Scorpion Winter

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The prisoner Pyotr S. lay awake in the darkness, listening to Lev die. The cell was icy cold. Inside Strafnaja Kolonija Dyevyit, Penal Colony 9, a prison so secret its existence was known to only a handful within the FSB’s headquarters in Moscow, even hardened prisoners accustomed to some of the coldest temperatures on the planet shivered in their sleep. The temperature outside was -51 Celsius, 60 below zero Fahrenheit. The prison was a solitary island in the vast forests of the Siberian taiga, covered with snow; still more snow fell silently through the floodlights on the outer fence.

Pyotr listened to the desperate gasps from the bunk above him as Lev struggled for every breath. Once, after midnight, it got so bad that he thought of killing Lev to get it over with. But if one of the suki bitches told on him, it would mean the beating cells. Pyotr waited.

He heard a harsh grating sound as if Lev were trying to say something, and waited for Lev to exhale, only it never came. Pyotr raised his head and listened intently, ears straining for every sound. Inside the crowded cell with eight men crammed into a space designed for two, there were only the usual snores and muffled coughs. Even Fyedka the Belly-who it was said would eat excrement if you put it in a bowl-and his usual racking cough, was finally still.

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