Spring 2015
the man’s arm, dragging it down. A crack rang out and a bolt of pain shot through his leg. Rolling
to the side, he saw a dark stain seep out from his body. Jesus, he shot me.
“You’ll live, Pilgrim.”
Get closer. This ain’t over. He leaned forward but the pain shot through his spine and his head
jerked up, throwing his chin into the air.
The big man moved back against the rocks. “I admire you, Mister Pilgrim. But I don’t have to
shoot you again. In a few minutes, you’ll be too weak to do anything.”
The bastard knows what he’s doing. I can live without the blood, but not its heat.
The Soviet leveled the gun at Pilgrim’s right leg. “I will carry you. You’ll last long enough until
we get to the truck.”
The wind began to pick up. No matter. I’ll never make it.
“Pilgrim, come with me. Or you will die here.”
Pilgrim looked down. The cold had slowed the bleeding. They will tear me apart. But that’s not the
worst. He began to shake his head, the freezing muscles jerking his hood from side to side. Turning
to the West, he saw the sky blacken and heavy clouds fill the sky once more. It’ll be dawn in Texas. And
warm. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be warm. The kids will be in bed. My babies. My boys. For a moment,
the memory of a scent hung in the back of his throat, their warm, sprawling limbs across the bed,
the heat building as the sun came up. He sank to his knees, the snow coming up to his chest. She’ll
never know. It will tear her apart. The single light pulsed in the sky, then disappeared behind the clouds.
But I can’t let this happen.
Russian voices came from below the rocks.
It’s over. Make your move. Pilgrim groaned and leaned forward until his chin touched the glacier,
and keeping his hands buried, he slid off a glove and pulled the Browning from his waistband. He
held it deep in the snow and chambered a round. Do it now, before your hands freeze. He cradled it
behind the sleeves of his jacket, then lifted it clear.
The Soviet stepped back, pointing the Makarov at Pilgrim’s right shoulder. “You can’t kill us all.
Surrender. You have no choice.”
Pilgrim smiled, and his frozen lips cracked. The snowflakes gathered on his eyelashes, obscuring
his vision as he looked to the West. “I do have ###
a choice.” He pushed back his hood with the barrel
of the Browning, fixed the muzzle hard against his temple, and then squeezed the trigger.
"Mark Leggatt's debut novel, Names Of The Dead, will be available in UK
bookshops and online from 26th July 2015"
The Linnet's Wings New Voices