A Passing Curse (2011) Read Free Page B

turning to check, she felt herself running for the door, her boots slipping on the fur, the blood, and up the stairs, suddenly very much wanting to see daylight again.
    She burst into cold brightness. The orange, rusting Volkswagen. Radu on his back, gasping and throaty. A crown of blood against stark white.
    A soldier with dirty red gloves standing stiff legged and mashing the butt of his Kalashnikov into Radu’s face, like a man churning butter. Radu’s arms fluttering slightly. The BRNO in the snow, a good six feet away.
    In the background, two soldiers, their Kalishnakovs against a low stone wall, stripped her pack, casually flinging the contents into the snow. There went her box of soap. A hairbrush. Her toothpaste. One pulled royal-blue panties over his head and did a clumsy pirouette.
    She slipped the pry-bar from her belt and held it loosely in her right hand.
    The crunching from Radu’s face and a possible moan. If she was quick, she could save him. Distract them and go for the deer rifle.
    Before she could get close enough to be accurate, Red Gloves saw her. She threw the bar, but he ducked. The bar sang past his head, missing him by a good six inches. Red Gloves waved both arms and yelled at her. The freed Kalashnikov balanced on Radu’s face for an instant before falling into the snow.
    The panty-sniffer whipped off his headgear, glared at her, and rubbed the lingerie crotch level. Red Gloves, the leader, pointed at her and yelled at them to stop the horseplay, “Finitzi!”
    One pointed at her feet and laughed. She glanced down. Fur and blood covered her boots, dirtied the snow.
    All three came for her ducking back and forth, bobbing, weaving, laughing. She saw it in their eyes, why they weren’t shooting her outright. She felt her heart tighten. The closest weapon was the deer rifle.
    She unsnapped the Russian flare and twisted the cap to light it.
    The laughing stopped.
    This was insane, facing them. But she was not going back down those stairs. “Come on, suckers,” she said softly. “Come on, boys.”
    Red sparks bounced off her jacket sleeve. Red smoke billowed straight up. The first soldier came in high, leading with his chin. She faked a kick. He dropped his hands. She rammed the metal flare in his mouth, breaking teeth, stopping at the back of his throat.
    She stepped back. Left him with the flare. Smoke falling from his nose. His cheeks glowing. He screamed and jerked the flare loose. He spit teeth and burning sulfur. He dropped to his knees and shoved snow into his mouth. The snow hissed. His screaming climbed an octave.
    Red Gloves and the big one blocked her way to the rifle. She could not slug it out with them.
    With no choice, she turned for the stairs. The big one moved with surprising speed and picked up a rock. She ran, trying to duck. A sudden white flash. A sickening, far away crack.
    She dropped, the snow strangely warm against her face. She heard them but could not move. From the corner of her eye they got bigger and smaller. They laughed and clapped their hands. They jumped up and down. Clear white, then fuzzy. Bright and hazy. She felt them dragging her through the snow, flopping her over, the howling of their buddy over it all.
    She saw them clearly and in slow motion. Red Gloves pointed between her legs and picked up the still burning flare, making upward thrusts with the sputtering end. The big soldier shook his head violently. He jerked his hips, made kissing noises, and laughed.
    Red Gloves seemed to agree that other possibilities must be explored before cauterization and poked the flare in the snow, upright like a candle. Sparks had caught his coat sleeve on fire and he slapped at the flames with his red gloves.
    The big soldier sat on her hips and tried to kiss her. The arm holder, she thought, the leg spreader.
    To the side of her new friend, Red Gloves dropped his pants to reveal yellow stained shorts. The sun, now red, balanced on his shoulder. He stopped to scratch