Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 10

trod. The crunch and slide of snow is barely audible, because a wind has picked up. White clumps fall with a puff from heavy-laden firs, drumming the earth softly, with no rhythm. Joseph's smile is both grim and joyful.
    There's a sense of rightfulness that mounts in me as he approaches the barn. I've helped give Joseph what he wants. To be a witness. To act .
    His hair, dark in this light, has become spangled with snowflakes. When he dies, the world's beauty will be so greatly diminished. I don't want to outlast him. It's a mercy that I won't, and for the first time I'm thankful for our tied fates.
    The prisoners in their chains are shuffling into the woods. Lange waves them on with his Luger.
    "This is not the way to the road," says Joseph, in Russian.
    There is no attempt at lying or concealment. Lange turns, aims, fires. Joseph dives into the snow, following the direction of his weaker right leg. No. Not yet. I would feel it.
    He'll shoot right through me. Oh God, my frozen desperation will not shield Joseph.
    A prisoner hurls himself at Lange, clubbing at him with stiff hands, and I dare to imagine that Joseph will live.
    Lange shoots the Russian in the face. The gunshot seems to fracture the world, but there's no time to worry about Death's arrival.
    Joseph rises from the snow and swings his cane in a whip-fast arc. He hits Lange's pistol hand. The gun falls and is swallowed by the snow.
    I think Lange knows he's dead now, and I'm sorry that it came to this, even for such a man.
    The Russians drag Lange down. One of them scrabbles in the snow for the pistol, wraps it in a sleeve to keep the metal from biting his flesh, puts it to Lange's forehead, and pulls the trigger.
    The forest is silent and still once more.
    "They told me you were dead," says Joseph, leaning on his cane and breathing hard. He does not look at Lange's body, or the dark red blood and foamy pink brain matter that covers the snow as if it had been sprayed from an aerosol can. Strangely enough, a smile seems to tug at one side of Joseph's mouth. I realize he hadn't planned on living through this, either. Or maybe it's just the adrenaline. Or hysteria brought on by the shock. I don't know him at all. Not anymore. "They won't bother taking you to a camp, they'll just kill you. You need to run."
    "Who are you?" one of the prisoners asks, in between gasping out huge mouthfuls of condensation.
    Yes, who?
    Joseph's reply is terse and formal. He straightens his posture. "An American."
    "You'll come with us." The man raises the Luger to point at Joseph's heart.
    But I am not looking at the gun, or at Joseph. I am looking at Lange, sprawled out on his back in the snow. At the horrible green light that fills his eyes and mouth.
    "The situation—your relationship—is untenable." The message is crisp and technical, perhaps the result of filtration through Lange's dead mind. The act of dying has become mechanical, industrial, it follows that Death herself would be corrupted, too.
    I don't care , I want to shout. He's alive. Look at the lives he's saved. He changed the world. Isn't that worth it?
    The Luger drops again. A burst of red appears on the Russian's forehead and he collapses backwards, his body breaking the snow's crust, falling through until his dead face is level with it. In the emptiness after the rifle crack, there is the sound of wind—no, louder than the wind...
    The Finns are coming, skiing towards us, skimming like ghosts over the snow and through the trees. There will be no escape for anyone.
    Of the three remaining prisoners, two fall to their knees; one sways and mutters and closes his eyes. Will the Finns be able to tell that Joseph is not one of them? Will they care to, after what he's done?
    Lie down , I beg him. Live. Please live.
    "Järvilehto!" shouts Joseph. " Lopettaa! Stop. Stop. These men are prisoners of war. The Geneva Convention states that—No!" He lunges forward, stands in front of the kneeling men, and spreads his arms. Staggers in the snow. "No!"
    Järvilehto tugs his scarf down to free at his mouth as he prods at one of the corpses with a ski pole. "That's Lange," he says. "Well, well." The statements are both so bland, there's no way of reading his intent. He turns to Joseph and extends a hand. "We'll have them taken to a prisoner of war camp. We treat them well. You can report on the process. But of course, given this incident... I would advise you to leave this country shortly after the report. Our