Chapter 22:
Helen breathed a sigh of relief when she rematerialized next to John. She silently cursed herself for not dressing warmer as a bunch of snow blew into her exposed face. She did have a coat on, but it was hardly appropriate for Moscow in the middle of a snowstorm. When she had checked the weather report before leaving, it had been clear.
"We need to get inside," said John, brining Helen back to the present. She nodded numbly and allowed him to lead her into a nearby bar. "Две водки пожалуйста," he said to the bartender as he lead Helen to a secluded table in the corner.
"I didn't know you knew Russian," said Helen, mildly surprised.
"I spent some time hiding in a small village not far from here," replied John with a terse smile.
"We need to find Will, John." Her voice took on a sudden sternness as she glared at her ex-fiancé.
"I know," John replied patiently before thanking the bartender for the drinks. He took a sip of his, savoring the burn that went down his throat. "But we will freeze to death if we search for him now. And what better way to gather intel than a bar, hmm? Young Mr. Zimmerman can look after himself."
Helen frowned. She knew he was right, and she hated to admit to it. She sipped on her own drink, contemplating everything she knew of the situation. She watched, warily, as John got to his feet and walked over to the bar. She stared bleakly into her drink while John talked to the bartender.
"Well," she rounded on him the moment he returned to her.
"If I understood the gentleman who runs this bar correctly, Mr. Zimmerman was seen having a drink here three nights ago."
"If you understood correctly?" Helen snapped. Her nostrils flared as the corners of her mouth tightened.
"And that young Mr. Zimmerman was spotted leaving with members of the local Bratva ring." At this, he frowned.
Helen cursed loudly, earning many turned heads in her direction. "We've got to find him!"
"I know, Helen," said John grimly. He bit back the bile threatening to come up. "I will search for my old contacts to find the Bratva. Stay here."
"Don't take too long," pleaded Helen softly. Her heart was pounding, and her mind raced. She shared a meaningful glance with him, and before he could bring it up, she looked down.
He nodded wordlessly before striding out of the bar. The bitter cold air nipped at his face before he teleported.
He rematerialized in the hallway of a dark apartment building. It reeked of mold and spilt vodka. He knocked on the nearest door.
"KTo?" The voice on the other side was male, rough.
"I knock only out of courtesy, old chap," John said with false kindness. "If I really wanted to, I could enter without so much as breaking the door down."
The door opened a crack, revealing a middle-aged man with a goatee and neatly kept salt and pepper hair. His brown eyes widened with fear. "Mr. Druitt?"
"Open the door!" John snapped threateningly. He forced himself to remain calm as the door opened. He stepped into the dank flat, eying the man suspiciously as he went. The apartment was bare save for the old, torn black leather couch in the corner.
"What bring you here, Mr. Druitt?" the man asked in a shaky voice.
"You know why I am here, Ratsconvich," sneered John, turning to face him.
"I swear, I know nothing!" The man backed away as far as he could get from John.
"Wrong answer," snapped John. He was growing steadily more impatient, and the Ripper was clawing at every bit of self-control he had left. It wanted blood.
"Please! I leave Bratva long time ago!"
"One does not simply walk away from the Bratva," snarled John, edging closer to the man until they were inches apart. "Where are they?" He loomed down menacingly. He was close enough to smell the fear wafting off the man in waves. It sent shivers down his spine, but he had to focus; he had a job to complete. He grabbed the whimpering man by his shirt collar and slammed him against the wall. "TELL ME!" he roared.
"They—they took your—you find your friend—Tunguska!" the man sobbed. "Please, don't kill me."
"And let you warn the Bratva? I think not, old chap." John cringed as the man's pleas were cut short by the gurgling of his jugular being cut. The body was dropped as John teleported.
"Look like your man left you to us, lady." An older man took John's vacated seat across from Helen. He stared at her cleavage, not even bothering to hide what he was doing.
She looked up at him, revolted. This was not the first time she had found herself in a situation like this, and it most certainly would not be the last. "I think it best if you leave me alone and return to your drink."
"Woman got spunk," he jeered, earning many laughs throughout the bar. "You know what happen to woman who has spunk in my bar? She get put in her place."
Helen's heart pounded. She wondered where John had gone too, and whether he would return before the situation got out of hand. She slowly reached toward her holster for her gun, trying to appear calm as she did.
The door opened. Everyone turned and cold air blasted in his or her faces. John strode into the tavern, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. He glared at the man who had dared take his vacated seat. The room went still until the man scurried away.
"We're leaving, Helen," he said in a soft, but commanding voice.
She glared up at him before getting to her feet and marching to the cold. "John!" she gasped when they were out of sight. "You're covered in blood!"
"It isn't mine," replied John with a weak smile. He sighed when she narrowed her eyes at him. "I couldn't let him live; it was too risky. But I did find young Mr. Zimmerman. He's in Tunguska."
"Dammit!" growled Helen under her breath. "I told him to stay away from there."
"You can chastise him when we find him," said John calmly. He held out his arm and teleported them away once again.
They rematerialized in an old, beaten down flat. John grinned slightly. "Ah, this is where I hid before World War 2."
Helen shot him a dark glare before taking in her surroundings. The flat appeared unused since the Second World War. Dust covered every surface. Much of the furniture was overturned, and the bed was torn to shreds. "Did you leave in a hurry when you went to join ranks with the SS?" she inquired darkly.
"I certainly wasn't going to return here after my exploits during the war," replied John evenly. "We should go out and find where young Mr. Zimmerman has gone to." He had to yank on the door hard to get it to open; it ended up on the floor as the hinges were ripped off.
The streets were dark, even though it was still daylight. The inhabitants wore little more than dirty rags. Some covered their faces with shawls. Small groups were hunched over the fires that dotted the town. Everyone was staring at Helen and John with eerie gazes. Some had eyes as black as coals, while others had pure red orbs for eyes.
"They're abnormals," muttered Helen breathlessly. She had certainly heard rumors, but she had imagined nothing like this. She could not spot a single normal human among them. "It's likely that they were genetically altered from the radiation."
"Stay close, Helen," warned John in a low whisper.
She nodded. As they walked through the town, she noticed how everyone shrank away from them. Helen's head snapped up when a young looking woman limped toward them.
The woman dragged her left leg as she approached John and Helen. It was large with claws instead of toes. She had yellow, catlike eyes. Her ears were also catlike and sat atop her dark red hair. Her hands were normal, but she had short claws instead of fingernails. When she smiled, her pointed teeth gleamed in the dim light. "Why you here?" she demanded in a low purr of a voice.
Helen blinked, surprised that the woman knew any English at all. She shook herself out of her momentarily stupor and retrieved a picture of Will from her pocket. "Have you seen him?"
The woman glanced at the picture. She quickly looked back up at Helen before taking a step back. "He with Bratva. You no find him. Too dangerous."
"We can offer you and everyone else protection from the Bratva, if that is what you need," Helen offered. She knew that these people had seen Will and that they knew where he was being held.
"No. Too dangerous. Bratva very powerful."
"We need to find our friend—before it's too late!" said Helen earnestly. "Please, help us. At least tell us where he is."
The woman observed Helen for a long moment; they made eye contact. "At other end of town. You find him in warehouse."
"Thank you," Helen said before the woman scurried away. She turned back to John, and they exchanged worried glances.