Forest
Feverish barking rent the still air, and Pile ran.
These days it seemed that running was all he was good for, honestly. Though… he couldn't rightly complain. It was his fault, after all.
Hasty as he was to finish the Run before first light, Pile failed to notice the damned fascist dog curled up behind the flaming can the German Reserves were using for warmth. Unfortunately, the animal neglected to show him the same courtesy. He had almost made it to the next alleyway when the howling and snarling began, and his entire world became a blur of frenetic flight.
The sniper let loose a sharp grunt as he vaulted over a fallen telephone pole, the wood warping slightly under his weight. Loaded down by the supply sack bouncing and tugging at his shoulders, Pile knew he wouldn't be able to keep ahead of his pursuers for much longer: he needed to lose them soon, or die. Gunfire rattled behind him, and he ducked instinctively, throwing his body to the side as bullets whizzed through the space he'd just been occupying.
Scrambling and sliding over an inch of snow, he crawled under the wrecked hull of what was once a city bus: now just a bent, empty shell of metal and plastic. He had just made it half way out on the other side when he was set upon by heavy fur and snarling jaws.
Pile thrashed onto his back, elbowing the lithe animal off of him, and reached quickly for his boot, searching for his bayonet. His fingers closed around cold steel just as the dog leapt for him again—a flickering shadow of fur and fangs. Instinctively, the struggling sniper thrust up an arm and eight white-hot needles of pain erupted on his forearm.
Biting back a scream, Pile grit his teeth and feverishly worked to pull the bayonet from his boot, grunting and snorting in pain as the shepherd tore and flayed his arm through his thin jacket. With one final, sharp tug, he tore the old world weapon away and plunged the dull point into the hound's ribcage. He was released with a loud yelp, and Pile quickly withdrew the bayonet, striking again: below the foreleg. He felt the warmth of life soak into his tattered gloves, tickling his frozen, red fingers.
It felt good. Hot like… like fudge.
How long had it been since he'd had frozen yogurt with his family?
Years.
A loud whine and crack of vaporized masonry snapped the bloodied man back to the present. He shoved the cooling body of the German watchdog from his chest and crawled into the building behind the wrecked bus, clutching the slick bayonet in his left and dragging the bag of supplies with his right, wincing loudly with every jarring tug.
Somewhere along the line he realized that his hat was missing.
The sound of crunching footsteps and shouting grew louder, and Pile struggled to his feet. He was tiring, but he couldn't leave the heavy pack behind. If he lived, he was aiding the Germans; if he died, they still got it. Pile didn't even know what was inside the bag… it could be important.
Finally on his feet, the sniper slogged through what appeared to be the remains of a hotel lobby: ornate, chain chandeliers lay coiled like snakes on the ruined carpets, plush sofas devoid of their bedding leaned against peeling geometric wallpaper, and the front desk was scattered all around, destroyed by a German shell. Pile hurried around the corner into a grimy service hall, searching for an exit. Behind him, the sound of pursuing soldiers swelled into the clatter of boots on wood and ragged carpet. He needed more time.
Pile stopped, positioning himself behind a mostly intact clay pot—once the protector of some fern-like plant—and slid his rifle from his shoulder. Muscles burning, eyes blinking away stinging sweat, Pile replaces his blood-coated bayonet in his boot and raised the Nagant to his shoulder. He was gasping for air, the barrel twitching and shuddering with every ragged breath.
Calm down... just, just slow—
Leather boots pounding, the first soldier cornered into the serviceway, and Pile fired.
The shot went wide, punching into the wallpaper almost a meter ahead of the approaching soldier, and the sniper cursed under his breath, turning and running as the German point man retreated around the corner: afraid for his life. Pile reached the end of the hallway and turned left, shouldering through the hotel service entrance and into the snowy citadel once more. Eyes searching the streets, the Siberian ran, feet leaving a trail for the Germans to follow. It was only a matter of time, now.
He needed a place to hide.
Spotting an apartment complex—luckily still standing—he tried to pick up the pace, hopefully reaching the multi-floored haven before the patrol caught u—rattling filled the night air, and all was searing pain.
Pile fell, left side flaring as lead spat up black snow around him. Arms flailing in the snow, the sniper pulled himself behind a small pile of rubble, bullet-riddled pack shuddering and dragging along behind. He could feel the shots all around him: impacting the concrete and rebar pile at his back, tunneling through the air all around him. Dimly, he was aware of someone bleeding on the ground next to him.
Himself.
He was seeing himself.
As soon as it began, the out-of-body experience ended, and he was on the ground, gasping for breath. The sky was lighter. Rising sun ends the fun. Pile coughed and wheezed: it was harder to breath.
Oh, something was terribly wrong.
The sound of shouting grew, and reality dulled.
I'm dying…
Crunching snow. They were so close now. Close enough to end it.
Pile reached weakly for his handgun, wishing he was insane… and the footsteps halted. He didn't notice it at first, as concentrated as he was on breathing and clutching at his Tokarev. All he knew was that the shouting had grown even louder and… confused. Like the Germans were frightened. Pile chuckled throatily to himself through the pain.
They were right to be afraid. Siberians don't go down that easy.
Pile finally pulled the handgun from its holster and looked up.
Shock mingled with disbelief mingled with joy as he took in the impossible with his own two eyes…
He was insane, and it was beautiful.
Inhuman yowling echoed through the towering trees, and Pile listened as confused shouts became terrified screams and erratic gunfire. The sniper smiled a twisted, pained smile:
Soooo beautiful.