⧗ CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO ⧗


It was dark by the time they got home.

There were no lights on in the ground floor, but Dmitri could see the basement was lit from the small hatch window just above the flowerbeds.

Even before they entered the house, his stomach churned.

Even Yelena didn't want to go back inside. Just sat in the car after she'd parked it in front of the house, staring at the door. Like she was waiting for something, though Dmitri didn't know what. But a part of him already knew, going inside would be Bad.

Only hours ago they had dragged in that man, and by all signs, their parents had not finished with him yet.

"We don't have to go in," Dmitri said. He hated how his voice trembled.

Yelena was silent for a moment more. For a second, he thought she might agree — only for her to ultimately turn the car off, pulling the keys from the ignition. "No. We've avoided it for as long as we could."

The ice cream they just had now felt like eons ago, the indulgence now curdling to a sick unease as he watched Yelena kick the car door open and exit the vehicle. He reluctantly followed suit. Dmitri kept behind Yelena as she opened the front door. The house was eerily quiet, but all Dmitri saw was his bedroom door down the hall and the sanctuary it promised.

But he'd never make it that far.

No sooner had they entered did the basement door whip open, spreading cold light across the walls. Yuri's large shadow fell across them as he spoke in a low voice. "Get downstairs. We're almost done."

Yuri was a large man, grew up near Siberia, and a beard that matched it, and just so happened to blend into the mountains of West Virginia. He was an imposing man who had no family of his own. His idea of bonding was lining up old bottles and cans in the backyard and practicing his aim. His bedtime stories consisted of his father's time in the Red Army, legends of World War II he dreamed of living up to. Yuri was not a man to be crossed.

Still, Yelena didn't move, blocking Dmitri with her body. "He doesn't have to see that."'

Yuri blinked. "That's not up to you. He's going to learn eventually. Whether or not you're there is up to you."

Yelena glared at him. But her expression shifted as she looked down at Dmitri, her brow furrowing with fear and uncertainty. She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it. Dmitri couldn't see the apology written in her face.

"Now," Yuri said, stepping back so they could enter.

Dmitri was scared, he always was when Yuri used that voice. He only moved when Yelena did, keeping close to her side as she shifted forward, following her down the narrow steps to the basement.

He hated it down here. Hated how it smelled, wet and cold, like mildewed concrete. For some reason it didn't permeate the rest of the house, but down here it was inescapable. How dark it was, even with the single bulb on. It swung gently from its wire, casting shifting shadows across the nearly empty space. Nearly empty, except for Ludmila, dressed in only a bathrobe and smoking a cigarette. And, in th e center, zip tied to an old chair, sat a bruised and broken creature, so battered and covered in blood, eyes nearly swollen shut, that Dmitri didn't recognize him as human for a moment. The man made a strange groaning sound, wet and rattling and weak.

Yelena came to an abrupt stop at the bottom of the steps — Dmitri bumped into her, peeking around her fearfully to stare at the man. Blood bubbled from his lips with each labored breath.

"What's wrong with him?" Dmitri whispered. But Yelena didn't answer him.

Instead, she asked, "Did you get what you need?"

"Yes," Ludmila replied, blowing out a stream of smoke. "It's time to clean up."

Clean? The man was a mess. He'd need a hospital, Dmitri was pretty sure, but he was too afraid to speak now. Besides that there was blood and other bodily fluids splashed across the floor. The man stank terribly. This was not a mess a seven-year-old was equipped to handle.

Nevertheless, it was Yuri who told him. "It's very easy, Dmitri. I'll show you how."

Yelena made a sound of protest, but she was too late. Yuri had grabbed Dmitri and dragged him over to stand next to the man, on one side. Then Yuri pulled something from his waistband and placed it in Dmitri's hands.

A pistol.

It's shiny black metal, greased and cleaned with meticulous care, weighed heavy in his grip. A small gun, angular and slim, with a short, narrow muzzle. Dmitri didn't know much about guns, only that this was old, an heirloom relic of sorts. Yuri's father pulled it off the corpse of a German soldier and kept it as a trophy. Though economical in size, it was still massive in Dmitri's hands, weighing heavy in his grip. In fact, Dmitri would've dropped it had Yuri not kept his hands around Dmitri's, helping keep it aloft.

"Palm on the bottom like this to keep it steady," Yuri carefully showed Dmitri the correct hand placements, speaking gently into his ear. "My father taught me how to shoot many years ago. A boy becomes a man when he takes his first kill, he told me. Not just an animal, but human life. Now it is your turn, Dmitri."

He showed Dmitri how to pull the toggle to chamber the weapon. The click of the bullet sliding into place. "A man doesn't play with toys anymore. He has tools. When we make a really bad mess, sometimes this is the only way to fix things and keep it clean."

He led Dmitri's hands to press the muzzle against the man's head. "The best spot is either here, at the temple, or between the eyes. That way you know for sure you did it right the first time."

The entire time, the man in the chair barely reacted. Dmitri thought he might be sleeping.

"When you're ready," Yuri said. "Pull the trigger."

At last, the man seemed to stir, his head lolling to one side. A swollen eye blinked open, peering sluggishly to the left, a bloodshot eye landing on Dmitri. For a moment, the man seemed surprised, eye widening. Dmitri couldn't move, petrified, eyes locked with the man.

His eye closed again after one long second, and bent his head ever so slightly, to rest on the muzzle.

Dmitri swallowed, his mouth dry.

Pop.

The gun went off, Yuri's finger pressing over Dmitri's; bracing him as the kickback rocked up his small arms and through his body.

At the other end of the gun, the man's head rocked back violently, in a splatter of blood.

The ejected shell casing clinked across the floor at Dmitri's feet.

The man slumped forward in his chair. He didn't move again.

"Good job," Yuri said, ruffling Dmitri's hair while his ears rang from the gunshot. Yuri pulled the pistol away, returning to a stand. "Nice and clean, no hesitation. A small enough caliber means the bullet never exits the skull. If it does, you must retrieve it. Yelena, help untie the body. We'll dump it in that mineshaft like last time."

Yelena said nothing, only sighed as she did as she was told. Her face had gone pale, when Dmitri looked at her again; but she only spared him a quick glance, and offered neither approval or disapproval as she pulled out a knife and started sawing at the zip ties.

Ludmila finally stood, coming around to take Dmitri by the hand and lead him away. "Come, let's go find the tarp, shall we? And when this is over, you can have a nice bath, and maybe a story for bedtime, hm? You've done so well, Dmitri."

"Okay," Dmitri murmured, at once relieved that he was not in trouble, and yet confused over what just happened. His mind swirled with questions. The man, did he… was he dead? Did Dmitri do that to him? Why did he have to die? Why did they have to hurt him?

But those were not things he was allowed to ask. And he did not want a bedtime story, but it sounded better than having to clean up what was in the basement, so he did not complain.

Dmitri hated it down there. And that had not changed.