The Cutty Wren

II - Slip

"Are you sure you want to --"

"Positively. Arminius agrees; I already passed it by him."

Sergei looked down at the execution writs Amadeus was hugging to his chest. The snow flurrying from above left wet marks on the parts he struggled to cover. With a nod, the man did his best to snap to attention. The papers slipped a little.

"Yes, sir. I'll hand them along to General Kenraali," he said, rearranging the papers and striding off through the greying slush which remained of the snow.

Sergei watched him leave, exhaling cigarette smoke. It curled with the snow and the warmth of his breath. It had been on and off all morning, coming and going with occasional flashes of icy blue sky and a pale sun. The strident call of a raven came from one of the watchtowers. It peered down at the wall where blood stained the bricks like red rosettes. With a sigh, Sergei dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it into the snow with his boot heel. He followed the path Amadeus had taken. At every turn, soldiers stopped and saluted for him - they already looked older than they had before the crisis, faces weathered by frost and fighting, eyes steelier.

He paused again to lean against a wall - his hips were already complaining of all the walking they were being forced to do after the riding yesterday. As he groaned and rubbed his thigh, he caught sight of Jaakko Kenraali striding back and forth before a small line of soldiers. Sergei presumed they were his gunmen. His general's clear, Finnish voice rose above the roar of engines and the occasional staccato burst of gunfire as he rallied the men. Legs still weak, he headed over, motioning for Jaakko to come aside.

"Mind if I watch? I just want them to know that I ordered this, how in control I am," he said.

"Of course, sir," Jaako said, smiling a little tersely.

He glanced back over to the gunmen, stood to attention, and offered Sergei a small smile before heading back over to continue briefing them. They filed into the yard facing the blood-stained wall, all five of them. Murmuring and shifting, they grouped together to pass around cigarettes whilst Jaakko went to sort the prisoners. Sergei slipped in behind them, hands in coat pockets.

After their cigarettes and soft-spoken conversation, they retrieved their rifles to ready themselves for the task ahead. Two prisoners were marched in first by stone faced guards, lead by Jaakko. Sergei studied each of them - one of the poor bastards was holding the mangled stump of an arm wrapped in a shirt. Trying not to cringe, Sergei reached for his own shoulder. Under all his heavy uniform, a scar wormed the whole way around his upper arm. A fleeting, phantom pain caught Sergei off guard when the prisoner's arm was brushed and he hissed something.

Jaako barked to the soldiers, who raised their weapons and fired a volley at the kneeling man and woman. There were two dull thumps as they fell forwards onto the snow, blood spreading out from their prone bodies. It looked a little like carnations, or poppies, Sergei mused as he fumbled in his pocket for another cigarette.

The constant rattle of gunfire and dull thumps echoes throughout the camp all day. Sergei was gone by lunchtime. So were the bodies, piled outside the fences. Limbs stuck out at crooked, odd angles, fingers clutching stiffly at the frigid air, blood slicked the ground around them.

It was warm in Sergei's office, although that metallic tang sneaked through the vents to bother him just enough as he continued on his speech, muttering the words under his breath. His dogs scrabbled at the door, whining. The stench of fresh meat was unmistakable, and they slavered at the thought of it. If only they could crunch those bones in their jaws to lick at the marrow within. Looking up quickly, Sergei demanded they lay down before getting back to his work. With a whine, they did as they were bidden. There would be meat later, there always was, whether it be offcuts from the kitchens or the arm of some assassin.

The only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the wall and the sound of Sergei's pen on paper. The gunfire managed to sneak inside just as well as that bloody smell. Tick, tick, tick, then another volley. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Rattling his desk drawer open as the gunfire continued, Sergei grabbed his Neurospeed pills. He turned the bottle over and over in his hand as he waited for his mind to be wiped smooth again. Clean, focused. Sane. The image of the man's arm being brushed played over and over again in his head. He remembered the flash of a claw hammer, the scream of a drill joining and merging with a very human scream, screaming laughter joining that. They stacked, that vibration in his head, the gunfire, the screaming - oh, the screaming. He let out a low moan, biting into his lip.

Don't tell them. They're not to know. Think of what Raban would make of that.

The screaming became a pitiful whimper. That lightning bolt of pain faded to a glimmer of something years past.

Picking up his pen once more, Sergei looked down to his page, only to see his handwriting had sprawled crazily - "13th armoured and 2nd motorised thirty miles south of Mirny", "salting the land", "light infantry west of forest, seeking seditionists".

And under that -

"dont tell dont tell dontell dontel dont do tell dont tell".