Elijah's Chariot (The Forgotten Children Book 1) (17 page)

Shockwaves
of pain raced up Sean’s thin arms all the way into his shoulders and he
staggered back from the force. The heavy, iron mallet dropped unnoticed from
his hands as he stared through the dull, dust-filled afternoon light at the
obstinate door. 

Beside
him, Sergey, the muscular fifteen year-old boy who’d been among the group that
had captured him near Red Square three or four days before, yelled something
and gestured toward the apartment door. Sean wasn’t sure if he was yelling
because he was angry at him or if he still couldn’t hear very well from having
his eardrums burst in the brief street struggle.

“You
go again or want help?” said Svyeta, the girl with the powerful scream who had
been captured with him that day. She, her younger sister, Zhenya and a couple
other young girls stood further down the hallway, calmly waiting as the boys
worked at breaking in the door. 

Sean
dropped his shoulders in exhaustion and, in Russian, said, “Help.”

Sergey
gestured to Alyosha, a wiry-thin boy of about sixteen, urging him to pick up
the heavy mallet that Sean had dropped. The thin boy spaced his hands evenly on
the wooden handle and squared his feet as he stared at the door. Giving Sean a
brief smile and wink over his shoulder, he swung the mallet at the lock on the
right side of the door. There was a heavy thud, the door shuddered briefly,
then the hallway was still again. 

This
routine had been going on for the entire time that Sean had been a prisoner of
the Black Scorpions. That first day they had brought him back to a hotel near
Red Square and locked him in one of the large conference rooms with a bunch of
other bewildered Russian kids. Having only a few scraps of food between them,
they were all left there until the next morning when Pyotr, the dark-haired
leader of the street gang, and his two cronies, Sergey and Ivan, the smaller
spiky, white-haired kid, took them out to a nearby apartment building and
ordered them to start breaking into apartments. The boys started on the heavy
work of breaking down the doors, then the girls would go in and quickly gather
up any jewelry, weapons and canned food that they could find. They collected
the loot in a truck in front of the apartment building, then drove the load
back to the hotel at the end of the day. They’d already amassed quite a horde,
but still Pyotr ordered them to keep going back. Through Svyeta, Sean had
learned Pyotr intended to have them gathering the supplies “until they had
enough.” Sean’s wearied body knew that it definitely didn’t like the sound of
that. 

Alyosha
took another over-the-shoulder swing at the difficult lock. He’d already
smashed through one, but this door had several and they still clung tenaciously
to the door frame. The boy was trying to stay cheerful, even joking
occasionally between swings, but he was growing visibly tired. This was the
twentieth apartment that day and they were down to what they hoped would be the
last one before heading back to the hotel and dinner. 

Sean
leaned heavily against the wall and hung his head in despair. Nothing about
this trip has turned out like I thought it would, he whispered to himself.
First, there had been all those weird things happening at the time that Jerry
had landed: the vision or dream of the forest and the light, the Russian air
force pilots dying. Then, the deaths happening all around the world, his
mother, his father…

Sean
coughed, pretending to try to clear dust from his throat as he fought the
rising wave of grief that threatened to overtake him. He’d had the dream again
last night, just as he had the morning Jerry landed, only this time he was
actually asleep. It was mostly the same: a dark, thick forest – running through
the trees, an almost oppressive smell of dense vegetation all around him. But,
last night, he’d dreamed that he was heading toward some type of clearing and
there was someone behind him. Not chasing necessarily, but just there – some type
of presence. He hadn’t been afraid during the dream, but had felt an almost
overwhelming sense of urgency as he moved toward the light in the clearing. 

He
suddenly recalled his thoughts as he’d sat in the control room of the Russian
Space Agency a week-and-a-half ago, right before he’d had the dream or vision.
Had it only been a week-and-a-half? It seemed like months or even years. Sean
remembered his excitement, the sheer thrill of anticipation that had been
coursing through him as he watched the scientists gathering around the
monitors, tracking Jerry’s progress. He recalled in almost perfect clarity how
he had been imagining the events of the coming days: flying out to the site,
searching for meteorite fragments, being with his father and watching him in
his work. None of that happened, Sean thought again. None of that came true.
And, now, it never will. I’ll never feel that kind of excitement or wonder
again. And I’ll never be that stupid, naïve boy… ever again. 

Sean
was jolted from his memories by a sharp shout from the stairs below. Ivan, who
seemed to be Pyotr’s second in command, came bounding up the stairs, a
sub-machine gun hanging casually from his shoulder. He muttered something to
the three boys gathered around the door, throwing his hands up in apparent
irritation.

“He
wants… faster. Boys in next building finished. Why we slow, he says,” Svyeta
said quietly to Sean. He’d definitely recognized the words for fast and slow –
they’d been repeated often to him over the past few days. The rest of the
language was still a mystery to him – he’d only learned a few other words, just
barely enough to get by. He wondered how long he’d have to be in Moscow hanging
out with Russian kids before he became fluent with the language. He hoped he
didn’t ever have to find out. 

Sean
turned his head slowly toward Zhenya, Svyeta’s little sister. She had messy
brown hair down to her shoulders and always wore a pair of pink leggings with
little boots that came up just past her ankles. Even though she was only six years
old, she reminded Sean of his sister Elizabeth. Maybe because it was when
Elizabeth had been that age, that they’d seemed to get along so well, Sean
thought. It seemed that they’d fought more over the past couple of years. All
those hormonal changes, his mother always said. It didn’t make Sean sad when he
thought of his sister like it did when he remembered his parents. It only made
him impatient and anxious to get going so that he could make it back to
California somehow and find her. He’d made a promise to his father, but more
than that, he knew that she needed him now in this strange, lonely world. And
now he definitely needed her. 

Ivan
was talking rapidly, in quick, guttural bursts as he stared in agitation at the
three boys. Sergey was occasionally yelling back at him, but it was clear who
wielded more authority despite the difference in the two boys’ physical sizes.
Svyeta and the other girls just stared at the two of them in fear and
resignation, knowing that yelling didn’t get the work done any faster. 

Sean
stared at both of them, a deep anger starting to fill his chest. Here two of
his captors were arguing about bashing in some stupid door for weapons and
useless jewelry while his sister was alone on the other side of the world,
waiting for him. The futility and senselessness of the entire situation started
pressing down on Sean and he clenched his fists, trying to keep himself from
screaming out loud. 

Both
the boys were yelling now – Alyosha was trying to calm them both down, smiling
reassuringly as he moved to stand between them. Sean turned his eyes away from
the three of them, looking for something else to focus his anger on so that he
wouldn’t lash out and get himself shot. He looked at the silly, black-matting
covered door that was just like all the others in the building – the source of
all their frustrations. Stupid door, he thought, stupid, useless door that’s
keeping me away from rest and dinner and my sister and the rest of my pointless
life!

As
he stared at the door, imagining kicking it in and crunching it to a million
twisted pieces, the boys’ yelling all the while raging beside him, he felt his
hands beginning to swell. At least that’s what it felt like at first. The
sensation quickly became so powerful that he lifted them up to look more
closely, half expecting to see his fingers grown to the size of sausages. But,
there was no visible change in size, just a very powerful feeling of expansion
and force. 

Suddenly,
the door began to shake. It scared him at first, making him think that there
was someone inside making it rattle on its hinges back and forth like that, but
then the shaking grew stronger and faster like there was some kind of powerful,
vibrating machine behind it. 

Ivan,
Sergey and Alyosha all quieted down and stared in confusion at the door that
was trembling like it was a leaf caught in a hurricane. Sean stood still, his
legs locked in place and his hands held in front of him. The swelling sensation
hadn’t dissipated, but seemed to be growing stronger. Suddenly, a brief image
of billions and billions of tiny particles flashed through his mind. He saw the
particles moving and jumbling together in a shapeless cloud, then two distinct
groups of particles forming and beginning to move away from each other. 

Sean
became aware of some type of connection between his hands and the shaking door,
like an invisible force field of some kind. The pressure continued to mount and
spread quickly up his arms, through his shoulders and into his mind. He could
feel strength gathering in his hands and the rattling door at the same time
and, all at once, the pressure seemed to spike, to grow so strong that he felt
like his entire body would explode. In fear and desperation, he threw his hands
out in front of him to avoid being torn apart. 

The
door caved right in half like a dented aluminum can, tearing the locks and the
hinges from both sides as it flew backward into the hallway of the apartment.
The sound was like some kind of horrifying explosion of wood and metal. At the
same time, the tension and pressure in Sean’s hands was released and he fell
backward onto the floor, staring in shock at the destruction in front of him. 

The
folded piece of paper lay on the floor next to the bag from where it had just
fallen. Viktor stared at the note, almost afraid to touch it. He’d just been
about to unlock the door and go outside when he’d accidentally bumped his
sister’s shoulder bag that she’d left in the hall when she’d last come home. It
wasn’t the note itself that caused the creeping feeling that was beginning in
the back of his throat – it was the handwriting: his aunt Lydia’s – “To my dear
family.”

Viktor
bent over carefully, delicately balancing his weight between his right leg and
the old crutch that he’d dug out of the hall closet. It was the one that he’d
used occasionally as a little boy, when his body had still been light enough to
move around with the gray, rubber grip tucked tightly under his cramped arm. It
was a little small now, but helped him balance well enough. He’d been
practicing for the past day or so, building up his strength – and courage – to
go out on the street. 

His
nose crinkled at the smell of decay hanging heavily in the air of the apartment
hallway. He straightened up, the handwritten note still unopened in his hand.
Lydia must have given Tatyana this when they saw each other last week – what,
on Thursday or Friday? He unfolded the note, drew in a deep breath and quickly
read through the looping characters. There were only a few, brief lines – she
said goodbye, that she loved them, that she hoped they would never find the
note, that they would find happiness in “this terrible sleep.” 

Viktor
imagined his sister knocking on Aunt Lydia’s front door and waiting several
minutes before using the extra key they kept at home in case she ever got
locked out. He could see her stepping carefully into the brightly lit
apartment, calling Lydia’s name. Tatyana would have found her in her bed, just
like mother and grandmother, lying there looking as if she were still asleep,
the note positioned carefully on the nightstand by her bed. He folded the note
slowly as tears flooded his eyes and a whimper escaped from his tightened
lips. 

He’d
told himself not to hope, that there was no way that she could still be alive.
But, hoped he had. In the back of his mind, he’d been holding and nurturing a
dream that someday Aunt Lydia would come knocking frantically at the door, then
rush in to take him away to be with her, to be safe. Now, he knew that would
never happen – the note confirmed it. Tatyana knew that the last time she’d
spoken to him. She’d known that they were the only two in the family left.
She’d probably been hoping that by the next morning, they’d both be gone too.  

He
tucked the note into an inner pocket of his dark wool coat. Wiping the tears
from his eyes Viktor pulled the zipper up higher over his scarf, checked the
keys in his pocket and unlocked the front door.

It
was warmer outside than he’d expected. He’d been watching the last remaining patches
of snow melt as he’d tried to fill the empty, lonely hours, but hadn’t assumed
that the change in seasons would be coming so quickly. Moscow springs didn’t
usually. 

Although
he’d been making significant progress with his left leg over the past few days,
roughly in line with his calculations, it was still not ready for full use and
the crutch was absolutely vital as he shuffled down the stairs. And even though
his arms and hands had also been gaining strength and coordination rapidly, he
knew they were still vastly underdeveloped and would be no help in a real
emergency. 

Viktor’s
mind had been occupied recently with exercising his wasted limbs and his other
preparations to go out and forage on the street. He hadn’t devoted much time to
wondering how or why his body was suddenly starting to work, but he was fairly
certain that it had something to do with what had killed his family – possibly
a virus that he was somehow immune to, that, while killing others who lacked
the immunity, bestowed some type of brain healing or regenerative powers on
those that survived. 

It
was these thoughts that began to take control of his mind now, occupying most
of his faculties as he carefully made his way down the darkened stairs of his
apartment building. He’d read about how diseases could spread – he knew that
both his mother and sister would have had regular contact with people as they
ventured on the street. Either one or both could have easily contracted
something and brought it home. If that was true, that some strange mutated
virus had swept the city, then it was quite possible that he was only one of a
few remaining survivors who had somehow developed an immunity. Viktor gently
pushed the squeaky front door open out onto the deserted street. 

The
large, indoor market was only a few minutes away. He had been afraid that he
wouldn’t be able to remember how to get there, but the location and direction
were suddenly clear to him as he hobbled around puddles of melted snow and ice.
Viktor had wrapped a kitchen towel around the rubber pad that jutted into his
armpit, but the constant strain was already beginning to wear on him. He knew
that he would be sore by the time he got home, probably even more so the next
day, but he pushed on, stubbornly dragging his weak left leg behind him. 

After
rounding the corner of an apartment building similar to his, he reached the
main street that led to the market. A dirty white car was parked several yards
ahead – he could see the outline of someone’s head resting against the seat behind
the steering wheel. He approached the vehicle cautiously, slowing as he passed
by the driver’s window, and only dared a quick glance at the figure out of the
corner of his eye. It was a man, but he almost didn’t look real, more like a
department store mannequin. Viktor continued quickly onward. 

Although
the sky had clouded over again, the air was still warmer than it had been for
weeks. Viktor paused to loosen his scarf and unfastened a few buttons on his
coat. Immediately after doing so, he stared down at his fingers – they had just
nimbly performed the delicate task, without him really thinking about it.
Suddenly, Viktor wasn’t sure if he’d ever actually buttoned or unbuttoned his
own coat or shirt or anything before – his mother or Tatyana had always been
around for that. He’d watched them both thousands of times as they helped him
pull on his clothing, tie his shoes, quickly brush through his hair. Strange,
he thought, now that they’re gone, I suddenly don’t need them anymore. 

The
market was housed in a large, one-story building, a warehouse sitting on the
corner of a large intersection. There was a tall church on the opposite corner,
its gold-leafed towers shining dully on the street below. Viktor remembered the
throngs of people that had streamed through this area whenever he’d been here
before. Often, there were so many that traffic was backed up constantly as
shoppers and worshippers alike clogged the sidewalks and side streets carrying
armfuls of groceries or candles to burn for their patron saints and dead
ancestors.   

The
only thing on the street now was dirt and a few plastic sacks floating along
slowly in the wind. Viktor stopped before crossing the street and noted the
blanket of silence that had descended over the entire city. Gone were the
sounds of car engines and honking, the shouts of swarthy, mustached young men
as they haggled with gray-haired babushkas. The entire city was asleep. Viktor
wondered if it would ever awaken again. 

Garbage
littered the pock-marked stone floors of the market. Spilled, crushed nuts,
squashed and rotting tomatoes, dirty heads of lettuce and splintered chunks of
wood filled the narrow lanes between the islands of crate-topped tables. The
smell of rotting produce, and something worse, filled the stagnant air. 

Viktor
slowly shuffled through the ransacked remains and decaying vegetable matter as
his eyes scanned the mostly empty crates and bare table tops. The market had
always been overflowing with buckets of fresh strawberries and large radishes,
trucked in from various parts of the former Soviet Union. Patient booth clerks
of mixed nationalities had always stood calmly by as shoppers picked through
the selection, each one using their own secret method for finding the tastiest
melon, the banana of the perfect ripeness. Nothing around Viktor seemed alive
anymore – even all the food was dying. 

He
sifted through a pile of mismatched seeds, dumping a fistful into a clean
plastic sack that he’d found. Viktor added a handful of thin carrots that might
be saved if used within the next day or so. Before moving on down the row of
tables, he paused and looked around – there was no one there to count his
items, weigh the vegetables and take his money. He looked down at the scant
food in his plastic bag, then reached his hand into an inner pocket of his
coat, counted out a few bills and placed them carefully on the table. 

As
he was examining a dented cardboard juice box, Viktor heard the sound of
ripping coming from a back corner of the large, empty room. He stood still,
staring toward the corner and listening as the tearing sound continued. Viktor
turned and looked back at the door he’d come through from the street – he
hadn’t seen or heard anything when he’d entered. 

He
made his way through the aisles, his feet and crutch occasionally squishing
through the remains of some tomato or pile of broken eggs. Viktor moved toward
the meat section against the wall, the exit a few dozen yards to his left. Most
of the sides of beef and skinned chickens that had previously hung in the open
air were gone now, their only remains being caked blood stains on the floors
and the yellowed tiles of the walls. This was where the smell was the strongest
– warm flesh slowly rotting. 

Viktor
rounded the corner of a large crate covered table and spotted a mangy dog
gnawing at what looked like a pig’s head. The eyes were gone and the pointed
ears were stiff, poking in different directions, almost playfully so as the
gray, scraggly dog steadily chewed on the side that faced away from Viktor. Its
eyes turned up at him, but continued working, brownish blood caking its nose
and the hair around its mouth. 

As
Viktor stood there watching, another dog with long, black hair trotted silently
around the corner and barked at him. The gray mutt raised its head from the
grisly work on the floor and began to emit a low growl from its throat. The
larger black dog crouched low on its thickly muscled haunches and barked louder
at the strange, three-legged boy. 

Viktor
tried backing away slowly, but had difficulty with his crutch on the slippery
floor. Both dogs stood their ground, the gray still growling as the bull-headed
black filled the market building with its deep bark. Viktor turned and hobbled
toward the door, trying not to hurry or make any other quick movements. He
could feel the dogs’ eyes on his back as he neared the open doorway, late
afternoon light streaming through it into the cold interior. 

As
he reached the door, he heard the clicking of nails on stone and turned his
head to see the two dogs trotting quickly toward him. He ducked through the
door and onto the street just as the two beasts began to jog. 

As
Viktor reached the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, the two dogs
ran out of the market, their eyes intently focused on him, tongues hanging out
over large, yellowed teeth. The dogs stopped in the middle of the street,
watching Viktor’s retreating figure limp down the sidewalk, as the larger black
continued barking, louder. 

Viktor
had given up any attempt at hiding his intent to leave quickly and was now
hurrying as fast as he could down the sidewalk, not daring to glance over his
shoulder, afraid to show the canines the fear in his eyes. His right arm swung
wildly for balance as his left gripped the crutch that supported him. In the
quiet, spring afternoon, he heard more barking in the distance, coming closer.
Before rounding the corner onto another street, he looked back. The two dogs
still stood in the middle of the street, watching him. 

He
had to get inside somewhere, he thought, as he pumped his legs and arms down
the street, they wouldn’t be able to get to him if he was inside a building,
protected by walls. Viktor paused briefly to check a door to his left, shaking
the handle frantically before continuing on down the sidewalk. Most of the
doors on this street appeared to be shops – they would all most likely be
locked. Suddenly Viktor realized, that in his haste, he had walked down the
wrong street and wasn’t sure exactly where he was or what direction he had to
go to get back home. The barking was now coming from multiple directions. And
it was getting louder. 

As
he neared the end of the street which met a larger boulevard, he heard the
distinct clicking of long nails on the pavement and the grating of gravel
beneath paws. Turning, Viktor’s jaw dropped as he spotted nine or ten dogs of
various breeds trotting hurriedly, but calmly, down the street toward him, the
gray and black ones from the market in the lead. 

A
wave of fear hit him, like a punch in the stomach, and he gasped, struggling
for air. It finally came in a ragged gulp and he tore around the corner, trying
to put distance between himself and the approaching pack of feral street dogs.
Viktor could feel the sobs coming up from his chest, but he didn’t fight them,
trying to focus all his energy on getting his body to move forward, faster. 

He
could hear the entire group barking now, moving toward him. His right leg was
beginning to shake, the muscles twitching spasmodically, unaccustomed to the
exertion. Tears were streaming down his face and he could hear his heart
pounding in his ears and the hot warmth spreading up his neck into his face as
he limped on down the sidewalk.