Chapter 3- Syzran

The sun's dim rays just barely meet my eyes while it naturally moves through the sky. Ignoring it is hard, and I surrender myself to the morning. Not often do I see the sun gazing back at me through the dark clouds. Artyom still sleeps comfortably in the sleeping bag beside me, and nothing but ash remains of the bonfire. However, the sleeping bag is still substantially warm. What a strange set of events to land me inside this caved-in house, next to Makar's older brother. I admire his generosity, but I still can't help but wonder; Why would he let me come with him so freely? The cold creeps at my bare feet and I zip out of the sleeping bag. Frigid air rushes inside, but Artyom hardly moves, apparently not noticing my movement. I zip the sleeping bag up for him; he can sleep. Dressing up in my jacket, I see my socks by the fire. They're dry, but also quite frozen and stiff. I groan angrily, trying to warm them up with my hands. I should've put them inside the sleeping bag. They start to loosen in my hands, and I tug them over my feet and strap on my boots; it'll be warm enough. 

Scavenging outside for sticks, wood chunks, and small logs don't take long. The area around us is ripe with dead or broken trees, and soon I return to Artyom. It had honestly been a while since I started a fire. Dad showed me a few ways of lighting one, but I never had to practice the more complicated techniques very often. I try rubbing the sticks, swiveling my hands downward, and quickly trying to create some friction. Maybe some cloth for starter fuel? Artyom wakes up from the sound, he smiles and giggles lightly. 

"I have something that might help," he says groggily. He pulls out two small rods, clicking, and striking them together. To my surprise, sparks disperse onto the fuel, and he hits the rods together a couple more times. Before long, the dry wood and flammable cloth are set ablaze. I hold out my hands to examine the rods curiously. He places them in my hands, and I almost drop them instinctively, assuming they would burn me after recent usage. 

“It's a fire-starter,” Artyom says. 

“Where did you find something like this?” 

“I found it in Tolyatti growing up. It was together in a case when I found it; Didn't think much of it either, until I struck them.” 

“I bet that was a surprise.” 

“I thought I almost caught my pants on fire!” he exclaims. I smile and laugh, almost hysterically, at his story. 

"I feel like I would've done the same thing."  

Artyom smiles, thinking back to his memories; Probably a happier time. Our laughter slowly dies out, and the fire grows larger. Artyom gets out of the sleeping bag and rolls it up, strapping it to his backpack. I sit, warming at the fire, and Artyom digs inside his pack for food. 

"This is all the meat I have left," he says, placing a pan with two slices of meat on the fire, beginning to sizzle. It won't take long since the fire is hot. Why is he helping me? This thought crosses my mind once again. It's just something I can't help but ask, "Artyom?" He looks over, waiting for me to go on. 

"Why are you helping me and letting me come with you?" I ask. Artyom kindly looks at me, pulls his backpack closer to him, and takes out the pistol I took from Vlad. He extracts the magazine and c***s back on the slide. This ejects a bullet from the chamber into the air, which he catches, and loads into the magazine. Gripping the barrel of the firearm, he hands it to me with the loaded clip in his other hand. The way he handles the gun almost amazes me. Such proficiency and confidence. He obviously is familiar with the pistol, or something similar. Maybe he can teach me more too.  

“You've been very helpful so far,” he says. “You and I are not so different; I trust you, Nadya.” I take it from his hands, holding it awkwardly, “Thanks Artyom.” 

“Are you very familiar with a gun?” he asks. 

“Not very. I used it yesterday, but...” 

He inserts the clip, adjusts the grip in my hand, and holds it up to simulate, aiming, "See that little sight at the end?" I nod, looking down the barrel at the front sight. "Use that to aim, and you'll shoot alright." There has to be more to shooting than just looking down the sight and pulling the trigger. I suppose it comes with practice, like shooting a bow. Artyom points out a few other features on the gun: The safety, the hammer, and how the magazine works. "Just pull the trigger when the safety's off. You look to have five shots left in your magazine. So, when you want to fire, just click the safety, pull back on this slide to load, and pull the trigger." 

I nod my head, understanding his instructions, and stow the gun away in my coat pocket. Artyom flips the sizzling steaks a few times. Soon, it is well-cooked, and he pulls the slabs off the hot pan, setting them on a plate. “Thank you,” I say, picking and tearing at the meat. Artyom pulls out his map, and I look over curiously. 

“We'll be going to Syzran, we should arrive here today,” he says, pointing out the city on the map. I slowly try to pronounce the word, “(siz-ron)?” I ask. 

"Yes," he reassures. "After that, Saratov would be the next large city. As long as we keep following the river, we should be able to keep up with Makar and the group." 

Before long, Artyom is ready to go, gathering all of his possessions and preparing them. I don't have much of my own. Really just the clothes on my back, and the side-arm in my pocket. We finally set off to Syzran; by the flat, frozen river. 

It takes a good portion of the day before we approach the city. After stopping a few times for rest and food, I'm surprised how fast we got here. I thought Artyom might've been mistaken when he said we'd approach the city today. Sure enough, Artyom and I gaze upon the shattered pile of buildings. Artyom notices a more extensive building from a distance, somehow intact. He points it out for me. 

"What is that," I ask. The building's unique structure isn't like the rest. Not that you could compare easily, because most of the buildings are destroyed. However, I can tell they are squared and sorted into blocks and alleys. This one isn't designed like that, its roof is angled, and the windows stretch almost to the roof. Artyom notices the long pole above the annex. It's been damaged, looking like a half-cross. 

“Is it a hospital?” Artyom asks; I think it's funny. He has to know I have no answer for him. 

"A hospital?" I ask naively. 

"Yes. It's uh... A place where people used to go when they're sick or hurt," he stutters to explain. 

“Doesn't quite sound like the best,” I say, feeling almost more confused. 

"It's not quite what you're thinking, Nadya," he says, almost laughing. "We should check it out." 

I nod my head, “Yeah. Why not.” We sneak, carefully, through the alleys, and make our way to the street where the tall building is. I begin to doubt Artyom's guess. Looking at it now, it seems almost... hollow. I can see now that it does, or used to, branch off into other sections. 

“Artyom. Are you sure that this is a hospital? How can you tell?” 

“That pole used to have a cross on it. It's a medical sign. Like on a first-aid-kit,” he explains. That must be it. Dad used to have a kit like that, with a cross. 

“Well...” Artyom doubtfully begins to question. 

“What?” 

"Could it be a chapel?" he asks, and once again, I have no idea what he's talking about. I groan, annoyed by his rhetorical questions, "Artyom." 

“Oh. It's... hard to explain...” he trails off. I wonder if he even knows what a chapel is. 

“Could you try to explain?” I press. 

“Look, let's get somewhere safer first.” I guess I can agree with that. There are busted stairs, leading up to the entryway. The two, colossal doors distract me, and I almost slip on the frozen stair, but Artyom grabs my arm, helping me replace my footing. 

"Thank you!" I say, watching my step more carefully. When we approach the top, Artyom stops, gazing at the thick wooden doors. They're nearly rotted, with several holes punched into it. He peeks through one of the gaps to scout the inside. 

"I can't see much," he says, quietly tugging the broken handle and opening the door. Artyom swings his rifle off his shoulder, holding it in his hands. I don't bother reaching for my own pistol. I only have five shots left, not that I'd make them count anyway. Besides, I trust him more than myself. We step inside the annex. There are no windows, but through the hallway leads us to an enormous, hollow room. The long windows, I now realize, are color stained. The sun's rays change color, shining blues, greens, yellows, and reds all throughout the nave. I pay no attention to the annex itself, struck by the design of the large center, "Artyom! Are you seeing this!" 

"I guess it's not a hospital," he says, following me into the giant room. Long benches are lined up facing the front; Where there is a large wooden cross hung up behind an altar. Artyom peeks inside the pews, searching through old books he found. I keep walking down the long aisle, soon standing before the shrine. I hear Artyom ripping pages out from the burned books, probably for starting fires. The altar is blood-stained and littered with other utensils. A large, slightly flared codex sits in the center, surrounded by candles, and a tall, gold cup. I pick up the chalice and examine it. A thick, red liquid; swirls around the bottom of the bowl. I spill it out onto the floor and drop it when I realize its blood. 

“Artyom! Fresh blood!” I alert. He approaches behind me, seeing the blood and the cup as well, and picks up the wary clue from the floor. He then diverts his attention to a large book on the table filled with foreign words, at least to me. 

“This book. I think it was for the church, but the sentences are incomplete,” Artyom says. He places his hand on the stained altar, rubbing blood onto his finger-tips. 

“What happened here?” he asks himself. I glance at his eyes, and he expresses a worried look. 

“Maybe we should leave,” he advises. A part of me agrees with him, but a place like this must have something useful, or maybe some food?  

“I think we’d be safe if we took a quick look around,” I insist. Artyom nods his head, “Okay.” he gazes carefully around the room, wary of his surroundings now. He points to a place, back behind the altar; The door almost hidden from sight because of damaged decorations. I point at the door, "That looks safe." 

"Speak of the devil," he says, silently chuckling to himself. I smile back at him, hoping to understand the humor. I don't understand, as usual. 

"It's an old saying," he explains, leading me to the back room. Artyom carefully opens the door into a chamber. It'd feel wrong saying it's a large room, considering there's a vast nave just outside. However, it's considerably large, with a stairwell leading downstairs. 

"There are stairs; a basement," I say, but Artyom dismisses it, quickly becoming occupied with the mysterious, hanging, black robes and the various utensils. Peeking down the stairwell, I can see the first landing that corners off, leading deeper into the substructure. A faint light, fluttering flames cast on the stairs, "Artyom!" I whisper urgently. He walks over, standing beside me, "What is it?" he asks, but quickly sees the light at the end of the stairwell. A shadow crosses over the landing, in the outline of a long robe. Someone must be downstairs. Suddenly, a shriek echoes from the basement, forcing my spine to squirm. Loud, agonizing, and inhuman. I look over to Artyom to confirm the sound.  

"This place isn't safe anymore," Artyom says, tugging me along to leave. We quickly leave the room back out to the nave, hoping to exit through the annex. Artyom approaches the two large wooden doors, pushing them. The doors do not open, and when he fails the second time, my heart sinks. 

"The doors are blocked!" he exclaims. Artyom quickly turns around, when we hear another drawn-out shriek from beneath, "Please!" This time it's significantly louder; Clearly, the sound of a pleading man. Artyom starts banging out the doors when two men in black robes corner us into the annex. One of them holds a shotgun up to me before I could surrender myself, while the other aims their pistol at Artyom. 

“Drop your things,” they command. 

I glare at Artyom, and he nods subtly, "Nadya. Do it." Artyom tosses his rifle and backpack in the corner. The robed man hits him over the head with a pistol. He falls down, quickly restrained when another group of black-robed men surround him. I drop my gun with shaking hands and kick it to the side, bracing for a wallop on the head. The robed men don't, but tie my hands and drag us back out into the nave. Dozens of black-robed men emerge into the nave with blunt armaments, wrapped in wire. They take our weapons and Artyom's gear, pulling us through the church, back to the hidden room. My heart pounds, and I skittishly search my surroundings for something, but there would be too many to fight. 

They take us down the stairs to the basement. The light I saw was a fire lit inside a large cell room. A maze of other open cellars and closed doorways entrap the dead or dying prisoners. They inhabit the muggy cells letting out occasional yells, and I can confirm the shrieks we heard are from here. Artyom and I are tossed into separate cells where I press myself against the bars, in the corner. The robed men simply lock the cell gates and leave upstairs. Horrified, I start to panic. Artyom tries calling my name from the adjacent cell. 

"Nadya!" he yells. "Nadya!" I turn to him, and he gains enough reach to grab my arm through the bars, getting my attention. "Nadya, calm down. We'll try to find a way out." I try to calm my stressful gasps, but nothing helps. My brain is wired, and a sudden urge of fear pulses through my veins.  

I kick the steel gate, trying to boot the lock in a desperate escape effort, but I quickly give up and look to Artyom, who's been searching around the cell and fiddling with the lock. My mind wanders away, and I see my dad before the hunt, similar to a life flashing before my eyes. I see Makar by the fire, but I've never felt farther from him. Practical thinking or maybe doubts sets in, "We're gonna die here," I say, and snap away from my day-dream. 

I back myself into the corner to sob, while Artyom, in the other cell, hits the lock as I tried before and fails. He can’t bare my crying, “Nadya, we'll get out of here,” he says. I can only hear lies; the situation seems hopeless. Artyom reaches through the bars, setting his hand around my shoulder. 

“Just give it some time.” 

"I can't be captured again!" I plead, sobbing in the corner of the cell until exhaustion overtakes me. 

*** 

Artyom shakes me awake, through the bars, “Nadya,” he whispers. “Nadya.” I force my eyes open; the men are back. 

"Prep the room," they say. One of the men in black robes begins slowly approaching the gates. All the prisoners give their attention, except for a few. The prisoner across from Artyom's cell, to my knowledge, has not moved since we arrived. However, during my sleep, I'd never have noticed.  

“Who will volunteer for baptism?” he asks. “Who will become the body and blood.” 

Become the body and blood? I don't dare speak and glare at Artyom, almost as if to ask, “What's a baptism?” But I keep that thought to myself. The dark-cloaked man approaches my gate, quickly catching my attention. 

"Then I shall choose from this heathen rabble," he preaches. He steps forward to unlock the cell door and swings open the gate. He grabs my arm to take me, but I snap back, crying and pleading, "No!" Artyom stands up, hitting the cage, "Stop! Take me! Take me!" he screams. The robed man tosses me back in the corner, and I notice a bloody screwdriver slip from his belt onto the cell floor. 

"You wish to be baptized?" he asks, decisively. "I will not ask again." Artyom nods his head, not letting an eye off me, "I do," he agrees, not fully knowing what he's given consent to. I quickly tuck the screwdriver away between my arm. Thankfully, the man leaves my cell before he notices. 

"Artyom!" I call out, but he holds up his hand to silence me. 

"Nadya. You'll be fine,” He speaks some final words of comfort. The robed men tug him along, back up the stairs, toward the nave. I can't help but call out one more time, "Artyom!" 

Nobody answers my plea. I quickly gather myself, examining the screwdriver and rubbing my finger on the tool's edge, contemplating a use. I have to get out of here. The lock on the gate catches my eye, and I try jamming it into the lock. The tool shakes in the gate, but I can't break it; I'll have to kick it. I peek my surroundings before I try booting the cell-gate. There are only prisoners, so I lift my leg up and hit it twice, hard. The gate trembles; I feel I'm close. I kick again, but I do not get the same result, the gate is stuck, and it no longer wriggles against the lock. 

"Come on!" I groan frustratingly. Drowsily, I set my hands on my knees and start to give up. Just one more time, kick it hard. I send my foot forcibly against the tool's handle, punching it further into the lock. It shatters in half, and the gate lurches open. I pause before quickly running out, there could be people here. Something tells me they don't mean well by a baptism, whatever that is. I have to find Artyom. Some of the prisoners awake and notice my escape. Thankfully, they kept quiet. I pick up the broken half of the screwdriver, it has a more jagged edge, and I shove it in my pocket for a weapon. I don't have time to help the other prisoners and quietly sneak throughout the cellar, before heading upstairs. I find a dead-end hall, almost like a small storage area, with an open door on the right. My breath starts to mist above me, they keep it very cold here; freezing temperature. I see Artyom's bag, his rifle, and some other gear. Must have been from their past prisoners. 

"Hurry up! Baptism is starting," a man says through the open door. It must lead to another small chamber. I have to pass the entrance to reach our gear. Leaning my head to peek the corner, I notice two more men, dressed in robes, standing over a bloody corpse on a chopping block. The woman is undeniably lifeless, along with two more. They're hung by their feet, head decapitated, and their skin; Pale, as if they were drained. I am almost noticed, so I quickly pivot my head back around the corner. I take a quiet breath, but just before I peek; A loud crack! The corpse's head rolls off the counter and thumps on the floor. 

"Hang it up, let's go!" one of the men yell. Like the rest of the bodies, they begin to hang it up, draining blood from the neck, and funneling it into a large tub. While they're distracted, I hastily transition to the other side of the door. I grab Artyom's things, strapping on his bag and rifle. I even manage to find my pistol. Promptly, I sneak past the door once again and remember Artyom's blade, so I quickly find the knife inside his bag and clasp it in my hand. Keeping quiet, I sneak to the first landing on the stairs; there's too many to fight openly. I expected to hear someone upstairs, walking in the hidden chamber above. Instead, I hear faint chanting. Coming from inside the nave of the chapel, their voices echo. I go up the final flight of stairs into the room, and as I predicted, nobody is inside. The chanting, however. It grows louder from the heart of the chapel, as I approach the door. If I slip out quickly, maybe they won't see me, and I can take cover behind the wooden compound. 

When I open the door, my eyes widen, regarding the black-robed crowd. The pews are almost full; all the black-robed killers getting as close as they can to witness what was about to happen. Artyom stands bound at the front of the church, and a single man in white robes holds his head above a bowl of water. His clothing clearly distinguishing him as a leader. 

"My children!" the bright one preaches. "This one has been chosen for baptism!" His voice bellows throughout the nave. I quietly shut the door and hide behind the wooden fences while everyone is distracted. I have to think of something fast. Artyom begins to struggle and has yet to notice me. 

"This day! We feast upon the body and blood!" The white-robed man holds a gold chalice. He begins to drink from it, streams of blood pouring from the corners of his lips. He holds up the cup to the crowd, then everyone in the pews kneels and bows their heads. 

"May it give us eternal life!" I begin to connect the dots, understanding what is about to happen to Artyom. He'll end up like the victims in the morgue. Hung up, decapitated, and drained. This cult has obviously been here a while, learning to do this, and multiplying their numbers. And, somehow, along the way, they discovered immortality? The white-robed leader sets the chalice on the bloody altar and turns to Artyom. He takes his neck, slowly dipping his head into the bowl of water. My heart jumps, and I can't help but lunge forward with the knife. The man is caught entirely off guard, and I just moved too fast for any reasonable reaction. I stick the knife in his jugular, streaming red blood into his white robes. Artyom falls back coughing, struck in his eyes, glaring back at me. I cut his binds and the crowd panics, frantically. Some tripping over themselves and screaming outside and back into the basement. Artyom takes advantage of the confusion, standing up and grabbing my arm. There's a back door out, and we sprint as far away from this demented chapel as we can. I can see he is missing some of his clothes, and he doesn't bother asking for his rifle. 

Just when I begin to think we'd gotten far enough away, cracks from a gun, fire off behind us. SNAP-CRACK! Artyom collapses in the snow and yelps, "Nadya!" SNAP-POP! I plunge in the snow for cover and notice two black-robed figures. I lift Artyom's rifle to engage; Hopefully, it's already loaded. I line up the front sight with the distant figure and pull the trigger. The gun nearly inches me back and staggers my head. The other unarmed man begins to flee, while the other lies limp in the snow. Shocked by my actions, my hands start to shake. Artyom groans in pain, and I quickly lunge to kneel beside him. 

“Artyom!” I exclaim. 

“Good... shot Nadya...” his voice lags. 

“Artyom no! Come on, you have to walk.” I tug at his arm, begging him to get up, and he slowly stands to his feet. 

"Lean on me," I say. I almost regret it when Artyom nearly topples me over. My legs strain to carry him and lift us over the snow. Artyom points to a building. I don't think it's far enough away, but he can hardly walk. 

"Nadya, just stop over here," he points, drowsily. I begin to worry tremendously. He's lost copious amounts of blood, and his shoulder is saturated. Artyom wavers through the door, and I go to him, "Artyom..." I stutter off, profoundly concerned. 

"Get the bandage in my bag," Artyom grunts. I take off the bag and the rifle, shuffling inside his backpack for the gauze. I hand it off to him, helping take his coat and shirt off. 

 "Wrap it around," he says, turning on his side. The back of his shoulder has a small entry wound. It isn't so bad, but as I wrap around to the front of his shoulder, I realize something. The front of his shoulder is practically blown out. The exit wound is almost twice the size as the entry. I hesitate to continue wrapping, and Artyom nods his head down, seeing his shoulder 

"You'll be fine," I say, trying not to worry him with my contagious fear. He needs to rest for now. I finish with the bandages, and he looks up at me 

“Thank you,” he says, finally resting on the floor. I look inside Artyom's bag again, anticipating a can of food, or some wrapped meat. I'm shocked when I find nothing, and resume tending to Artyom. 

“We don't have any food, Nadya,” he says. 

“Don't worry about it,” I snap. “I'll find some tomorrow.” 

“Nadya-” 

I hold up a finger to cut him off, "Hush." Artyom coughs and groans. I roll out the sleeping-bag and assist him inside. He shakes like a feather in the wind, and I head outside to search for fire-fuel. 

"I'm going for wood," I say. 

It doesn't take long before I return with a handful of logs and sticks, enough to last the night. I construct the fire, and Artyom tosses me his fire-starter. 

“Thanks,” I say, striking the rods, and sparking the dry fuel. 

"Nadya?" Artyom begins to ask. I look over to him, surprised. Usually, I'm the one that starts with open-ended questions. "What happened in Syzran. Thank you for saving me." I almost dismiss his gratitude, or maybe my bravery. 

"It's not a problem. You did the same for me," I say, forgoing any favors. Artyom nods his head and rolls it back as if to sleep. 

“Just rest Artyom. Try not to worry,” I urge, but something is still bothering him. 

"Why didn't you just escape without me?" he asks inquisitively. 

“I asked you something similar, just the other morning.” Artyom looks confused. 

"You and I are not so different. I trust you, Artyom," I say, trying to remind him about that morning. I know he remembers when his eyes glisten. He smiles at me, perceptive of our mutual connection.