Page 40 of What Remains (John Worthy #3)

The sky was the color of dirty milk. A gust of icy wind smashed his body and blasted over his face.

Despite all his layers and preparation, Poya drew in a quick, involuntary inhale through his scarf then winced as frigid air, sharp as an icepick, stabbed his lungs.

The pain was so intense, his mind blanked for a moment.

Driven by wind, fine icy snow stung the exposed skin around his eyes and hissed over the yurt’s fabric cover.

Blinking against sudden tears, he bent and went to work on a knot securing a loose coil of heavy rope to a peg pounded deep into the ground.

Disentangling the rope from its peg, he unraveled the coil along which four empty seven-liter plastic water jugs were strung like charms on necklace.

The jugs banged and bumped with hollow thumps as he slung the rope around his neck and shoulders.

Once filled with water from a spring at the easternmost tip of Lake Chaqmaqtin, each jug would weigh around fifteen pounds.

The walk to the spring was long and even colder than it had to be because Amu’s winter camp nestled in the foothills north of the lake and about two kilometers from a steep road which wound its way into the mountains bordering Tajikistan.

That road was strange. The fact of its being there at all was odd.

Poya understood why the Taliban was laying down a road to China.

But this road, which was wide enough to accommodate a large truck, was one of a kind.

There were no other roads nearby. When Poya asked where the road went or who lived up there, all he got back from Amu was a blank stare and then a warning to stay away.

Which made Poya wonder. If whatever was up was so dangerous, why didn’t Amu move his clan further away?

There weren’t a lot of Kyrgyz in the Wakhan.

Maybe a thousand, tops, in the whole valley.

Clans lived far apart from one another for all kinds of reasons, most of them related to the availability of good land for grazing.

The nearest clan was a two hour walk to southwest. As far as Poya knew, all the other clans wintered on the south side of the Little Pamir, the better to capture the sun’s warmth in the broad, U-shaped valley.

With so few people in the pamir , there was plenty of room to spread out

Except Amu’s clan stayed north of the lake. Which didn’t make a lot of sense. Then, again, Poya wasn’t the boss.

Usually children went together for water, not just for company but of necessity.

In winter, the lake froze as did the river to their west. The way was slippery and treacherous.

Even if a fall didn’t kill, the cold just might.

Only he wasn’t going for water. Not just yet anyway.

The jugs were part of his disguise, as essential as his eyes.

If anyone were out and about this early and questioned him, he had a convenient excuse.

Skirting the yurt, he labored uphill, eyelids thinned to slits, body bent almost double as he battled the wind.

Then, instead of heading east toward the frozen lake, he turned north, staggering upslope along a narrow cut.

Chipped from rock and worn down from the hooves of generations of yaks and donkeys, the path was slick with new snow atop compacted ice, and he placed each step with exaggerated care.

A fall here would be disastrous. No one would hear him scream for help.

He would freeze to death before anyone realized he was missing.

Hooking right, he clambered over a tumble of snowy boulders, following the small landmarks he’d left for himself.

With no trees at this altitude, he’d had to be inventive: a stack of rocks here, a tiny triangle of stones there.

Once he was well around the mountain’s flank, the valley disappeared, the westerly wind died, and the way grew easier.

His heart thumped from the exertion and his scalp prickled with perspiration, but the hard work felt good, his limbs looser and suppler.

Removing the rope and its jugs from around his neck, he crammed the coils into a nook. He’d retrieve them on his way back.

He knew an hour was gone when he came upon a small stone pyramid glazed with crusty ice and fresh snow snugged against the mountain at a wide U-shaped bend.

Another fifteen minutes, and he would leave this trail for a smaller thread of a path and reach his destination—his own private hideaway—five minutes later.

He could’ve double-checked against his mother’s cell but, after so many trips to his hideaway, didn’t need to.

Besides, he was afraid he might drop and smash the phone, and then what?

In a na?ve, almost childish portion of his mind, he nursed a fantasy: one day, that phone would ring, and he would answer?—

Stop it. Don’t be stupid. Dragging his Russian-style fur cap from his head, he armed sweat from his forehead. There’s no cell service here. She doesn’t know where you are. Besides, she’ll never ? —

From somewhere came a faint, sharp crack.

What? Startled, he flinched. His hat tumbled to the snow; his heart slammed his ribs. Casting a wild look over a shoulder, he looked behind and then turned an almost complete circle. There was nothing, though, but snow and rocks and ice.

But I heard that. He knew all the vagaries of ice now: how the cracks and groans and squeals could sound like someone dying or a mouse struggling against the jaws of a cat.

Or like this sound. He listened so hard his ears rang. Like the sound a ?—

Another crack.

Cringing, he dropped to all fours. Don’t hear me, don’t see me! He waited, both hands clapped over his mouth, trembling with cold and a deeper, icier bite of fear

Because he knew this sound. Anyone who’d lived Kabul’s last days knew.

A third crisp report, and his body flinched. The urge to jump to his feet and run as fast as he could back down the path was strong. Tears burned the backs of his eyes.

No, you can’t cry. He bore down, clamping back on his fear, the desire to weep. Lose an eye now, here , and he’d never find it.

Whoever is out here, they’re far away. To his east, he thought. Sounds carried in the cold, that was all. There were no one here, no one just around a bend, waiting with a weapon.

You’re all right. He gulped air, his breaths coming short and sharp. You’ll be okay. Nothing’s going to ? —

A fourth shot and then a fifth in rapid succession, a short double tap: bap-bap!

Then…nothing…nothing…

Were they done? Had they, whoever they were, killed?—

BOOM.

“Ah!” He clapped a hand over his mouth. Shh, shh, quiet, quiet! That blast had been enormous, huge, a bellow of thunder rolling down the slope.

Another BOOM. The sound was enormous, the echoes rolling through the mountains like thunderclaps. This wasn’t a rocket or a bomb. He knew what those were like. This was something plucked from an old American western, a film with Clint Eastwood sighting down the long barrel of a shot?—

Another great BOOM .

Then…pause.

Pause.

Nothing.

It’s over. You’re okay. His limbs loosened.

Sagging back against a boulder, he worked at slowing his breathing.

Who was shooting, and at what? Maybe a leopard?

No, that made no sense. There had been two distinct sounds, which meant two different weapons and he could say, with absolute certainty, that no one was having it out with a snow leopard packing a shotgun.

The sequence made no sense either. While both came from the east, the shots were in different directions.

The earlier, crisper, but more distant shots…

those were rifles. Probably a Kalashnikov.

He wasn’t a weapons expert, but he’d certainly heard enough rifle fire in his life to know that particular sound when he heard it.

And what were the odds of two hunters coming at a leopard from opposite directions? Close to zero because, well, there were close to zero people in the whole valley.

Which meant that this had been an exchange of gunfire between opponents : the sharp snaps of the rifle first, the shotgun booms second. Of the two, whoever had that shotgun was also closer.

Maybe I should go back. Just turn around, hoof it to the spring, fill his jugs…

no, no, fill only two , that would be best. Made for a better story, too: I got up early and went to fetch water, but then someone started shooting and I got scared and I ran before I could finish and…

He might still face questions about why he hadn’t waited for the other children, but probably not. Better to beg forgiveness.

He rose, carefully, cautiously. He listened hard, but other than the wind and the soft hiss of snow over ice, nothing else stirred.

Turning, he picked his way as fast as he could back the way he had trail.

After a few moments, though, his pace slowed and when he came to large hummock of snow-covered rock and the marker which pointed the way to the valley, he stopped.

Wait. Think. If he went back now, he was throwing away precious time he would never regain.

There weren’t many hours out of any given day when he was truly on his own.

It was still early; he had time. Plus…he listened so hard his eyes rang.

Nothing to hear. He knew from experience that if anyone was up, he would know.

Animals bleated. Men shouted. But there was only the groan of the wind.

No one was up. No one was shooting anymore either.

Should he take the chance? Well, why not? He was nearly there. How many pleasures did he really have in this place? He could tick them all off on one hand and still have five fingers.

So, Poya turned and traced his steps. A little time stolen was better than no time at all.

There was a movie he’d once seen, the one with Indiana Jones and his dad—and there was this line Poya and Baba would often throw at one another when someone did something incredibly dumb. Which, in about fifteen minutes, Poya would discover also applied to him.

Because he chose poorly.