Buried By The Highway

In Vino Veritas

Buried By The Highway
By SVFrenklakh

© 2014-2021, SVFrenklakh
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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"What a sober man has in his mind, the drunken one has on his tongue."

~ Russian Proverb

Moscow, Russia SFSR, Soviet Union
February 16th, 1989

The phone rang.

Igor Alexeyev, yanked away from the warm depths of his dreams and into the cold grip of reality, struggled to find the receiver in the darkness. Upon instinct, he stretched his other arm to the opposite side of the bed only to feel nothing but the covers. Damn it, he didn't say aloud, for the love of god, not now. Not again.

The phone continued ringing. There was no point in hoping as Igor already knew who was calling and why. Once he felt the phone in his palm, Igor brought it to his ear. "Hello," he answered, groggy.

"Igor," the voice on the other side spoke in an angry whisper, "it's Misha." There was a pause. "Listen, I need you to pick her up again and this time, I'd like you to do it quickly."

"So what else is new?" Igor muttered into the microphone.

"Yes, well, this time she's lost it completely."

"How bad?" Igor asked, as if knowing the answer anyway.

"Just come down here. You'd never believe me if I told you."

Igor sat up. "Alright," he said into the phone, "I'll be down there in, let's say, twenty minutes?" He heard a chuckle on the other end.

"I'm sure the police would be here in half that time. Just make it quick, yeah?"

"I'll be there," Igor replied more harshly this time, "just don't give her anymore to drink."

"No promises." There was a click and the line went dead.

No promises, Igor thought as he hanged up the phone, fucking bastard. He quickly got dressed, grabbed the car keys, and headed for the front door of his apartment, neglecting to check into the last room in the corridor. The entire way down the stairwell, seven stories, Igor kept cursing in his head. Too many times he found himself going somewhere at this hour, almost every night it seemed. Once he was outside, he found his car, got in, and started driving.

...

Igor peered at his watch when he arrived at his destination, some fifteen minutes later. Twenty minutes to two in the morning, he thought, which would be a little over five hours before he had to go to work. Had he been a spy, this might have been normal but this was not the case. Sure, he worked for State Security, the KGB, but he was nothing more than a pencil pusher, never having to deal with that other kind of work. If anything, this would be the closest thing to spy work and even then, this was not what it was about. This was more personal.

Opening the car door, Igor stepped out. He looked up and down the street as the snow fell, seeing his breath escape him in white smoke as he did. Complete desolation, he noted, not a soul in sight. Only the street lights gave the snow covered street life and it was eerie at best.

Across the street was the bar. He had been there before, as this was the fifth time this week alone and, as he began to cross, he knew it wouldn't be the last. Igor wasted no time getting inside. It was warm, with the dim lights beaming over the chairs that were placed upside down over the tables.