It's been a while since the last time I entered the Finish the Story contest. I don't even remember the layout I used for the posts.
In the last two editions, I procrastinated until I had no time to write the story, but this time I made it by a nose hair.
Here you can find the prompt post for this awesome contest.
Photo under CC0 / Public Domain License; Source
When The Tundra Calls
"СКБ Прогресс". Space Missile Center Progress.
The writing stood out on the roof of the latrine, indelible against the cobalt blue metal, sparkling under the dirty white sky of a first spring attempt.
Gennadiy waited impatiently, hopping from leg to leg in the mud and throwing stones at the door of the makeshift bathroom.
Not far away, Drogol pointed to a litter of kittens wagging his tail, the snorting nose pressed between the mesh of the net surrounding one of the last houses before the forest. From his sharp eyes and outstretched ears, a curiosity shone halfway between the festive and the ferocious.
"Stop it with these stones, Genna, or there's no deal."
The Siberian husky slipped off his nose from the net, the time to direct a dry bark in the direction of the voice filtered by the rotten wooden boards.
"Even Drogol is annoyed with your complaining, Anton. The sun sets quickly." Gennadiy said, throwing another stone with a theatrical gesture as if he were casting a dark curse. The dirty pebble ended up right in the crack above the door.
"You're a bastard, Genna. Forget me leaving this pisshole”.
Perhaps, it was better to leave him in peace, free to concentrate. It was not only the hours of daylight but also their fathers, who in a few hours would be home with the day's loot and would certainly have wanted to find them ready to help with the recovered material. The boy stared at the makeshift latrine with the mark of the nearby Pleseck's cosmodrome: a missile and a satellite with its orbit in evidence stood out against the blue background and the white silhouette of a planet.
That symbol often appeared in the most unthinkable places of Dolgoščelę, an insignificant village in the Russian region of Mezen, a stone throw away from the Arctic circle. It seemed as if over the years millions of spores from the nearby cosmodrome had taken root and proliferated among the simple urban elements of that group of houses between tundra and sea.
From the time of the cold war, when the launch program intensified, for the population of the region to recover the pieces of the rockets embedded in the snow became an essential second job. One that, eventually, could replace the traditional activities of hunting and fishing and grant those poor families better odds against the sublime yet sharp immensity of nature. Sifting through the snow of the tundra in winter was easier than in summer when even the streets flooded and boats built with rocket shells came back to use after the seasonal dormancy.
Recovered metals such as gold and titanium could be sold to Arcangelo's black market. The activity ended up involving all family members, each with a task in an efficient recycling chain.
The door of the latrine opened wide. Anton, the son of the country's pastor and Gennadiy's inseparable friend, now stood out against the shining metal like a war hero.
"Anton, if they discover us because of your endless shitting, I swear this time your bike is mine."
"Stop worrying and think, instead, of their faces in front of our loot," replied Anton with a seraphic expression.
"East, beyond the lake. Where the caribous' footprints stop," said Gennadiy absorbed, his mind already gliding on the untouched expanse of snow of that spot deep in the forest.
"Aha. Today we go hunting for the wrong pieces," Anton urged hinting a smile.
Both friends nodded solemnly before answering to the tundra's call.
Remnants
[my continuation]
Gennadiy was feeling almost like an arctic Aladdin, if the cave of wonders had been a dump of frozen metal objects. That was the paradise of strange, rusty equipment and remnants of some obsolete alien technology.
That asshole of Anton had decided to go over the hill:
"Let's make a bet, Genna" had told him with his usual scorn ripple at the corner of the Slav imperturbability mask. "I'm going to the right of the hill, you to the left. If I find better stuff than yours, you will give me five bottles of that vodka that your old man keeps hidden in the crate under the bed."
"Ok, but if I win, you will have to go around for a month with a sign hanging around your neck… with the words I like reindeer’s ass" Gennadiy had replied on the spot, already thinking of his father's hands, heavy as mason’s bats, if he found out they stole from his reserve.
Now, however, as he filled the sleigh with twisted and gleaming fragments that seemed to be detached from a flying saucer, he felt reasonably sure that he wouldn’t have to risk his back for any bottle.
A low growl shook him from his dreams of glory.
"Shut up, Drogol! It's just the wind! Even the lemmings would have the balls frozen out here."
The big husky did not pay attention to him, he continued to head towards the hill, growling strangely, his thick fur standing on his back. The boy had never seen him like this.
"Drogol?" He murmured doubtfully, laying down a piece of control panel.
Then something rolled down from the lower ridge, raising a white trail of snow. A continuous and desperate cry accompanied the ruinous fall:
"Blyaaaaaaat!!!"
Anton's voice was distorted as he cursed. Gennadiy barely recognized him in time, before something else stepped over the ridge: a huge, brown silhouette, launched in pursuit.
A rush of terror crossed the boy as his friend joined him, with his eyes almost out of their sockets, and Drogol exploded in a succession of paroxysmal barks.
"Bear! Fuck! Bear!!!" Anton repeated, with his breath broken.
The two friends and the dog were already fleeing without even being aware of it, but Gennadiy was struck by a thought, clear and sharp like an icicle falling from a gutter: they were dead.
They could not hope to distance a running brown bear. That avalanche of fangs, muscles and fur would have been on them in no time. The roar and stench they felt behind them was the prelude to hell.
Suddenly there was a prolonged and piercing whistle. The heavy thuds of the clawed paws slowed. Gennadiy risked a look behind him and saw that the bear was stopping, with the huge head turned to something behind him.
"Oooh Igor!” exclaimed a strange character, emerging from behind a snowdrift. He was wearing an old Red Army uniform, over which a voluminous coat composed of several layers of fur was thrown.
The man passed next to the bear, who bowed his muzzle resignedly, and spat his whistle on a white patriarchal beard.
The two boys, open-mouthed, almost did not realize the AK-74 barrel sticking out from the layers of fur, pointing straight at them.
"You're in big trouble, guys" the old man exclaimed, mumbling the words in his almost toothless mouth. "This is a military zone, forbidden to the kolkhoz population. Fortunately for you, you saved yourself from the claws of good old Igor, but you will not escape from the military law of the Soviet Union!"
Gennadiy and Anton looked at each other in amazement.
"Kolkhoz? Soviet Union? Grandpa, it's better if you lay the cannon, we need to talk..."
