Kursed by Lindsay Smith Page A

the truck?”
    Andrei gestures to the darkness pressing up against our windows. Even the stars are blotted out by thick cloud cover; no moon, no streetlights, no nothing around. “We’re vulnerable on the road. No radio. No way to prove ourselves to be who we say we are—or who we really are, depending. It’s best to be where we won’t run into anyone else overnight.”
    â€œAnd do you have any suggestions on where that might be?”
    Andrei taps his temple. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
    We shove the truck over the shoulder and into a ditch. Andrei has gotten a German pistol from somewhere—I’m afraid to ask where—and fires a couple rounds into the windshield and tires. “For authenticity’s sake,” he says, though I’m not sure if it’s the Germans we want to convince or our fellow countrymen.
    As Andrei leads us into the forest, I notice the doctor’s cracked lips, and the way he wipes away blood from them every now and then. It’s no surprise, how malnourished he is; I saw how the corpses looked, shrunken down, every last nonessential ounce drained away from them until there was nothing left to take but what mattered. They told tales, during the siege of Leningrad, about people so desperate with hunger that they resorted to eating themselves—a foot or an arm or a buttock, sheared off like ham. But you don’t have to eat yourself to survive. Your body will start to do it for you.
    The forest swallows us up, so thick and syrupy, smothering even the sounds of our own footsteps, our own hearts thudding with its dank and rain-soaked air. I don’t notice the cabin until we’re nearly running into it—unlit, uninhabited. I close my eyes, try to peer just a few minutes ahead—are there other squatters already inside? But I only see our party sweeping through the dusty two rooms, no one disturbing us. I nod to Andrei and he pushes open the unlocked door.
    â€œHow long did it take you to find this place?” I ask, as we head inside. Thick tufts of dust coat the floor and windowsills, lit only by Olga’s lighter.
    Andrei kneels in front of the cabinets that rim the makeshift kitchen corner. “Not long at all. As soon as I could tell we were running out of fuel, I started bumbling my way through the forest, searching.” He digs around inside the cabinets, even though he can’t possibly see them in the dark. “Ah! Here we go.”
    We all stare at the box that he plops onto the rickety wood table: a lantern half-full with kerosene. He fishes his crystal radio out of his pocket and sets it beside the lantern.
    â€œWell? Shall we try to make contact with the rest of the team?” Andrei asks, his voice tight.
    â€œMaybe in the morning,” I say, which eases the air all around me.
    Olga reaches for the dial. “We don’t have to tap in. Let’s just see if there’s any news out of Berlin or Moscow. We’ll stay off the NKVD comms.”
    â€œSure. Okay.” Andrei dives back into the cabinets. “Now, let’s see what we can find to eat…”
    In short order, we’re shoveling beans from a can into our mouths with our bare hands by the feeble light of the lamp. Even the doctor has joined us, though he starts to look queasy after just a few bites. Olga watches him with a cool expression on her face. “All right, doctor,” she drawls, leaning back in the chair. She’s removed her prosthetic to rest for the evening, and she crosses her whole leg over the stump of her thigh. “I think it’s time you tell us who you really are.”
    He forces a weak smile to his face, but it falters in an instant. “My name is Friedrich Stokowski. I was a professor, before, in Warsaw. Biology, some genetic research. It was my passion, but lately the field of genetics has become … tainted. Political.”
    My lips press into a hard line. “I know