry, freund," Ludwig said icily, face devoid of all emotion. "But you will be coming with me now."