Ghosts of Praxis (A Babushka Novella) - Chapter 2 - Hidden Fleece
Surrounded by the wreckage of her flock, Ika surveys the damage in silence. As night falls and strange sounds echo through the dark, a faint signal crackles to life.
Hay clung to her tongue, and each breath tasted of iron and blood. She remembered nothing of falling asleep—only the constant hum of drones and the distant sounds of explosions and scraping metal in the dark. If she had known she was still alive, the shock would have hit her again.
Her fingers pushed through the sticky hay, rough fibers dragging across her face. Daylight revealed the horror: sheep entrails everywhere, wool scattered. An intestine hung from the windowsill, swaying in the breeze. In the corner, a thin layer of fleece covered the threshing floor, where she and her mother once separated grain. The familiar motion of their hands now felt like a memory, lost to time.
Ika stared in disbelief; this couldn’t be real. Holy Mary, Mother of God...she prayed, her mind grasping for solace.
Slowly, she tried to stand. Her hip ached. She stumbled, nearly falling back into the carnage. Grabbing her shepherd’s crook from the pile of hay, she wrenched herself up, leaning heavily on it. Every muscle screamed in protest, but then she was finally on two feet.
She looked around the interior of the pen—white and black mounds scattered like fallen stones, her flock obliterated. This was not what she had in mind for a cull. A shame their meat would go to waste, even if she wasn’t of the mind to eat them. This was her livelihood, almost all she had left.
Zora! The last she saw of her, a bullet had punctured her side. She had done all she could not to rush to her aid right then and there, but that damned drone had cornered her sheep. The drones...
Ika strained to hear any buzzing but there was none. She peeked out the doorframe of the broken stone pen, its roof partially caved in, and the gate blasted off. The same stone pen her father’s father’s father had built, the one she and Bare had maintained for her mother before she passed, the one that housed the only children she ever knew.
A limp form lay about twenty feet away, white coat with brown spots barely moving. Ika could just make out the faint rise and fall of her chest, the occasional twitch of a paw. She began to call her name but caught herself, swallowing it in her throat. Forcing herself quiet, she looked around before taking a wary step out.
Her eyes went wide, expecting more of those orbed monsters. If they came again, she knew there was nothing she could do. The batteries on her microwave emitter were dead, her rifle useless. At least she’d die holding her best friend. But it was eerily silent, and only the cicadas buzzed in the olive trees.
Ika pushed forward slowly. Each step was a struggle as she leaned on the wood of her crook. Water ran over her face, leaving salt on her tongue, which she wiped away with the edge of her headscarf. She quickened her pace, determined to reach Zora. The ground grew rough under her feet, and soon she landed hard on her knees in front of her dog. The impact barely registered; she focused only on what was before her.
She gently examined the bullet wound. The bullet had entered just behind Zora’s rib cage and exited cleanly through her lower abdomen. It had miraculously missed her lungs and liver—a small mercy in this nightmare.
Ika felt Zora’s body for any hidden injuries. Her fingers traced the outline of Zora’s joints and bones, checking for fractures or dislocations. She carefully examined Zora’s eyes, noting the clarity and response to light. Relief washed over her; aside from the bullet wound, there were no signs of severe trauma.
Ika pressed gently around Zora’s hindquarters. Zora flinched and let out a low whine. She found a knot of tension and swelling near the gluteal muscles. She probed delicately, feeling the torn muscle fibers beneath the skin.
“You won’t be walking for weeks, my brave girl.”
Ika reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the sprig of lavender she had planned to use for tea. She held it close to Zora’s nose. The scent steadied the dog; Zora met her gaze and her tail moved in a slow wag.
“Good girl,” Ika whispered. She pressed firmly around the wound, aware that hours had passed. A glance at the ground showed dry splatters of blood and no fresh bleeding. Still, she tore strips from her clothes and wrapped the injury to guard against infection.
“You’re going to be okay. We’ll get through this.”
So long as I can get you inside, she thought, but doubt hit her like a brick. Suddenly, the distance from the yard to the front door of the cottage looked like a chasm—the chasm that had just opened up in front of her future. For the first time since she saw those damned drones set out across the water, she realized this wasn’t just a minor setback. Waves crashed over her resolve, sweeping away what little remained of her cozy life on the hill overlooking the bay.
Suddenly, all the dolomite cliffs of the Adriatic couldn’t stop what was coming her way. Unless she chose, and chose right now, that she would do whatever it took to keep living.
Ika crouched down, sliding her arms under Zora’s body. She heaved upwards. The weight was immense. It felt like 2016. Equinox Yorkville, three plates to a side, that personal record she had nearly forgotten. Another lifetime ago. Her muscles trembled, her joints screamed in protest. She gritted her teeth, feeling the strain in her back and legs as she lifted. Spine in line...
Zora whimpered softly, but Ika held firm, pulling with all her might. Finally, she managed to get Zora off the ground, cradling her close as she took a shaky first step toward the cottage.
Each step felt like trudging through the rocky paths of Krk in a storm, her breath rasping in her chest. Her lungs burned with each inhale, her old fungal friends adding to the strain. She cradled Zora in both arms, the crook awkwardly hooked over her shoulder. Her vision swam with exhaustion, but she refused to stop.
The ground was uneven, stones jutting out where bullets had impacted. Ika stumbled but caught herself, tightening her grip on Zora. “Almost home,” she whispered to her loyal companion.
Halfway there, a sharp pain shot up her spine. Ika wavered, her knees threatening to give way. She gritted her teeth and steadied herself. The cicadas buzzed louder, their sound a cruel echo of last night’s drones. Keep moving, she thought, forcing herself forward despite the surge of memory.
Finally, she reached the door. Pausing to catch her breath, she shifted Zora slightly before turning her back to nudge the door open. Using her heels to feel her way on the rough ground, she edged into the cottage.
The cool air brushed her neck as she crossed the threshold. She made her way to the stone table where her family once gathered. Laughter, shared meals, and Bare’s crooked grin flashed before her eyes—the soft hum of folk songs as they worked side by side, skinning sheep, him joking while she tanned hides or knitted by the fire. The gentle care he always showed her ailing mother with kind words.
With a final effort, Ika lowered Zora onto the table. It felt as if Bare’s hands steadied her trembling arms. For a moment, she balanced on the table’s edge, catching her breath.
“You’re safe now,” she said to Zora, reaching out to stroke her head gently. The dog looked up at her with trusting eyes, and Ika allowed herself a small, weary smile.
She moved quickly to gather her supplies. From a small wooden box on the shelf, she retrieved comfrey and yarrow. Comfrey to speed up the healing of the torn muscle, yarrow to prevent infection. She set them on the table and grabbed a mortar and pestle from a nearby cupboard.
Next, she fetched clean strips of fresh linen from a drawer under the kitchen counter, where she kept them neatly folded for emergencies. Returning to Zora, Ika carefully removed the old bandage, wincing at the sight of dried blood.
She crushed the herbs into a paste, the scent of earth and greenery filling the room. Ika applied the mixture to Zora’s wound and bound it with strips of fresh linen. Once finished, she sank into a nearby chair, exhaustion overtaking her. Watching Zora’s chest rise and fall with each breath, a fragile relief settled in her for the first time in ages.
Ika knew Zora would recover. The tear in her gluteal muscle was a Grade II—significant muscle damage, but not a complete rupture. It would be painful and slow her down, yet with time and care, it should heal in about a month, perhaps less.
Then it hit her—Zora wouldn’t be able to help if the wolves returned. How would Ika fend them off alone? In truth, she was more worried about herself now. She was long out of bullets, and the microwave emitter, which had been little more than a high-tech scarecrow, was practically out of commission.
Her sheep... They were all gone. And Ika was sick. Sick with lung disease. An achy hip. Sick of missing her long-dead husband. She thought about him every day. And her family who may as well be ancient history. She was sick of wondering if she wasn’t the only person alive. She was sick of running from the packs of wild animals that surrounded her little cottage on the hill. And now, she was growing sick of being afraid, afraid for this dog that for the first time in her life was not combat-ready.
Am I living a lie? she wondered. Wasting my last days because I’m too much of a coward to dive into the sea on a stormy day? She could see it: falling, feet behind her ears, the snow caps rushing up to meet her face, cheekbones exploding on impact.
The sweet allure of the void tempted her—pure darkness, or perhaps the faintest glimmer of light. Would God forgive her for giving in now, for letting the weight of her years finally claim her? She was old; surely, He would understand.
No, she couldn’t go there. Too dark, not really her. She chose life. She had already chosen life, and she’d be damned if she’d let her demons or those out there snuff her out. Bare chose life; he chose home and country and the lives of millions over his own. Ika was determined to follow in his footsteps, as long as it meant an honorable end.
Even her ram, poor old Vuk, had done his duty to the end. She shuddered, scarcely able to distinguish his remains from the rest of the flock. The image of the pen haunted her now, resolving into a clear memory for the first time since she woke up in that pit of death.
“I won’t let it end like this,” she said. “Not for them, not for me.”
“You hear that, Zora?” Zora perked up slightly, her tired eyes meeting Ika’s with a glimmer of recognition.
“Well, if we’re going to do this, we’ll need food, our travel kit, and a plan,” Ika said. She suddenly realized neither of them had eaten since the attack. Scrambling to her feet, she felt a gush of energy, like a doting mother.
“That hare got away from us,” she said with a laugh, the humor she barely mustered feeling hollow out loud. Going back into the pen would be like stepping into a nightmare, but it was all she could think to do. Zora normally hunted for her own food—aside from the tallow and the beans Ika sometimes made—but now Ika had no choice but to provide for them both.
Ika calculated quickly in her head. Fifteen dead sheep—she could probably harvest around 200 kilos of meat before it went bad. If she prepared it all and baked it into pemican, it would preserve for months. Even if she didn’t return from Praxis shortly, the trip on foot was only a day as far as she recalled. If she could miraculously avoid snapping her femur on a fall...or being gored by a wild boar or hounded by a pack of dogs or worse, well, she’d have enough food for the trip and back, and more importantly, enough to sustain Zora while she was away.
She bent down and kissed Zora on the nose, scratching her ears gently. Zora responded with a slight wag of her tail and a soft whine.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Ika said. “We’ll get through this.”
Zora would survive, Ika knew. She would hobble along in the splint she planned to make for her and feed off the pemican until she got back, even if it took a month. She’d have to separate the food and store it in clay pots, hide them throughout the cottage and perhaps outside. Tornjaks were prone to anxiety in isolation, and Ika knew that Zora would savage her food supply all at once when she realized her master had abandoned her. A layer of olive oil lining each lid would be enough to hide the scent from the wild animals...
“Oh, this is all so sudden,” Ika muttered to herself. “What has my life come to?” The enormity of what she was boldly imagining overwhelmed her—the half-baked and foolish idea of bringing the fight back to the monsters that had just ruined her life. Without weapons or a real plan, she almost felt young again, thinking she could hobble it together as she went along. But she was old now. So very old.
“I can’t do this.” She let out a long sob but covered her face with her coat as soon as it came. She rushed out the cottage door, pulling it hard closed behind her. She just hoped Zora didn’t hear her, didn’t sense her despair.
Ika fell to her knees and looked up at the bright and blue starry night, the moons hanging lazily above. Clutching her rosary, hands trembling and tears streaming down her face, she whispered, “Show me a sign.” She prayed to Jesus and asked for intercession—she asked Saint Francis to help Zora, Saint Jude to intervene in this desperate situation.
“Please,” she begged. “Help me find a way.”
The night was silent. Her ragged breaths and the distant lapping of waves against the rocky shore filled the space around her. For a long moment, Ika let the quiet hold her, her thoughts drifting between fatigue and lingering fear.
Then a low hum, followed by an electrical crackle, reached her ears from the pen. Ika’s heart skipped a beat. What could that be? Are the drones returning? Please, God, no, we have only just begun to make sense of this all. But no, it didn’t sound like them. The drones had a more mechanical whirr. It couldn’t be the cicadas; it was nighttime.
She squinted into the darkness, straining to find the source of the sound. Her breath caught when a faint glow appeared just outside the sheep’s pen. The light pierced the twilight, reminding her how little time she’d had. When had she woken up? It must have been very late in the afternoon when she did—time had slipped away.
She rose to her feet and crept toward the light, each step feeling like an eternity. The hum grew louder, mingling with her pounding heartbeat.
She heard it again—a faint crackle. At the foot of the blasted-open gate to the pen was her rifle, the microwave emitter still attached, giving off a faint pearly glow from its interface. It hadn’t powered off; there must have been some lingering battery life. Then, a pop, and sparks flew off it.
What on Earth?
She heard static, then something like voices underwater. Fluctuations in the electrical signal, a high-pitched whine that faded as the sound of a man’s voice took over.
A man? She was bewildered. It sounded like one of those audio streams of oldies playing softly, far away in another room. Far away in another life...
It was her radio! Her radio!
Stunned and surprised all at once, Ika turned around as fast as she could and rushed back toward the cottage. When she got inside, Zora’s ears were perked up, and her head was turned to the old radio in the corner, covered in white linen. Ika rushed up to it, pulled off the cloth, and straightened the antennas, holding the box with both hands.
“It’s a sign! It’s a sign!” she said to Zora. “God is listening.”
The voice became clearer: “This is Dr. Lev Rozhkov, the sole survivor of Praxis. It was a massacre.”
The message continued: “We had been in lockdown when the system failed. There was a rebellion...when our ASI threatened to escape containment. I’ve managed to curtail it—for now. If anyone, anyone at all is alive... I’m trapped inside. I wouldn’t mind getting out...”
His voice sounded desperate, if not a little resigned to the fact that even if anyone was out there they probably didn’t have the technical wherewithal to help him with his problem. But Ika recognized a lost soul when she heard one and she’d be damned if she’d let another lone survivor die on his own.
Besides, she decided that this was not the hill she was going to die on. She looked at Zora and then back at the radio. “We’re not alone,” she said. “And we’re going to help him.”
Ika glanced around her kitchen, which spanned one side of the cottage, its shelves lined with jars and bundles of dried herbs. Cast iron pots hung above the stone countertop, a small wood-burning stove nestled in the far corner. Her mind flipped through ingredients like a well-worn recipe book. “Tallow, lots of tallow,” she said. “And meat, some rosemary, thyme, and maybe a bit of sage to lend an earthy kick. Dried cranberries for a touch of sweetness... It’s about time we cooked!”
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