Chapter Text
“If you're bad, the Corpses will take you and eat you.”
Morsov dug deeper into the sand, digging frantically, trying to wiggle his way into the narrow trench, about the only bit of cover he could find. All he had to do was hide here with his head down amongst the thorny scrub and hold still for as long as it took dedushska's patrol to go past him. It wouldn't be too hard; everything he wore was sand-colored with no shiny metal to give him away, and from a distance even his shock of fair hair might appear to be no more than a handful of dry grasses. It had worked once already; he just needed the second car to pass him by; the second always picked up where the first left off, looking for the unwary.
Morsov took a deep breath, and held it, pushing his face down into the sand, burying himself to the ears.
The familiar growl of the Plymouth Rock's engine grew louder, competing with the pounding drum of his heart and suddenly it was nearly on top of him and he could hear their voices shouting for him, shouting his name, angry.
“Don't make us waste petrol, boy!”
“Everything will be forgiven if you come home!”
Eyes closed, Morsov counted his heartbeats, feeling his body beginning to rebel against the lack of oxygen, and he swallowed, choking back the need to breathe. The thrumming, tidal beat of blood rushing through his ears seemed to drown out the idling sound of the engine, and it was a sound like the slither of sand as the night winds dragged it to and fro, but so much faster.
Without warning, the Plymouth Rock accelerated and turned away. Waiting barely long enough to hear it pound off into the distance, Morsov thrashed his way out of his shallow grave, gasping for air. Overheated and no longer caring about his safety, he began loosening some of his clothing, unwrapping the stained bindings around his wrists to feel the cold breath of the waste against his unprotected skin. He shoved the stolen goggles off, and laid back down on the sand, staring at the sky.
Morsov's eyes watered at the searing brightness, and carefully, he blinked back his tears, afraid to lose any moisture.
He raised his hands, pressing his palms to the insubstantial vastness, marveling at how wide it spread and how great it was that even his hand could not block out the smallest fraction of it.
Briefly, his eyes wandered to the livid stain of irregular bruises and healing scabs on his bony wrists.
The sky was a pure blue, untouched by clouds, and Morsov wondered how long it would be before he could die.
“You do this for us, for all of us. Do you think I want to bend my neck to those thieving wolves? I have no choice but to give you to them.”
Night. Even though dedushka's patrol cars had red lights for night trawling, round and owlish like their goggles, their patrols didn't dare run when the Citadel ran its night patrols too.
Moonlight shone bright from the waxing side of the moon, so bright that it was like day to his dark sight, and dazed, Morsov shaded his eyes with an uplifted hand, though the cold blue light gave no heat to warm his body.
Even from here Morsov could see the Citadel's patrols kicking up glowing clouds of dust along the road to the city of fire. Soon, they would turn south to the city of smoke, and he could continue on his way. At least here he was close enough to see the lights of the Citadel glowing in the distance, giving fierce competition to the stars above.
It would be easier to die like this, Morsov thought, every breath losing water, every step now harder and harder to take. The Citadel was so far and death was so close; he could just lie down in the sand and let it cover him, and as he slept, the parched, thirsty air would steal water from his lungs until he couldn't move anymore.
But he would see it once for himself before he died.
So he kept walking, and when he felt like he couldn't walk anymore, he pushed himself to run.
“Do as you're told. We need this alliance more than we need you.”
Day. He kept a low profile along the crevasses and ridges, hiding from the patrols that cut through the territory here. Here was the border, just ahead, an unspoken and invisible boundary where their cars and the Citadel's cars sometimes danced the pas-de-deux of death. From this point, it was a quick stroll to the other side if he was still up for a brisk walk, but he was getting tired and it seemed that crawling would make everything easier. He couldn't sleep – didn't have the luxury of time or safety – everywhere he could hear the encroaching roar of cars, their engines growling up to him and he no longer knew if the sound of those cars was real or imaginary.
He could go back. It wasn't too late. Maybe what they had said was true, that all would be forgiven.
He hesitated, but felt at the great healing bruise on his side, the pain mostly gone but still lingering in a way he know he would feel for the rest of his life.
When dedushka's patrol swung around again, looking for him, he was already on the other side.
He could hear the scrabbling, snarling fight with the Citadel patrol long after he was deep into enemy territory.
“Go back to them. I promised you as a token of peace between our clans. Why are you still here? Your cowardice disgusts me...”
“But dedushka!” And even when Morsov showed him the bruises, the old man only laughed it off and told him to be a man. As for the rest, he couldn't tell...it was too shameful to say what had been done to him. And Morsov knew even if he said those words that boiled in the pit of his stomach, wanting to come out, needing to be said, the old man wouldn't believe him.
So he went back.
Night again. Or was it day? He could no longer tell. A fog had sprung up, poisoning the valley floor, and he thought he could hear someone coughing, only it seemed to come from below the ground.
For a moment he thought that the dead were rising out of the earth and he could only stumble forward, moving as quickly as he could.
Every breath was a fraction closer to death, and as much as he wanted to pant for air as he walked, he kept his mouth resolutely closed, keeping in the water as best he could.
He no longer thought about thirst or the harsh dryness of his mouth and throat, the slow slosh of his blood as it dried up inside his thin body. There was no more time to feel anything other than moving forward.
As the sun cracked over the horizon behind him, hot and orange against his back, he knew he was facing the right way.
Ahead the towers of the Citadel loomed massive, three great tombstones catching the eastern light.
Death beckoned him onward with black-painted eyes and white-stippled skin.
“The Corpses will take their spears and jab you with fire until you die.”
He pushed his way through the field of standing ghosts that surrounded him. They spoke to him, but the language of the dead could not be understood by mortals; it was a language that went beyond the veil of the horizon to another world, flipped and inverted, a mirror parallel where only wretched corpses dwelled in the abode of the damned.
He shoved and shoved; they gave way, chattering and flitting amongst themselves, hollow specters that were only fractionally more hollow than him.
Dust sprang up like a storm, and the deep, heavy growl of tandem engines filled the air and the sound of it was so loud that even the seams of the earth opened up around him. He stumbled but moved forward, and found himself in the middle of a flat, dusty road, facing giants of metal.
“They'll break your bones and suck out the marrow. Chomp! Right through the spine!”