The Second Winter by Craig Larsen Page B

His left foot slammed the clutch, his right the accelerator. The engine screamed, the truck jolted forward. But Fredrik had already reached the open door. He hoisted himself up, then plastered the driver’s brains onto the window next to him with a single bullet. The truck lurched, veered off the asphalt. Its tall, stiff tires sank into the mud.
    Oskar disappeared into the woods. Axel shouted. At first, his words were indistinct. Then they took shape. “They’ll kill us. They’ll find us, Fredrik. They’ll find us, then they’ll kill us.”
    Fredrik dropped from the cab of the truck. An involuntary erection stabbed his trousers. He was kneeling, gathering the spilled contents back into the Jew’s soft leather satchel when the distant hum of Olaf Brandt’s truck broke the stillness of the morning. His fingers fumbled with a handful of glistening jewelry. When he spit, blood darkened the asphalt. He slid his tongue over his teeth. A front incisor was loose, but he couldn’t recall banging it, couldn’t recall being hit. He spit again, then tucked the suitcase under his arm, raised himself to his feet.Quickly, he searched the sergeant’s pocket for shells, dropped them into the suitcase as well, together with the Luger. The sergeant’s green wool cap barely fit on his head. He was about to straighten up when he remembered something else, and, glancing at the approaching truck, he reached into the sergeant’s pocket again. When he drew out the lighter, he flipped the lid back the same way the sergeant had. His thumb slipped on the flint, though, and he wasn’t able to spark a flame.
    Axel was yanking off the soldier’s boots. “It would be better for us if no one sees us here,” Fredrik said to him, snapping the lighter closed. “Even Brandt.” The truck was taking shape in the distance. He took a step off the road, led the smaller man toward the trees.
    Oskar was easy enough to find. He was sitting hunched against a tall birch, his head in his hands, sniffling. His father stopped in front of him, tossed the old Jew’s cashmere coat into his lap.
    “Come on,” Fredrik said.
    “I’m sorry,” Oskar muttered. There was fear in his eyes when he looked up at his father. “I didn’t mean to run.” He flinched when Fredrik extended his hand. When he grabbed it, he was surprised by the tremor in his father’s grasp.
    “Come on,” Fredrik repeated. The truck was getting closer. Fredrik let Axel take the lead, then, tearing the dead Nazi’s cap off his head, gave Oskar a shove and followed him into the trees.
    The shadows in the forest surrounded them. The wind picked up and rattled the branches. The sun vanished into a bank of heavy clouds. By the time they reached the other side of the woods, rain was falling again, pattering against the leaves. The three men lowered their heads and continued walking.

7 .
    Back at the Nielsens’ farm, Fredrik stood at the mouth of the barn, peering into the hazy, unlit space. The rhythmic bite of a shovel’s blade echoed inside. The sound swallowed Fredrik’s footsteps, and he approached Oskar without being heard, grabbed the shovel from his hands. Oskar was digging a hole beside one of the posts supporting the roof, where his father had directed. The battered satchel was resting at his feet. The ground in here was packed and dry, and Oskar hadn’t made much progress. Since returning home, he hadn’t yet been inside the house, and he hadn’t had anything to eat. The night was catching up to him. The gunshots continued to resound in his head. He recognized the dull ache behind his left eye. If he didn’t eat something soon, he knew that it would spiral into another headache. “Give me that,” Fredrik said. The farmhand was already wearing his work gloves.
    “I can do it,” Oskar said.
    “Give me some room,” Fredrik told him.
    “The soil is hard as rock,” Oskar said.
    “Is it?” Fredrik positioned the shovel a few inches to the side of the shallow pit