MVP* by Douglas Evans

Author:Douglas Evans
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Astra Publishing House

“I believe I can help,” Shypoke said. “I need to sail Moominpappa to the Russian coast tomorrow. I have business there. You and Meredith can be my crew. A Russian friend will drive you to Moscow.”

“Kiitos,” I said. “It’s like Meredith said—whenever things go bad on this journey, something happens to keep me going.”

“Adventures are like that,” said Shypoke Crisp. “The day can be gray and cold. Then the sun shines, and all is well again.”

Suddenly the man let out a yelp and charged out of the sauna. Through the open door I saw him sprint down the dock and leap into the rough, frigid sea.

I settled for washing myself with a bucket of water. As I stood in front of the sauna putting on my pants, I watched Shypoke Crisp swim far from shore. The wind blew stiff and steady. The sky was like a chalky blackboard.

I turned to collect my towel from a peg on the sauna wall. That’s when I saw it. Stuck in the door was a feathered dart.

“Who are those lads out there?” Shypoke Crisp asked.

“Stoppers,” I said. “They’re not supposed to be part of the game.”

“They must be miserable out in the cold rain,” Shypoke said.

“A producer has hired ninety-nine of them to delay game players by putting them to sleep,” I said. “I can’t guess how they got to this cabin.”

Shypoke and I sat before a crackling fire inside the cottage. The door was locked. The white curtains were drawn across the windows.

“Better ease up on the blueberry juice,” Shypoke said. “There’ll be no trips to the outhouse tonight.”

Shypoke Crisp had given me the hot beverage after I had summoned him from his swim. Blueberries grew all around the cottage. I had been guzzling the delicious drink.

Night had fallen, and the storm raged outside. I peered through a crack in the curtains. Whenever lightning flashed, I saw them, maybe twenty figures, standing among the birch trees. Each wore red sweatpants, red sneakers, and a red sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Each sweatshirt had a large white number on the back. Stopper number 18 stood by Shypoke’s truck, leaning on his long blowgun like a walking stick. Numbers 88 and 37 stood together by the outhouse. Number 11 stood on the dock by Shypoke’s boat.

“The stoppers have surrounded the cottage,” I said. “They’re waiting for us to leave.”

Shypoke Crisp held a finger to his lips.

Tap, tap, tap.

Footsteps sounded from the ceiling.

“They won’t be able to enter my cottage,” the fisherman whispered. “I built it for the Finnish winter. I come here when it’s almost buried in snow. I must cut a hole in the ice for my sauna swim.”

Meredith stirred on the bed. She whimpered and murmured goofy words.

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