The rumble grows stronger, thrusting heavier gusts of wind at us as it closes in. Then it will unravel, the volume will decrease, and the rattle of the world will simmer.
Not this time.
A piercing shriek slices through the air and a rush of heat and pressure wallops against us. Some of the other men fall to their knees, but I manage to wrench my arm around a tree, reaching out to grab Piotr who’s stumbling. I catch the fabric of his jacket and yank him toward me.
The guards are shouting, but not at us. To each other.
“Take cover!”
“Air raid!”
They aren’t telling the prisoners to take cover. There is nowhere to take cover. But they’re all running in various directions, frantically. Not paying attention to what’s happening between these trees. Guards fires their weapons into the woods, but black smoke replies, gathering thickly toward us. The ground stops shaking but the trees are still swaying, snow is falling in chunks from branches.
I can only hear the breaths pumping within my body when I look to the left, finding a short cliff. I release my grip from the tree and stumble down the cliff, grab tree to tree as if my arms are made of rubber. Just thin bone that might snap if I hit them the wrong way. I manage to make it toward thicker tree trunks, finding another short cliff then a narrow-frozen stream. Beyond the stream are boulders large enough to hide behind. Nothing is steady. Everything vibrates like an endless echo.
There’s no time to hesitate. I claw my way through the woods, reaching the stream, testing the toe of my clog on the ice to check if it’s solid. It isn’t.
I jam my foot into the water then plunge the other, taking the four long, numbing steps to the other side before falling against a rock. I press my hands against it as if holding it upright, then twist my body around to the other side before falling into the wet soil untouched by snow because of the slight shelf on top of the boulder. A thud and a huff of exasperation land beside me. Piotr, breathing hard and heavy.
“We—we—have to keep—keep—moving,” he utters.
He’s right. There’s no distance safe enough to claim we’ve gotten away. Only one other man has managed to break free from the group. In the middle of the night when a guard dozed off for thirty seconds while on watch.
I grab the side of the rock and pull myself far enough to peek up the mounds of snow and rock. I can’t see up to the path we were on. I don’t know if they’re still rounded up there. Or if they’re counting people.
Maybe staying still and silent is better. Though if we hear anyone come after us, there won’t be time to run. We’ll get shot immediately. We’re also going to freeze to death with wet feet and pant legs if we stay on the ground.
“There’s another ledge ahead,” I say, pointing through the trees to where the snow dissolves into a dark shadow.
Ledge after ledge, hills and more hills, we’ve gotten a good distance away from the rest, finding ourselves in a thick patch of fog and more boulders, a few that butt against each other, forming a hollow. I grab a short branch from the ground and stab around inside the dark hole, checking to see if the space is occupied by man or animal, but the branch only slaps against the rock walls.
God only knows where we are, how far away from civilization we might be. We’ve been walking through the woods for almost two days. We squeeze into the narrow rock cave, our bodies pinned side by side.
“This is a good spot,” Piotr says. “We can stay here.”
I didn’t have a plan when I decided to make a run for it. I still don’t know what direction to go but I know we can’t stay here. We’ll freeze tonight.
I grab the bottom of my pant legs, the fabric a frozen sheet. “I don’t think we should stay,” I argue.
He clambers out of the rock cave first, checking the surroundings before exiting. I take in the last second of damp heat from our breath and follow. Our speed slows, both of us trudging as if carrying bags of sand tied to our legs. We haven’t eaten in more than two days. There isn’t a squirrel or bird in sight, not a sound or life, just crackling branches.
Another stream interrupts our direction, and I question if I can wade through any more frozen water. My pants are still clad with ice.
I test the surface, adding more weight until I’m confident it will hold us up to cross. “I’ll go first,” I tell him.
Aside from a slight crackle, the ice holds up. I stop and wait for Piotr, watching him test the ice the same way I did—as if it’s different than the ice I just crossed.
He finds it to be solid and moves toward the side I’m on.
Two steps in and the crack thunders, deep and guttural, followed by a splash. It isn’t a shallow stream. Not like the last. He slips hard and goes under fast. His arms thrash overhead, splashing, grasping for nothing but air.
No. Oh God. No. No.
I search wildly for something to grab onto, finding a branch partially exposed from a mound of snow. I yank it out and swing it toward the hole. “Piotr!” I shout, louder than I should be in our situation. “Grab the branch!” He reaches for the branch, grabbing a hold of it, pulling—testing my strength. His head bursts through the surface, gasping for air, his eyes wide with shock as he chokes out a mouthful of water.
“Hold on to the branch,” I groan, pulling with nothing to press my feet against for support—the ground solid ice.
“St-t-top! L-l-l-et go, St-st-st-efan,” he grits through chattering teeth.
