Page 21 of Savage Truce

“Nyet!” Ms. Fedorova cries, making my head snap up.

One of the men has grabbed her by her arm and is dragging her a few steps away before she’s forced down onto her knees.

As I struggle to stand up again, I draw the attention of the man who seems to be in charge, and he barks something at me.

“I’m E-E-English,” I stammer, a fresh wave of fear creeping over my skin.

“Name!” he barks.

“A-Anastasia.”

His expression darkens, and his lips pull away from his teeth, then his arm flies through the air, and he backhands me so hard my vision goes black as I fall to the side.

“Full name!”

My head spins as I push my upper body from the ground, and with a coppery taste filling my mouth, I mumble, “Anastasia Donovan.”

Something is said in Russian right before a man comes to grab hold of my bicep, dragging me across the floor to where Ms. Fedorova is kneeling.

One by one, anyone with Fedorov blood in their veins is separated from the others.

Suddenly, fire is opened on Ms. Fedorova’s friends and our guards, and as they’re killed right in front of us, my entire body goes numb with terror while some of my family cries.

The terror becomes too much to handle, muddling my mind, and it feels like something foreign takes over control of my body.

More orders are shouted at us, and when my family members climb to their feet and start walking, I get up and limp after them.

We’re taken out the back of the factory, and somehow the air feels colder as I take in the cracked concrete stretching beneath harsh industrial lights mounted high on rusted poles. I notice stacks of shipping pallets, dented dumpsters, and rusted machinery.

Every step I take sends pain shooting through my leg, and I grit my teeth to keep from making a sound.

Harsh Russian fills the air as flashlights sweep over us while the armed men herd my family across the yard.

None of us dare speak. Ms. Fedorova stares straight ahead, and the others keep their heads lowered, their faces pale with fear.

A soldier unlocks something, and when I peek around Boris, my mother’s oldest cousin, I’m horrified to see steel pens.

Dear God.

I think this factory was used for slaughtering animals.

Chains rattle, then we’re shoved into a pen before the gate is slammed shut with a loud clang and locked again.

While the others give each other worried glances and remain standing, I find the farthest corner and lower myself onto the filthy concrete, careful not to jar my leg.

Keeping an eye on the soldiers, I loosen the knot of my makeshift bandage enough to check the wound. Blood still seeps from the hole in my calf, but on closer inspection, I notice the bullet just ripped out a chunk of flesh and isn’t embedded in my leg.

Thank God for small mercies.

Not having to dig out a bullet gives me the first glimmer of relief I’ve felt since the harrowing ordeal started.

After tightening the strings again, I glance at the dirt covering the concrete beneath me, and the meager relief ups and vanishes at the speed of light.

If the soldiers don’t kill me soon, infection definitely will.

The only three men in our group, Boris, Egor, and Vlad, begin to whisper among themselves, and something they say has Yulia, Ms. Fedorova’s niece, shaking her head and hissing at them.

It draws the soldiers’ attention, and when they start shouting at the three men, I press harder into the corner and wrap my arms tightly around myself while trying to make myself as small as possible.