"A T.H.R.U.S.H. and his fez are seldom parted" Chapter 8

[mrua7.livejournal.com]

link to chapter 1: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/412363.html
          chapter 2: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/412573.html
          chapter 3: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/413043.html
          chapter 4: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/416697.html
          chapter 5: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/419604.html
          chapter 6: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/420127.html
          chapter 7: http://section7mfu.livejournal.com/420871.html


           

Illya supported his weight on the rifle as he pulled himself to his feet. He tore his shirt into strips for bindings and a gag for the handler and proceeded to relieve the man of his uniform and dressed himself in it.

As usual, the clothes were a bit big, and there was little he could use to staunch the bleeding on his arms as he made his way through the treeline to the compound.  There, if it all went as he hoped, he could find his missing partner, and get them out of this living hell. His new plan was to just saunter in, as if he belonged.

Illya approached the barbed-wire gate, pulling the brim of his cap down to cover his face. As luck would have it the entry was being guarded by a single sentry inside a guard house: after simply nodding to the man, he was granted entry. He was wearing a Soviet uniform and he supposed no one was to dare question such a soldier. No one looked at him, or said anything. So far so good...

He made it halfway across the compound when he heard someone call “Halt,” making him freeze in his tracks. Kuryakin turned slowly, saying nothing, trying to act confident as if he were one of them.

“I need you to move this, come here Comrade.” The man was speaking Russian, wearing a uniform with the rank of Colonel.

Illya kept his head lowered, continuing to hide his face under the brim of his hat. There was a large crate laying on the ground at the rear of  a lorry and the officer pointed to it.

He reluctantly put down his rifle, and reached for the crate, then realizing  his hands were covered in blood from the wounds on his arms.


“Chto za chert_what the hell?” The Colonel cursed as he saw it.” What happened to you?”

“Sobaki reshili, chto oni ne khoteli mne segodnya utrom , i vzyal neskolʹko ukusov ot menya , prezhde chem oni uspokoilisʹ .... predpolagayu, chto oni byli prosto nervnyy_ the dogs decided they did not like me this morning, and took a couple of bites out of me before they calmed down....guess they were just jumpy,” Illya mumbled, trying to conceal the tremor that had now entered his voice from the pain.

“Nu pochemu ty ne poshel v lazaret vy durak_well why did you not go to the infirmary you fool?”

“Dolg nazyvayetsya tovarishch Polkovnik_duty called Comrade Colonrel.”

“Well I commend your dedication, but now get your zhopa over there now and have those bites seen to or I will have you locked in the stockade for disobeying an order.”

Illya sighed with relief at not being recognized, saluted the man and headed off to the left.

“Chto vy, chto glupo_what, are you that stupid? The officer yelled after him, pointing to the back of the compound. “ Bozhe moi_ my god man, it is that way dammit! Why the hell they keep sending me morons like you I will never understand!”

“Da,·eer, ya prosto chuvstvuyulegkoe golovokruzhenie , poteryal chuvstvo napravleniya. Blagodaryu vas , ·eer, eto ne sluchit·sya snova_yes sir, I am just feeling a little dizzy, lost my sense of direction. Thank you sir, it will not happen again.” Illya forced himself not to stagger as he turned to where he had been ordered.

Looking around once he was out of view; he tried to locate the building where Napoleon had been taken, but his vision was becoming fuzzy; the blood loss and shock were finally catching up with him as he staggered and fell to the ground, passing out.

When Illyas eyes opened, the glare of the sun blinded him for a moment, and he felt the hot metallic end of a rifle muzzle pushing against his cheekbone.

“Welcome back Mr. Kuryakin, I am Colonel Lyov Zakhrov. You may not know my name, but we are going to become very well acquainted very soon,” the familiar voice spoke to him in Russian. It was the officer who’d sent him to the infirmary. “It took me a few minutes before I recognized you.  I knew you would come to rescue Solo, but your condition is a surprise.”

Illya mumbled,” I would like to register a complaint about your facilities and animal contro, very sub-standard.  I think I will take my business elsewhere.”

Zakhrov pulled him up by his shirt collar, “I heard about you Kuryakin, a smart ass mouth that you can’t seem to keep closed,” he said clamping his hand around the agent’s throat and squeezing it until Illya’s face began to turn blue from lack of oxygen.  He was suddenly released, leaving him gagging and gasping for breath with a rasping cough, finally being able to get some air into his lungs.

Illya’s hands were cuffed behind his back with no deference to the wounds on his arms and hands. He was thrown into the rear of a jeep, and taken across the compound .

He was barely conscious when he felt himself dragged from the vehicle into a building, and down a dimly lit hallway.  He swayed, hardly able to stand, as they held him in front of a steel door. When it was opened, he was shoved unceremoniously into a room, where he collapsed to the floor with a thud. Illya heard the lock click behind him, yet felt a pair of strong arms effortlessly raised his torso, cradling his body.

Illya looked up into a  pair of dark hazel eyes and seeing who they belonged to,  he tried to smile.

“Napoleon, I am here to rescue you,” he whispered.

“I’m sure you are tovarisch, and you’re doing a fine job of it.” his partner coughed as he tried to joke,” Either way; it’s good to see you.”

Solo helped the weakened man to a bunk. Seeing the blood on his partners arms; he gingerly rolled up the sleeves, hissing as he instantly recognized the painful wounds to be bite marks.

“I thought you didn’t like playing with dogs.” Napoleon tore off a piece of his own shirt; binding the wounds as best he could.

“These are probably going to become infected chum,” he whispered.

“I know, I have been bitten before.”

“Really? I don’t recall that. Usually when you see a dog, you hightail it up a tree. You have had a rabies shot right?”

“Yes, and to answer your question about being bitten...it was back in my training days at GRU. They would put us in a pen and set dogs upon us to learn how to defend ourselves...or die,” Illya hesitated. “I was nearly killed.”

“So that’s why you’re afraid of dogs.” Napoleon said, amazed that his partner had admitted the truth.

“Nyet, I became afraid of dogs when I was but a child...during the war when I was alone on the streets of Kyiv there were packs of hungry dogs chasing after me and the other children.  We were hunted, but then I became the hunter, though I was still afraid of them. Roasted dog meat is quite tasty you know.”

Solo watched Illya’s eyes roll back as he passed out. He quickly checked the Russians pulse...it was a little fast. He inspected him for any other injuries and found a sizeable bruise developing along his side, thinking his friend might have some broken ribs as well.

The blood loss from the bites were most likely the reasons he passed out, at least that’s what Napoleon hoped.  A fever hadn’t developed yet, as the wounds didn’t look infected, and seemed very recent, but only time would tell. Given the extreme heat, most likely that he was dehydrated as well, Illya’s condition could go from bad to worse in the snap of a finger.

Napoleon sat back down on his own bunk. He was feeling pretty rotten himself, but he still felt strong enough to take whatever they threw at him...Illya he wasn’t so sure. Zakhrov would unleash his brutality on both of them, but Kuryakin would most likely get the worst of it.

He and Illya needed to have their wits about them to survive this place, and Solo prayed they would.

The American closed his weary, eyes, nodding off until the door to the cell opened and three guards appeared. They pushed Napoleon away as he rose, and dragged Illya’s limp body from the cell.

“No, take me!” Napoleon cried out. “Not him! Me!”

His cries fell on deaf ears as the door was closed behind them with a resounding slam.

Solo dropped to the bunk, cringing and praying Illya wasn’t being brought out to be beheaded.