The air was thick with the choking stench of cordite, mixed with the bone-chilling scent of glacial ice.
Walter Ilves stared fixedly at the tiny ember at Raivo's fingertips. Beneath the sinking sun, it was the final spark of color atop Bone-Crusher Ridge. Raivo sat slumped in the rocky crevice, his mangled legs long since devoid of sensation. He held his Suomi submachine gun across his lap, fingers clamped so tightly around the grip that his knuckles had turned a ghostly white.
Evening was fast approaching. The dying sun hung low on the treeline, casting a ghastly, pallid pall over the expanse of snow. From a distance, the Soviets would be able to spot anyone moving across that white wasteland with ease.
Simo did not look back. He knew that even a second of hesitation now was suicide. He was like a bow drawn to its limit, every muscle in his body taut with extreme tension, his eyes locked onto the jagged, boulder-strewn descent ahead.
"Go."
The word had barely left Simo's lips when he surged forward, a streak of white lightning bolting from cover. He drew every ounce of Soviet attention from the bottom of the slope. He was the first target to reveal himself, and he was the fastest. He leaped across the snow, keeping his frame low, each footfall landing firmly on the frozen rock.
Walter didn't say a word. He reached out and hauled up two dazed partisans. Ignoring the look of sheer despair on the young men's faces, he spat out a single low command:
"Run!"
Walter plunged onto the slope, illuminated by the setting sun, with the remaining five partisans in tow. The moment they left the rock piles, the freezing wind slashed at their faces like a steel blade. The jagged cuts previously opened by stone splinters throbbed with agony. Beneath their feet lay ice ridges and loose scree masked by snow; the slightest misstep would mean a total loss of balance.
Walter didn't look at the path; he simply fixed his gaze on Simo's footprints.
Before they had covered ten meters, the distinctive, muffled chatter of a Suomi submachine gun erupted behind them.
Dada, dada-da!
Raivo had opened fire. His aim was steady, firing in disciplined two and three-round bursts. Every shot he fired from the summit was a forced invitation for the Soviet rifles to turn toward him.
Walter sprinted across an open snowbank, his white camouflage casting a long, stark shadow in the twilight, a perfect marker.
"There! Fire! Don't let a single one get away!" Wolf's frenzied howl drifted up from the base of the ridge.
Dada-dada-dada—!
Dozens of rifles and machine guns roared in unison. Bullets swept across the stone slope like a hailstorm, sparking against granite and kicking up geysers of snow that revealed the dark, frozen earth beneath. To the five partisans behind Walter, running across this exposed incline in plain sight felt less like an escape and more like a slow-motion execution.
"Kugh."
A muffled groan came from the left. In his periphery, Walter saw a man hit as if by a sledgehammer. A mist of blood erupted from the man's chest before he slammed hard into a rocky fissure.
Walter did not stop.
Immediately after, another fell on the right. The man didn't even make a sound, toppling into a snow pit and sliding several meters down the slope by sheer momentum. The remaining three had lost all reason, their legs pumping mechanically. Walter could feel the air behind him being constantly shredded by lead; he knew this pace wouldn't save them.
Suddenly, his left forearm felt a heavy jolt.
"Nngh!"
A searing pain accompanied by a massive impact nearly knocked him off balance. A bullet had punched clean through his left forearm. Blood surged instantly, but in the extreme cold, it began to congeal at his cuff before it could even drip. Walter ground his teeth, refusing to look at the wound or cry out. He felt his balance slipping as the screaming whines of passing bullets grew denser.
Simo was far ahead, his movements still eerily fluid, always dancing on the edge of the bullet impacts. Walter stole one last look back; the space behind him was empty. Of the five partisans who had followed, not one was left.
Wolf's taunts grew louder. He stood at the base of the slope, pistol raised, directing the Soviet formation as it surged upward like a brownish-tan tide.
"Take them alive! I want them alive!"
Between the blood loss and the intense physical exertion, Walter's head began to throb with numbness. The gunfire behind him reached a crescendo. He knew that if he kept running like this, the next round would find the back of his skull.
He had no time for hesitation. Reaching the steepest drop on the rocky slope, Walter gave up on running. He tucked his legs, shielded his head with both arms, and threw himself down the jagged incline.
Thump! Crack!
Though his winter gear was thick, the edges of the scree were sharp as razors. In the high-speed tumble, Walter felt every impact against his body as his bones creaked in sickening protest. His camouflage suit was shredded, and his flesh was sliced repeatedly by the stone ridges. He spun through a world of whirling stone and ice, a blur of bloody red and freezing white.
Finally, he slammed into a deep drift of snow.
Walter's face was caked with blood and grime, his throat choked with a thick, metallic saltiness. He coughed violently, each breath pulling at the wounds across his body. A calloused, freezing, yet incredibly powerful hand suddenly reached into the snow and seized his collar.
"Walter!"
Simo was right there. He had reached the bottom of the slope sometime during the chaos.
"Move."
Simo didn't ask if he was in pain; he simply stared into Walter's eyes. Walter spat out a mouthful of bloody phlegm and nodded through gritted teeth. He could feel the wound in his left arm throbbing, and the dozens of gashes across his body stung like fire in the cold wind.
The two men looked back. The last light of the setting sun was staining the ridgeline blood-red. At the summit, where Raivo had been, all was silent. Even the muffled thrum of the Suomi had vanished.
"Let's go..." Walter tightened his grip on his rifle, which held only two remaining rounds.
Supporting each other, the two men plunged into the blackened forest at the base of the ridge. The interlocking trees caused the light to fade rapidly. This natural canopy momentarily shielded them from Soviet eyes, but the deathly silence of the woods was more unsettling than the gunfire.
Walter felt the blood in his sleeve growing tacky. He followed Simo step by step, the only sounds in the woods being their ragged breathing and the crunch of boots on frozen crust. After a few hundred meters, Walter's legs began to tremble.
"Rest... a second," he rasped, his voice sounding hollowed out.
He leaned against a sturdy birch tree, his body sliding down of its own accord. Simo crouched beside him, eyes scanning their rear with predatory vigilance. Once certain there were no immediate Soviet shadows, he moved closer. He pulled a piece of grimy cloth from his coat and tied it tightly above the wound on Walter's forearm.
Walter clamped his jaw shut as cold sweat beaded on his forehead, only to freeze instantly. He never made a sound.
In the distance, Soviet whistles and shouts rang out again. Wolf's men had entered the woods.
"Move."
Simo hauled Walter up, and together they vanished into the gathering darkness of the forest.
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