Shelter from the Devil

A Test, Part 1

The audience erupted into applause when the conductor appeared in the pit. Christian almost felt compelled to follow the crowd in their ovation.

Silence fell, and with a motion of his baton, the conductor summoned the orchestra. Christian shifted in his seat as the delicate trill of a piccolo and a pair of flutes rose delicately from the pit. Two oboes later joined them, playing a sorrowful dirge, sending shivers down his spine. "Where is she," he muttered to himself. How can she be so late?

He looked around the theater. The Moscow venue was sold out; not one seat remained, save for the one next to him, the one he had reserved for Anna. This ballet was her idea, he reminded himself before checking his watch. Twenty minutes. Where is she?

Halfway through the first act, he nudged his way out of his row, stormed out of the building and made for the nearest phone booth. He deposited a coin and listened to the empty ringing on the other end until the call ended abruptly. "Fuck," he cried, fumbling with another coin. "Anna, please, pick up," he said. But no answer came.

Rebuffed again, Christian slammed the handset against the booth and left it dangling. What the-did something happen to her? No, it's not possible.

An idle taxi parked nearby caught his eye, and he dashed toward it.

"Leninsky Avenue number 6, near Gorky Park," he said after slipping inside the cabin.

The driver, a bent old man, looked over his shoulder and cleared his throat. "You seem to be in a hurry," he said.

"Yes, I am," Christian said, searching for a seatbelt. "Can we please go already?"

The driver smirked into the rear-view mirror before setting the battered car in motion. "If you're looking for a seatbelt back there, I'm afraid you won't find any," he said. "Now, tell me again, where are we going?"

"Leninsky Avenue number 6, like I just said."

A rosary dangled from the rear-view mirror, and pictures of saints adorned the dashboard. Nonsense, Christian thought, shaking his head. The cramped cabin of the Lada offered little warmth for his numb limbs, and his thoughts did not help. Where is she? Why would she stand me up this night of all nights?

"Why did you remove the seatbelts?" Christian asked.

The driver laughed. "They take up space," he said. "Why are you in such a hurry? I saw you mistreat that phone over there."

Christian winced as the driver ran a red light. "My friend is missing, and I have no way of reaching her."

"Listen," the driver said, "I come from a small town east of the Urals. We didn't have phone lines until the-"

Blaring sirens cut him off as they passed Krimsky Bridge. Christian turned to see a convoy of emergency vehicles-two fire trucks and an ambulance-overtaking them at great speed.

"Like I said-"

"Shut your mouth," Christian snapped. "Just get me there."

Without warning, the cab driver hopped the curb, drove over a patch of dirt, and veered back onto an empty road. The sudden motion threw Christian to the other side of the cabin. "Are you mad?" he shouted. "Are you trying to kill us both?" But he forgot his reprimands when Anna's apartment building came into view.

Strobing blue lights splashed over the facades of the surrounding buildings, and a crowd choked the middle of the street, blocking all incoming traffic. What is happening? Christian thought, his mouth agape. He reached for the door handle, and without waiting for the car to stop, jumped out and ran toward the commotion.

He pushed his way through the throng, but as he reached the edge of the security perimeter, two firemen moved to stop him. "Get back!" they yelled in concert, struggling to overpower him.

Time slowed and for an instant seemed to halt. Whatever had been obscured by the darkness suddenly came into focus: a large array of debris scattered around the base of the building with thick, black smoke billowing out of a large open gash. On one corner of the street, makeshift, blood-stained blankets covered two human-sized figures. "Let me go," Christian cried before he punched one of the firemen in the face and shoved the other one to the ground, his heart racing from the adrenaline.

As he rushed toward the line of debris, he saw a torn piece of velvet. "Anna," he cried out, before he dropped to his knees and held up what he believed was a fragment of her dress.

A cold grip seized him. There was no other sound save the deafening scream inside his head, no one in sight but the two shrouded figures lying still before him. "Anna," he sobbed, crawling toward the female figure. He snorted and wiped his wet nose. "This cannot be you."

But before he could lift the blanket, an arm reached under his arm and another slid around his neck, yanking him into a chokehold. Other gloved hands reached for him, grabbing at his arms and face and pulling at his hair. He tried to scream, but he could not breathe. Stop, he wanted to scream. Stop, please. Let me go.

The struggle seemed to last forever, then, suddenly the pressure lifted, and he collapsed to his knees coughing violently and filling his lungs with the acrid air.