The muffled sound of wood chips bursting was torn apart by the cold wind pouring in. Three figures wrapped in thick fur and carrying weapons, together with the blade-like cold air and snow foam outside the door, rushed in. The light suddenly leaked, illuminating their red and fierce faces under the brim of their hats. The leader had broad shoulders and held a well-maintained but absolutely deadly AKS-74U short assault rifle in his hand. The muzzle swept through the house without any rules as his body turned.
Leonid curled up in the shadow of the corner, his breathing was stagnant, and his blood seemed to be frozen. He could smell the strange smell of inferior tobacco, the smell of livestock and the cold metal from them. Chaser. It's not like a prison guard who wears a uniform to do business, but a real hyena who will do anything to achieve his goal. He had no doubt that as long as the other party found him, he would become a sieve in the next moment.
But the woman's movements are faster or earlier than he thought.
Almost at the same time as the lath was broken, she did not retreat, but took half a step forward against the airflow. The thick bread knife drew a short and accurate arc in her hand, which was not a chopping, but more like a rapid oblique flirtation.
A flash of cold light.
"Uh--!"
The roar of the strong man in the head suddenly twisted into a short howl. He held the right wrist of the short assault rifle, and the thick fur and skin opened a bone-deep hole at the same time, and blood rushed wildly. As soon as he let go of his finger, the rifle smashed on the floor and slid out far away.
Everything happened in an instant. The two people behind the strong man obviously didn't expect that the seemingly harmless woman living alone would react like this, let alone that the companion's weapon would be lost in an instant. They were stunned for about half a second before they suddenly raised the weapons in their hands - a shotgun and an old-fashioned Makalov pistol.
The figure of the woman has moved. She was like a dead leaf blown up by the wind. She turned sidelightly but quickly, avoiding the chancely bombardment range of the shotgun. I don't know when there was a slender iron twel in his left hand, which seemed to be a stove hook. From the bottom to the top, it pecked like a viper to the throat of the shotgun.
The shotgun holder hurriedly retreated. The heavy barrel of the shotgun swung up, smashing the iron bar, making a crisp sound of "bang", and the Mars splashed slightly. But this also completely disrupted his center of gravity.
The woman's right hand, the bread knife that had just seen blood, flew out almost at the same time!
It is not thrown at the shotgun holder or the third person holding the pistol, but at a tricky angle, rotating and flying towards the fireplace.
"Bang!"
The blade was unbiased and severely cut off the thin iron chain hanging above the fireplace, the heavy brass kerosene lamp!
The kerosene lamp fell down and was hitting an old carpet in front of the fireplace, which was slightly dark in color and seemed to be soaked in some kind of grease.
"Boom--!"
The orange flame burst into flames in an instant, and it was more than half a man high! The thick smoke wrapped around the pungent smell of burning spread violently, and the fire jumped, stirring up the light and shadow of the whole room into chaos, and the shadows of people lengthened and distorted sharply.
"Damn it! Eyes!" The third person with the pistol was a little far away, but he was also shocked by the sudden explosion and thick smoke and took half a step back. He subconsciously squinted and raised his hand to cover.
Right now!
At the moment when the woman threw the knife, he was already short and close to the ground, sliding like a shadow to the strong man who had his wrist cut and was howling with the wound. The other hand of the strong man instinctively grabbed the rifle that fell on the ground. The woman's toe accurately kicked his elbow, and the strong man's whole arm was numb. She has copied the AKS-74U.
The action is not sluggish at all. Hold the gun, put it on your shoulder, and turn around - the muzzle of the gun steadily pointed at the gunman who had just squinted and dodged in the chaotic curtain of thick smoke and fire.
"Bang! Bang!"
Two short and dull shots. The gunshots were deafening in the closed wooden house, and the shell bounced and fell on the wooden floor, making a crisp jingling sound.
The man holding the Makarov pistol shook his body, and two blood flowers bloomed on his chest. There was still shock and discomfort with the fire on his face. He had fallen back, knocked over a low stool by the door, and the gun in his hand slipped off his hand.
And the shotgun man, as soon as he barely stabilized his body and smashed the iron that was stabbed again with the shotgun butt, he heard the sound of his companion being shot and falling to the ground. His eyes were about to burst and he roared. He turned the heavy muzzle of the heavy double-breled shotgun and pointed to the woman who had just shot and whose body was not fully clear in the fire and smoke.
But he forgot the corner.
Leonid moved.
The instinct of survival overwhelms everything. At the moment when the kerosene lamp fell and the flames rose, the intense light and sound stimulated him. When the woman moved like a ghost, grabbed the gun, shot, and the whole room fell into a whirlpool of killing, a string in his mind broke. It's not fear, but a more primitive and burning thing that crushes frozen thinking.
He saw the shotgun man with his back to him, and his attention was completely attracted by the woman and the flames. He saw the back of the other party's neck trembling slightly because of anger and tension.
There is no weapon. There was only the tattered cloth soaked in his own blood that had just been used to stab the wound in his hand, and the lean and boney strength under a prison uniform but tense due to the desperate situation.
He is like a wounded beast, rising from the corner of the wall. There was no roar, only a suppressed hiss in the depths of the throat. A few steps away, he pounced on it and strangled the shotgunman's neck from behind with all his strength, tearing the blood-soaked cloth from his prison uniform! At the same time, the knees desperately press against the back of the other party.
"Uh--!" The shotgun holder was caught off guard, and the shotgun muzzle suddenly tilted, hitting the wooden wall next to it with a "bang", and the wood chips flew. He subconsciously grabbed the cloth strangling his neck with both hands and pedaled with his feet.
Leonid strangled him and felt the cloth sink deep into the flesh of the other party's neck. He felt that the strength of the other party's fierce struggle was transmitted to his arm through the cloth, which made his wound collapse and warm blood oozed out again. His eyes were black and his tinnitus was buzzing. He only knew that he could not let go. If he let go, he would die.
In the chaos, he saw the woman turn the muzzle of the gun. The fire was uncertain on her pale face, and the gray eyes looked at him. There was no emotion, only absolute calmness.
Then, the muzzle of the gun moved slightly and pointed at the back of the head of the shotgunman who was strangled by him and was struggling crazily.
Leonid closed his eyes subconsciously.
"Bang."
Another crisp shot.
The power of struggle disappeared in an instant. The heavy body fell softly and fell to the floor with Leonid. The warm and sticky liquid splashed half of his face.
The tight cloth loosened. He gasped, and the thick smoke made him cough violently. His eyes turned black, and only the sharp sound and his drum-like heartbeat were left in his ears.
Be quiet in the room. Only the carpet in front of the fireplace was still burning, making a crackling sound. The fire illuminated the scattered corpses, the splashing dark red, the scattered weapons, and the ashes and spicy smoke slowly floating in the air.
The woman carrying the AKS-74U went to the fireplace, kicked up some scattered and unburned firewood with her feet, and pressed it on the burning carpet. The flame was quickly extinguished, leaving only the charred edge and suffocating thick smoke. She went to the window again, lifted the corner of the curtain and looked outside to confirm that there were no follow-up vehicles or figures.
Then, she turned around and looked at Leonid.
He sat slumped next to the pool of blood and the corpse, his face and body were covered with blood, his own and others's. The prison suit was even more tattered, and the wound on the right leg was oozing blood out because of the outbreak just now. He raised his head and met her eyes.
She was still like that, with no expression, but a few dark spots splashed on her cheeks. I don't know whether it was blood or mud. The knuckles holding the rifle are still stable. In his gray eyes, there were the embers of the beating embers and the embarrassed him.
Without saying a word, she walked over, bent down to pick up the bloody Makarov pistol on the ground, checked the magazine, closed the fuse, and casually inserted it into the belt of her back waist. Then he picked up the heavy double-barreled shotgun and looked at it. It seemed to be useless and threw it aside.
Finally, she walked to the strong man with an injured wrist and fell by the door and moaned in pain. The strong man's face was pale, covering his bleeding wrist, and his eyes were full of fear and disbelief.
The woman squatted down in front of him, and the muzzle of the AKS-74U pointed to the ground casually.
"Who sent you here?" She asked in a calm voice as if she was asking about the weather.
The strong man's lips trembled, he glanced at the corpse of his companion next to him, and then at the woman in front of him who seemed to be weak but was as fierce as Shura.
"'Sable'... Warden... Belorukov..." He spoke incoherently intermittently because of pain and fear, "He said... he must bring the living back... or... the corpse... bounty..."
The woman listened quietly.
"What else?" She asked, "Just to catch a fugitive?"
The strong man's eyes flashed, as if he was a little confused, and he was eager to save his life: "No... I don't know... really... just say... this prisoner... very special... must... get rid of..."
The woman's eyes stayed on his face for a few seconds, as if judging the authenticity. Then, she stood up.
Leonid's heart rose. He looked at the woman and the gun in her hand.
The woman didn't shoot. She walked to the fireplace, picked up a tin kettle, and poured the remaining cold water directly on the strong man's bleeding wrist wound.
"Ah--!" The strong man screamed again.
"Stop bleeding. Figure it out by yourself." The woman dropped the kettle and said indifferently, "Get out. Tell the person who sent you that he found the wrong place and provoked the wrong person. If there is another time," she paused, and her gray-white eyes swept over the corpse on the ground, "it won't be just a wrist injury."
The strong man, as if he had been pardoned, rolled and crawled, and even couldn't care about the severe pain. With his hands and knees that could still be moved, he moved out of the door awkwardly and disappeared into the darkness and wind outside the door.
The woman closed the shabby door and temporarily held it with a thick wooden stick. The room was completely quiet, leaving only the occasional crackling of firewood in the fireplace, as well as the smell of smoke and heavy blood that had not dissipated.
She walked back to the center of the room and leaned the AKS-74U against the table. Then, she looked at Leonid again.
This time, her eyes stayed on his face and body for a longer time, especially the bleeding wound on his leg.
"Get up." She said, there was still no temperature, "Treal the wound. Then, tell me your name."
Leonid leaned on the ground and tried several times before he barely staggered to stand up. Blood loss, cold and the violent consumption that had just broken out made him dizzy.
"Leonid," he gasped and his voice was hoarse, "Leonid Ivanov."
The woman nodded, as if she had just confirmed an irrelevant label. She walked to the heavy wooden table, opened a drawer, and took out a tin medicine box that looked a little old.
"Go over there and sit down." She pointed to an old armchair in front of the fireplace away from blood and corpses with her chin.
Leonid staggered over and fell into the chair. The leather is cold, but at least it is dry.
The woman came over with the medicine box, squatted in front of him and opened the box. The things inside are simple but complete: disinfectant potion, gauze, bandages, scissors, and even a small bottle of morphine and several syringes. Her movements were skillful and clever, cutting open his blood-soaked trouser leg, revealing the ferocious wound - not deep, but long, the edges rolled up, covered with snow and sand.
She rinsed with cold water first. Leonid took a breath of cold air in pain and his muscles were tense.
"Be patient." She said that her hands kept moving. The disinfectant potion was poured on the wound, and the stinging made him almost bite his teeth. Then apply the medicine and bandage it tightly with gauze. Her fingers are slender and a little cold, but extremely stable, and the bandage is fast and proper.
After dealing with the leg injury, she signaled him to stretch out his arm and other abrasions on his body to deal with them one by one.
During the whole process, she didn't say a word and focused on the work at hand. Leonid was able to observe her up close. She is indeed very young, her skin is almost transparent, and she can see the pale blue blood vessels. The eyelashes are long and drooping, casting a light shadow under the eyelids. The tip of the nose and cheekbones are a little red because of the cold or tension. But she exudes a kind of silence that does not match her age, or alienation. It seemed that the brief and bloody encounter just now and the uncooled corpses on the ground were separated from her by an invisible layer of glass.
After the bandage was finished, she packed up the medicine box and put it back in its original place. Then he walked to the fireplace, picked up an old enamel jar, poured some hot water from the iron pot simmering on the stove, and scooped a spoonful of dark and sticky things from a jar, stirred it, and handed it to him.
"Dishrink it. It can warm you up and regain some strength.
Leonid took it over and started hot. He blew and sipped carefully. A mixed bitter taste of herbs and sweet honey rushed into the mouth and slid down the esophagus, and a warmth spread in the cold chest. He drank greedily.
The woman herself walked to the table, poured a glass of water, drank slowly, and her eyes fell on the still whistling wind and snow outside the window.
For the time being, only the sound of the stove and the subtle breathing of the two people were left in the room.
After a cup of hot drink, Leonid felt that his stiff body eased a little, at least he no longer trembled uncontrollably. He looked at the woman's back, and the word came to his mind again, with cold hooks.
"You just now..." He said, his voice was still a little hoarse, but clearer than before, "Call me 'pilgrim'."
The woman turned around and leaned against the edge of the table, still holding the cup in her hand. Gray eyes looked at him and waited for him to continue.
"What does that mean?" Leonid asked, trying to find a trace of the answer from her face, "And they... are not just here to catch fugitives, right? You say they are 'different'.
The woman was silent for a moment and put the cup on the table. She walked to the fireplace and fiddled with the firewood with tongs to make the flame more vigorous.
"'Sable' Prison, Leonid Ivanov." She opened her mouth slowly, and her voice was mixed with the crackling sound of the fire, "Thrty-two years old. For manslaughter, he has been sentenced to eight years and has served four years and seven months. There is no significant criminal record, and the performance during the sentence is... ordinary.
She reported his information like a treasure, and her tone was as flat as reading a file.
Leonid's spine slowly straightened.
"The warden Belorukov is greedy for money, but cautious. For an ordinary manslaughter with more than half of his sentence and medior performance, in such bad weather, he did not hesitate to send a private 'treatment team' with automatic weapons to issue an order 'regardless of life or death' and promise a high reward. She turned around and faced him, "Do you think it's reasonable?"
Leonid opened his mouth and couldn't make a sound. Unreasonable. Of course, it is unreasonable. He has seen all kinds of injustice and darkness in prison, but there has never been such an excessive "attention" for him personally. He is just an ordinary prisoner who wants to finish his sentence and find a quiet place to live after going out... At least he has always thought so.
"So... pilgrims?" He repeated that the word was like a piece of ice stuck in his throat.
The woman walked to the table and stroked the dark wooden box that had attracted Leonid's attention before with her fingers again - now he could see clearly that it was indeed a box made of some kind of dark hardwood, with a smooth surface and no decoration.
She didn't open it, but her fingertips stayed on it.
"That's a name," she said, with a trace of extremely complicated things in her gray eyes, like distant memories and like bone-criving coldness. "The name for a group of people. They walk in the dark, looking for a specific goal and completing some kind of... 'pilgrimage'. Twenty years ago, they began to appear. Fifteen years ago, they created a series of sensational cases that were eventually covered up. Ten years ago, they seemed to be silent. But now..."
Her eyes turned to the three corpses on the ground (one of which was released) and fell back on Leonid's face.
"They seem to have started a new 'hunting'. And you, Leonid Ivanov, an ordinary prisoner who was killed by a tavern fight, somehow appeared on this new 'pilgrimage' list. Moreover, the position is quite forward.
Leonid felt a bone-chilling chill, worse than the cold wind in Siberia, rising from the tail of the spine, instantly freezing his limbs and skeletons. Hunting? List? Twenty years ago? These words put together a huge shadow that he couldn't understand at all, but felt creepy.
"I...I don't know..." He muttered in a dry voice, "I don't know anything... I just... killed someone by mistake..."
"Maybe." The woman said that she couldn't tell whether she believed or doubted, "But someone knows. Some people think you know. Or, you yourself are a part of 'knowing', even if you don't notice it yourself.
She paused, and her eyes became sharp, as if she was about to penetrate his flesh and look straight into the depths of his soul.
"So, Leonid, think about it carefully. Before you went to prison, before you committed the 'murder', or even earlier, where your memory began... Did anything unusual happen? What strange people have you met? Have you ever heard of... any words, symbols and rumors about 'pilgrims' or similar meanings?"
Leonid forced his confused mind to run. Prison life dulled his thinking, but the desire to survive ignited the remaining clarity. He tried to recall, from the ups and downs of his childhood in the orphanage, to the harf and construction site when he was a teenager, to the barely making a end of work after adulthood, and the night in the tavern that changed everything and was full of cheap vodka and blood...
The broken picture flashed. The drunkard's roar. The waving wine bottle. The other party's eyes widened when he fell down. Cold handcuffs. The indifferent face of the judge in the court. The loud noise of the prison's iron door closing. The gray cell for four years, the changing faces of the inmates, the scolding of the prison guards, the hard labor in winter...
No. There is nothing special. There are no mysterious symbols, no strange words, and no meaningful strangers. His life is like the most common gravel on the Siberian tundra, rough, gray and inconspicuous.
He raised his head blankly, looked at the woman and shook his head.
The woman's expression did not change, but Leonid seemed to feel that something in the depths of his gray eyes sank slightly.
"Well," she said, her voice returning to its previous plainness, "you need to leave here. As soon as possible."
Leonid was stunned.
"They will come again." The woman stated the truth, "Next time, there will be no only three amateur thuds. Besides, the wind and snow are about to stop.
Leonid looked out of the window, and the wind seemed to be really smaller.
"Where can I go?" He smiled bitterly and glanced at the thick bandage on his leg, "'Sable' is chasing me, and what you said... 'pilgrim'. There is no place for me to hide in Siberia.
The woman walked to the window in silence and confirmed the situation outside again. The wind and snow are indeed weakening, and the clouds seem to crack a gap, revealing the iron-blue sky behind. Dawn is approaching.
She turned around, walked to the wooden table, and opened the dark hardwood box.
Leonid looked over involuntarily. There are no weapons or mysterious items in the box that he imagined. There are only a few things that look very ordinary: a pile of old ruble banknotes tied with rubber bands, with different denominations; a few sheets of paper stacked with worn edges, which seem to be maps or documents; an old, brass key; and a small, dark blue velvet bag. Son, tighten the mouth of the bag.
The woman took out the pill of money and didn't count it. She divided more than half of it. She took out one of the papers and opened it out to look - it was a hand-drawn topographic map with simple lines but clearly marked, and the scope seemed to exceed Omsk Oblast. She put the map and the money together, and then picked up the brass key and the blue velvet bag.
She walked to Leonid and handed him the money and the map.
"Go east and enter Kemerovo Oblast, avoiding major towns and traffic lines. There is a mark on the map. Go to this place and find a forest guard named 'Vasily'. Tell him that 'the birch tree sends greetings'. He will help you hide temporarily and get new identity documents and necessary supplies.
Leonid took the money and map with the cool temperature at her fingertips, feeling like holding hot charcoal. He looked down at the hand-drawn map. The strange place names and winding routes on it made him dizzy.
"This key," the woman also put the brass key in his hand. The key was very old and the teeth were badly worn out. "Put it away. You may never need it, but if... If you are at a los or hear the news about the 'Holy Bell', go to Novosibirsk and find an abandoned workers' culture palace near the former site of the 'Red October' factory, and the third locker in the basement. This key can open it. There may be something in it that can help you understand the current situation, or there may be nothing, or even worse. Don't go until it's a last resort."
"Holy Bell..." Leonid muttered.
"A code name, or a place, may be both. It is related to 'pilgrims'. The woman explained briefly and obviously didn't intend to say more.
Finally, she picked up the small dark blue velvet bag and put it in Leonid's other hand. The bag is very light, and it seems to be a small hard object inside.
"Well," she looked into his eyes, and her gray-white eyes were particularly clear and deep in the gradually bright morning light. "Put it close to the body. Don't show it to anyone. Unless... you are sure that you are about to die, or you meet someone who can really be called the core of the 'pilgrim'. At that time, maybe you can take it out. But maybe it will kill you immediately.
Leonid clenched the small bag, and his palm could feel the outline of the small hard object inside, which seemed to be a small, flat piece of metal or a stone? His heart was full of great doubts and anxiety, but the unquestionable look on the woman's face made him swallow all the questions.
"Why do you help me?" He finally asked in a dry voice, "You don't know me at all. And... you are also in danger." He glanced at the corpse on the ground and then looked at her.
The woman looked away and looked at the jumping flames in the fireplace. Her side face looked a little unreal and soft in the firelight, but her voice was still cold.
"I have my reasons." She said, "It has nothing to do with you. What you need to do now is to live and figure out why you are the target. It's not just for you.
She turned around and looked at him: "Because if the hunting list of 'pilgrims' is real, then you, Leonid Ivanov, will never be the last one on the list."
Outside the window, the wind has completely stopped. The snow light reflected into the room, which was white and bright, gradually overwhelming the fire of the fireplace. God, it's almost dawn.
The woman walked to the door, moved the wooden stick against the door, and opened the broken door. The clear and cold air poured in, diluing the smell of blood and smoke in the room. Outside is a silver-wrapped and silent world. The snow reflects the faint sunlight, which is dazzlingly white.
"Let's go. While the traces have not completely disappeared, while the people chasing you have not been reorganized. She turned sideways and said, "To the east, don't look back."
Leonid stood up with difficulty on the armrest of the chair. The wound on the leg is still painful, but the bandage is very strong. He carefully stuffed the money, map and keys into the still dry pocket of the inner layer of the prison uniform, and the blue velvet bag was tightly held in his palm, and then stuffed into the closest position to the heart.
He walked to the door. The cold air cheered him up and made him more aware of the absurdity and urgency of his situation. He stepped out of the threshold and into the deep snow.
He stopped and turned around.
The woman was still standing at the door, thin, and behind her was a warm but mess room. The morning light outlined her clear outline. Her face was a little blurred in the backlight, and only her gray eyes still looked at him clearly.
"You..." Leonid's throat tightened, "What's your name?"
The woman was silent for a moment.
"Anna." She said, and then added, her voice was so soft that it was almost blown away by the wind, "Anna Ivanovna."
Ivanovna. A common father's name may also be a surname.
Leonid nodded and remembered this ordinary and seemingly unusual name. He didn't say thank you. After everything I have just experienced and learned, the word "thank you" seems too pale and hypocritical.
He turned around, took a step, and walked towards the east, towards the unknown shelter marked on the map. The snow creaked under his feet. Behind him, the wooden house that gave him a brief shelter and pushed him into a greater mystery and danger, and the mysterious woman named Anna were gradually left behind him in the snow curtain and the lightening sky.
He doesn't know what's ahead. I don't know what "pilgrim" is. I don't know who else is on the list. I don't know what kind of thrilling truth is hidden at the broken point of my ordinary life.
He only knows that he must live.
The cold wind blew on his face, and the wound was faintly painful, but the touch of the small hard object in his heart, as well as the heavy keys and maps in his pocket, like cold anchors, nailed him to this sudden and dangerous escape road.