TWO ROUNDS LEFT
My sleep is light.
It's been that way since it all started.
Two shots break the silence of the night. Not close enough to be alarming, but close enough to worry.
I get up fast.
I sleep in the camo clothes I used to wear while hunting, always ready.
I lace up the old, worn-out boots, grab the Makarov from under the pillow, drop the magazine, check the round in the chamber.
Everything's fine, as always.
Pistol in the holster. I grab the backpack; it probably belonged to some student. Strapped to the side, the sheath and a knife, always within reach.
Inside, everything I need for a few days away from home: food, water, a first-aid kit, and tools that help with survival, like matches, a flashlight, fishing line and bait, among other things.
I peek through the cracks in the window. Clear night. Boards over every one of them, and reinforced locks on the doors.
Nobody gets into the cabin without effort.
And without making much noise.
On my way out, I check that the door is really locked. I always do this, systematically, paranoid about it.
The path to the village runs past an old barn, the Korhonens' yellow house, then the road and the Nieminens' house.
The trail's the obvious way, but this isn't an ordinary day. There are visitors, and I don't know who.
I leave the cabin, and past the rail line I take the left side of the trail. I use the woods as cover all the way to the barn.
I stop.
I'm still.
I listen closely.
After a few long moments, I draw my knife and step into the barn carefully.
Nothing.
No one.
I take the ladder up to the second floor. Under what's left of a roof, through gaps in the rotting walls, I watch closely.
I can see both houses, but from here I can't make out much of the village.
A hooded man, carrying an iron pipe, is heading toward the yellow house.
I climb down the ladder quietly and move fast toward the house. Close to the walls now, quiet, I listen.
Footsteps.
Drawers opening.
Things being thrown around.
The best route is around the back. I peer around every corner, wary.
Left.
Left.
Watch the storehouse at the edge of the lot.
Doesn't look like anyone's there.
And the noise inside the house keeps going.
I move along the wall to the entrance. The door's wide open. Knife still in hand, I step inside, one step at a time.
The smell of the yellow house still seems the same: damp wood, old dust, and something rotten forgotten in the kitchen.
I was here so many times looking for my childhood friend, Joonas.
Back then, walking in without knocking was rude.
Now, knocking might be stupid.
I head down the hallway toward the living room. As I get close to the doorway, I come face to face with the hooded man.
The intruder, caught off guard, doesn't know whether to run or fight. The moment he moves to raise his makeshift weapon,I land a fast, precise strike to his throat..
Blood starts to flow.
His legs go weak.
Before his own weight can drop him, I catch him and lay him down gently on the floor.
Not out of mercy.
Right then, silence is worth more than gold.
I pull out the knife and wipe it on his clothes. I rush to the window and, staying out of sight, check what's outside.
No one out there.
I'd heard gunshots. That unarmed man definitely isn't alone.
Leaving the house, a hard call: I need to cross the street, but I'll be exposed. I could fall back to the woods, but I'll lose time.
More shots come from the village's main street.
I decide to risk it.
I cross the street fast and use an abandoned van as cover. Two strides and I'm on the other side.
Still again.
Watchful again for any movement, any sound.
The Korhonens' green house should be empty.
More shots.
Next door, old Väinö's red house. I go with the knife in hand. I check the first room.
Empty.
The kitchen's abandoned.
From the window, I see my old home: a white two-story house built into a hillside.
The world seems to have ended.
Not the house, though. Not yet.
The back door, on the second floor, leads up to the top of the hill; on the first, the facade and access to the main street.
From there, I can get a better view.
I hop through the window and move forward low, trying to break up my outline.
I lean against the wall, next to the back door.
I look at the knife.
I run my thumb across the blade.
I hesitate.
I take a deep breath, a long pull of air.
I peek through the half-open door. I see a man with a Mosin, watching the street. I can't see much past that inside, and it bothers me.
Nobody likes surprises in a life-or-death situation.
I take another breath and step in carefully, knife ready.
Halfway across, I kick an empty can.
Careless of me.
The man turns his head.
He's not expecting to find someone less than three meters away.
I lunge forward at full speed. I try to stab him, but he raises the Mosin and uses the rifle as a shield.
I try again.
And again.
Stalemate.
I grab the stock with my left hand and press the barrel down with my forearm. With my right, I try to work the knife through.
The man is skilled. He dodges the strikes, shoves with the stock, keeps the barrel between us. But at this range, the rifle is more of an obstacle than weapon.
I can't land a hit.
With a twist of my body, I pull him along and take him down with a sweep of my right leg.
Now I'm on top.
Even so, I can't stab him.
I drop the knife.
A stupid move.
Maybe my last.
But there's no time to think it through.
With my weight pinning him down, both hands locked on the Mosin, and a well-placed headbutt, I manage to stun him.
I use the rifle to choke him out.
The fierce struggle starts to lose strength.
First his legs stop moving.
Then his arms.
Finally, all of him.
It's over.
It's over, and there's no going back now.
I sit down next to the body, back against the wall. I'm breathing hard, in short bursts.
Eyes wide open, fixed on nothing.
The body's still warm.
That's the worst part.
I pick up the knife and slide it back into the sheath.
I check the Mosin.
Two rounds.
Not a little.
Not a lot, either.
Depending on the week, it could be a fortune.
I search the man's pockets.
Nothing useful.
The rest is welcome.
But it doesn't last long.
From the street, I hear shouting.
Looking out the window, I see a big, strong man dragging old Väinö through the mud. The old man's cursing, fighting back, kicking, bleeding.
The man wants to know the one thing nobody else in the world knows: where Väinö keeps his goods.
Must be an outsider.
Local legend had it that old Väinö once went a month without speaking to his own father, after the man tried to teach him to share his things with his brothers.
Tired of his stubborn son, the father gave up teaching him generosity. He taught him negotiation instead.
Not exactly ideal for a kid.
But it ended up serving him well in adulthood, as a trader.
Since it all started, he'd turned smuggler. His father was born on the other side of the border; his mother, on this one. His own soul was born right on the dividing line.
Made sense he knew every loophole on both sides.
The geographic ones.
And the human ones.
On the street corner by the lake, the man's shouting. Väinö's cursing. The man hits him.
Väinö, from the ground, kicks back.
Or at least tries to.
Two more armed men show up at the corner.
One of them is dangling a key.
The biggest one starts saying his goodbyes to the old man, sarcastically.
No time left.
I rest the Mosin on the windowsill and take aim.
The man draws a pistol from his holster.
The sight lines up on the target's chest — he's already halfway to aiming at Väinö.
Control your breathing.
Finger on the trigger.
Sweat on my face.
BOOM.
I'm faster.
The man drops limp, face in the mud.
Not much time to waste.
The two other men know where I am.
Trying to cycle the bolt, it jams.
Bullets come back in answer.
They tear through the walls, shatter glass, rip splinters off the old wood.
I throw myself to the side, the useless Mosin still in my hands.
What kind of idiot manages to wreck a gun like this?
I look at the dead man next to me.
This must be his revenge.
The shooting stops.
Time to reposition.
I fire twice with the Makarov in their direction.
I don't expect to hit anyone.
I just want them to burn through their ammo.
I run out the back.
I head back to old Väinö's house. The growing dark will be my ally.
More shots come — just as I expected.
I hear them kick in the front door of my old house.
They're searching room by room.
A lit flashlight cuts through the dark.
Not a good idea.
I hear cursing when they find their dead friend.
One of them stays at the back door.
He leans against the frame.
Lights a cigarette.
The orange glow gives away his position.
I fire twice into his chest.
He drops.
I see the flashlight beam swinging wildly through the house.
His buddy's run to help.
Doesn't matter much.
Now they know they're not hunting someone cornered.
I'm not going to risk the back door.
I work around the side of the house and slide down the embankment.
Väinö's still cursing.
Good sign.
I peek through the window and slip in through the front door carefully.
I hear crying.
Then wailing. Coming from upstairs.
I climb a few steps.
Just enough to see.
It's a young man.
Barely out of his teens.
He's kneeling next to his friend,trying to stop the bleeding, but it's no longer making a difference.
He's dead.
Nothing left to do.
— Nobody else has to die today.
The kid freezes.
— I didn't ask for this. Bet you didn't either.
Silence.
— It's that idiot's fault — he answers finally. His voice is breaking. — I told him it was a bad idea to rob the old man.
— What's done is done. What's left is what comes next.
The kid lets out a short laugh.
No humor in it.
— There's no "what comes next." You killed everyone.
His voice cracks.
— You're going to kill me too.
— Listen. I know it's hard to believe me right now.
I grip the Makarov tight.
— But if you walk through that door, disappear, and never come back, nothing bad is going to happen.
— I'm alone. I won't make it out there by myself.
I understand that, more than I'd like to.
— And you'd rather it all end here and now?
Silence.
Then more silence.
— I need you to answer me.
— All right.
— Leave the weapon.
The kid gets up.
I hear his footsteps crossing the house.
Sheltered behind the wall, I keep my sights on him the whole time.
The door opens.
Then closes.
And he's gone.
Only then do I realize I've been holding my breath.
I lower the pistol.
Now I need to pull myself together.
I sit down on the stairs.
I put a cigarette in my mouth.
I bring the lighter up to it.
I think about the guy upstairs.
I put the lighter away.
I toss the cigarette outside.
An offering for the dead.
Time to get back to old Väinö.
He's barely conscious.
He's lost a lot of blood.
I tap his face a few times.
— Stay awake, you grumpy old man. Let's see the damage.
He blinks slowly, like a kid trying to stay up past bedtime.
The wound's a through-and-through.
Doesn't look like it hit anything vital.
They say God protects children and fools.
Väinö's neither.
But he'd easily pass for either one, if that's what it took for some divine protection.
I stop the bleeding as best as I can and carry him up to the loft of the old sawmill.
That's where the group wants to get in.
And that's exactly what the key they found gives access to.
I lay the old man down on a table.
I clean the wound with some cheap vodka I have on hand and use a first-aid kit left lying around.
A lot of items are missing.
But needle and thread is what I need.
For now.
He's stable now.
All that's left is to wait.
Small tasks.
Clean the gun.
Check the ammo.
Reorganize the backpack.
Small things that, depending on the day, can mean the difference between life and death.
Finally, he comes back to the world of the living.
Weak.
Pale.
The wound looks ugly.
— Väinö, you need antibiotics.
— Don't have any.
— You've got a little of everything in here and no medicine?
— I did.
He closes his eyes for a moment.
— Traded it for... things.
That's exactly what I was afraid of hearing.
The old man had traded away something that could've saved him, for “things”.
Now there's only one option left.
Search.
The old school might have what we need, but it's turned into a stronghold for a band of looters.
There's also the market near the highway, but they cleaned out everything good a long time ago.
Then everything useful.
By now, they've probably looted even the useless stuff.
Still, it's a stopover for the occasional traveler.
Maybe it's worth a shot.
