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mrua7.livejournal.comChapter 1
Chapter 2 Chapter 2 Continued.
The prompt:
After arriving at Anchorage; not wanting to waste time, Illya Kuryakin immediately chartered a flight with one of the local bush pilots. Their destination was the small town of Wales located along the coast of Cape Prince of Wales, on the western tip of the Seward Peninsula, and the closest bit of civilization to Little Diomede.
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He finished the rest of his food, swallowing the last of his beer and headed out the door, down towards the dock.
After a quick negotiation with the pilot who simply called himself ‘Wings,’ they took off for Little Diomede. It wasn’t a usual place that he flew, but as a bush pilot, a fare was a fare.
The trip was short, and the plane landed near the rocky shore line below the town of Diomede. There was no dock, and Illya had to dance along the rocky shore line until he made it to terra firma. He turned and gave Wings a thumbs up, watching as the plane moved away, finally gaining enough speed to glide across the water untill it took off.
The water’s edge was littered with detritus that most likely washed up in the rough waters that surrounded the island and made for a dreary, unwelcome sight.
Just off shore, several walruses, their heads bobbing up and down in the water, watched with curiosity.
The village hung on the side of a two-and-half square mile rock island scattered with boulders, where a slope of 45 degrees was considered gentle. That didn’t allow for a landing strip and the wind was near constant, strong, and cold.
There were no roads and barely foot trails as Illya climbed up the stony incline towards the village, seeing most of the weather-worn houses half supported on stilts, since the ground they were built upon was far from level.
He knew from his briefing packet that Diomede consisted of thirty or so homes, storage buildings and nothing else but a school and a few semi-official buildings, though there was little to indicate any sort of governmental infrastructure.The condition of many of the houses spoke poverty to him.
To his left he got a better look at a large, circular structure resembling a silo of sorts but wider, and not far from it was a helipad. This was the THRUSH addition to the landscape, of that he was sure.
As he entered the town he saw no one walking about; a few eyes gazed out from their windows before quickly closing their curtains, but a single brave soul opened what passed for a door and spoke to him.
It was made out of two pieces of plywood nailed together with two by twos and two by fours, and just a little piece of wire for a latch; this in a place where it could be 45 degrees below zero with the wind blowing from 60 to 80 knots for weeks at a time.
“You need some help Mister?” She was pretty, dark haired and her features hinted at having Inuit blood. Dressed in a heavy wool sweater, corduroy pants, boots and a thick red knit scarf wrapped around her neck; it accentuated the blush of her cheeks.
His needing a shave and the fact he was a bit disheveled from his travels made him look somewhat needy, he supposed. A few days growth of beard tended to give him a gaunt appearance and his tired blue eyes had a forlorn look to them.
“Please, I heard there is work here?” He let his native accent slip out.
“Vy russkiy.” (You are Russian)
“Da.”
“Quickly, come inside,” she cautiously looked about before waving him through the door with her hand,
Once inside Illya introduced himself as Nicholaí Semyonovich Dezhnev, telling the woman he was born in Uelen in the Soviet Union but lived here in Alaska most of his life... in many places as his family tended to be nomadic, preferring to live the solitary life of bush people. He’d last lived in Ketchikan, in the southern part of the state. He was here now in Diomede because he’d heard there was work, for good pay.
Uelen was famous for its walrus carvings, and Illya conveniently pulled a leather string out of from beneath his green and black flannel shirt. On it hung an old miniature carving of an arctic eagle. He’d picked it up in a trading post in Anchorage, thinking it might come in handy in backing up his cover story.
“This belonged to my father Semyon Ilyich.”
“It is beautiful Nicholaí. My name is Irina Lezarev, but folks here call me Ivy.”
Illya glanced around, noting the house, if you could call it that, was quite small though it had two stories. Plain wood floors with a couple of throw rugs; the walls were covered by light colored wood paneling. A framed portrait of Jesus hanging beside a gun rack where several old Winchester rifles were nestled, no doubt for hunting seals, or even perhaps the stray polar bear.
There was the smell of mold, perhaps rotting wood along with the scent of kerosene from a Monitor...an oil burning heater, which sat in one corner of the room, The flue pipe ran up through the ceiling to the second floor and of course through the roof.
The furnishings were primitive, with a simple table and chairs, and a worn sofa. He noted there was a bookcase with a good number of books and magazines. He forced himself not to smile, as the simplicity of the place reminded him of his own apartment.
In front of one window stood an antiquated sewing machine, the kind run by pumping pedals with one’s feet. Next to it sat a large sewing basket, and another basket filled will balls of wool, and knitting needles.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance Ivy. I noticed you were a little nervous before asking me inside. Is there something going on?”
“They're keeping an eye on us. They're very aware of us, as we are very aware of them.”
“And who are they to whom you are referring?”
“The people who came here just over six months ago; they’re the ones who are hiring. Some of the men from the village took on work to build that...’thing’ near the helipad. A few of them have disappeared and now outsiders such as yourself have started showing up. Some have disappeared as well. There’s tunnels down there being dug into the bedrock, but I don’t know how they’re doing it, or so I hear. No one could ever lay pipes for plumbing because of the permafrost, that’s what we were told by the government.”
“Disappear?” He ignored what she said about the tunnels for the moment.
“People go down to work in there, and don’t come back up.”
Illya’s placid gaze changed as he raised his eyebrows.
“Ivy, I am sure there is nothing ominous going on,” Illya lied, knowing it was for the best.
He looked her straight in the eyes as he spoke.”They are probably just working hard at whatever it is they are doing. If they are working on some sort of tunnels, it will be difficult to cut into the bedrock of the island as you said because of the permafrost. Perhaps they are working on a way of installing pipes for the village?” His lies were smooth and they made her trust him. He could see by her reaction.
“You sound like you know what you’re talking about. Are you some sort of engineer?”
“I have many talents working with machinery, as well as with wood.”
The young woman gave a long sigh, composing herself before changing the subject.Chapter 4
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