Fallible Template

Your legs burn. The canvas bag digs into your shoulder, and you've got the smaller items pressed against your chest with one arm. The footsteps behind you echo off the rocks. Five people.

You turn forward again, you slam into something that gives way. Your feet go out from under you and suddenly there's nothing but air. You forgot about the cliff.

The impact doesn't come. You sink into something cold and thick that smells of earth after rain. Above you is the sky. Below, a mass of green that shifts and ripples.

You scramble backward. The thing pulls itself upward. Two legs, a torso, arms, something that suggests a head. A protrusion where a snout would be. It stands there, tilting its head.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat.

The footsteps above have stopped. You need to move.

You gather the scattered items. One bottle rolled into the snow. Two seed packets are wet but intact. The thing watches, its head following your movements. When you start walking, it follows.

You stop. It stops.

You wave your hand in a shooing motion. It tilts its head the other direction. You turn and keep walking. Something moving through snow follows behind you, three meters back, its body flowing across the ground. Every few steps, parts of it lose cohesion before pulling back together.

The sun is low. You're still an hour from the kolkhoz. The thing keeps up without effort.

When you reach the old fence line, your hands are numb. Five buildings, one livable. The main administrative building lost its roof in the winter of '92. The dormitory has a collapsed wall. The equipment shed was stripped years ago.

You head for the smaller storage building, the one you've been living in since last spring. The only one with a door that closes and a stove that works.

The kolkhoz was called Red Star. You'd worked here six years before the collapse. The pay was never good, three hundred rubles a month, but it was steady. You had a bed, meals, a routine.

Then the Soviet Union dissolved in December '91. Red Star dissolved with it.

There was supposed to be a process. Privatization vouchers, legal documents, official procedures. The director kept saying the paperwork would come through. He disappeared one night in early '92. The local administrator took what he could sell and left. The tractors went first. Then the livestock. Then anything metal.

When spring arrives, three families remained. By summer, just you.

The first time you stole was a loaf of bread from the state bakery in Chadan, the district town forty kilometers north. August of '92. Your hands shook the entire walk back. The bread cost eight thousand rubles that week. The week before, three thousand. Your savings couldn't buy a month of food anymore.

Now you plan routes, watch patrol patterns, memorize which shops have the least security. You take what you need. Never more than you can carry. Never the same place twice in a row.

You push open the door to the storage building. The wood is swollen, warped, and you have to put your shoulder into it. Inside, the wind stops.

You dump your bag on the floor and turn to close the door. The thing is standing right there.

---

You try to push the door closed. Its body compresses against the wood without resisting or yielding. You stop pushing. It re-expands.

You make a pushing gesture with both hands. It mimics the gesture back at you. You point at it, then point outside. It points at you, then at the inside of the building.

You turn away and start unpacking. Seeds on the shelf. Rations near the stove. Bottles set aside to refill from melted snow.

When you look back, the thing is inside. Standing in the corner near the door, perfectly still.

Your hand goes to the knife at your belt. The thing doesn't react. You wait. You slowly remove your hand. The thing remains motionless.

You get the stove going. Half a pile of wood left, enough for a week if you're careful. The warmth fills the small space. You pull off your gloves and hold your hands near the heat.

The thing moves toward the stove. Stops about a meter away. Holds its approximation of hands near the heat in the same posture as yours.

You heat water for tea. When it's ready, you cup the mug and sit on the old mattress in the corner.

The thing watches you drink. Its head follows the mug from your lap to your mouth. It raises its hand to where a mouth would be, mimicking the motion with nothing to drink.

You prepare a ration pack, old military stock from the eighties. Heat it directly in the can. The thing's head turns toward the stove and leans forward.

You eat slowly. The thing watches every movement. When you're done, you look at it, then at the bag with the remaining rations.

It did cushion your fall.

You open a pack and set it on the floor between you. The thing moves forward and crouches. A tendril extends and touches the food. The food sinks in, absorbed. Can and all.

Its shape seems more solid after. The features on its face slightly clearer.

It raises one hand to its head, then lowers it in a small bow. It moves back to its spot by the stove.

You lie down on the mattress. The stove will burn out in a few hours. The thing hasn't moved. You watch it for a while, then let your eyes close.

When you wake in the middle of the night, the fire is out and the room is freezing. The thing is closer than it was. It's changed shape, less humanoid, more of a mound. Heat radiates from it.

You shift closer to the warmth. It doesn't react. Its surface ripples slowly.

---

It's been three days. On the second morning, you pointed at yourself and said your name a few times. Then pointed at it and waited.

It stared at you. Then it moved to the stove, picked up a piece of charcoal, and drew on the metal surface. The number 12.

Twelve.

It's learned other things. When you write words in the ash, it studies them. Yes, no, food, cold. It copies them back, the letters getting steadier each time. When you point at objects and say their names, something in the way it moves makes you think it understands.

The rations are going faster. You're down to two packs. You'll need to go back to Chadan soon, but five people chased you last time.

You're sitting on the mattress with an old history book from the administrative building. Twelve is by the stove, sitting instead of standing. It's started doing that.

You turn a page and stop. A photograph of a military officer, a wolf in a decorated uniform. You hold up the book and point.

Twelve stands and starts to change.

Gray and white fur forms first, then the shape of a muzzle, pointed ears. The body stretches taller. The uniform comes last, the color a shade off, the medals simplified, but recognizable.

You flip to another page. A fox in a simple dress and headscarf. Twelve shifts again, smaller, the uniform dissolving. The face is smoother than it should be, but the proportions are right.

You close the book. Twelve holds the form, then melts back to its usual shape.

You dig through salvaged items in the corner until you find an old military greatcoat, a cap, and boots falling apart. You lay them on the floor. Open the book to the wolf officer. Point at the photograph, then the clothes, then Twelve.

Twelve moves toward the clothes and begins to shift. The transformation is slower, more careful. It picks up the real coat, the cap, the boots, and puts them on.

From a distance, in poor light, it might work.

You mime walking. Then point at Twelve and mime walking beside you.

Twelve takes a step. Stiff at first, then smoother. You watch it cross the small room, each pass more natural.

When it stops, you reach out and adjust the cap on its head. Twelve goes still. You can feel warmth radiating through the surface, the texture wrong, too smooth, but it holds the shape.

Twelve reaches up and touches the cap where you adjusted it.

That night, after you've split a ration between you, Twelve picks up charcoal and draws on the wall. A crude stick figure. Next to it, a smaller blob, then an arrow pointing from the blob to a larger version of itself. It taps the large blob, then taps itself.

A simple box between the figure and the small blob. An X over the figure. A gesture between pushing and running.

Someone. Something small that became Twelve. A container. Separation.

That's all you understand. Maybe that's all Twelve can explain.

You wipe the drawings away with your sleeve. Better not to leave evidence.

---

January 15th, 1993. You take the northern route toward Chadan, skirting the frozen Yenisei. Twelve walks beside you, copying your stride.

The government supply depot sits at the far end of Ulitsa Lenina. Two guards outside. You watch for almost an hour. A truck arrives and leaves. People approach on foot, show papers, get waved through or turned away.

You start walking. Twelve follows, boots crunching at the same rhythm.

The guards notice you at twenty meters. The badger straightens up. The other's hand goes to his rifle.

"Stop there," the badger says.

You stop. Twelve stops a fraction of a second later.

"What's your business?"

You hold out an old requisition form from the kolkhoz office. Dated 1989, mostly blank, but it has official stamps.

The badger looks it over. "This is old."

You glance at Twelve, then at the depot.

The badger studies Twelve. The uniform, the posture. "I haven't seen you before."

Twelve doesn't move.

The badger grunts and hands the paper back. "Make it quick."

Inside, shelves half-empty, boxes stacked haphazardly. A lynx sits at a desk near the entrance, writing in a ledger.

Near the back: military ration packs. Dozens of them.

You start loading your bag. Twelve holds out its arms. You stack rations on them and it holds perfectly still.

"Hey."

The lynx is at the end of the aisle.

"What are you doing back here?"

You point at Twelve, then at the rations. Official business.

"I need authorization for that much."

You reach for the form. She waves it off.

"Not that. His papers." She nods at Twelve.

Twelve reaches into the coat and pulls out a small red booklet with a gold emblem. Military ID, formed from its own mass.

The lynx opens it. You watch her eyes move across the pages. The pages must be blank, or filled with nonsense.

But her expression shifts. Weariness. Or recognition of something she'd rather not see.

"This doesn't have a photo," she says quietly. No challenge left in her voice.

Twelve raises one hand and taps the side of its head, where a temple would be. Lets the hand drop.

She stares. Closes the booklet. Hands it back.

"You're far from your posting."

Twelve takes the booklet and tucks it back into the coat.

She looks at you. At the rations. At her ledger.

"Take what you need. I didn't see you."

She turns and walks back to her desk, her pen moving fast.

You grab more rations, working quickly. The guards don't stop you on the way out.

---

Halfway back, your arms are shaking. You set the bag down. Twelve lowers its load carefully.

You sit on a fallen log. The adrenaline is fading.

Twelve sits down on the snow. After a moment, it reaches up and touches your shoulder.

You sit with that for a moment. Then you stand and keep walking.

---

Over the next week, two more trips. Twelve transforms each time, a bull in work clothes for the fuel depot, a deer in civilian clothing for the market. The process becomes smoother. You learn to read each other's signals.

The second trip goes well. Coal and kerosene acquired. The kerosene cost three American dollars for two liters. You'd found the dollars in the director's desk back in '92, tucked in an envelope. Four total. One left.

The third trip, something changes.

You're at the market, Twelve disguised as the deer, both of you browsing stalls. You're examining seed packets when you hear it.

"That one."

A badger in a police uniform is pointing at Twelve from across the square. He's talking to another officer.

Twelve's hand brushes yours. Then it turns and walks away, normal pace, toward the edge of the market. The officers follow.

You force yourself to stay still. Then you walk in the opposite direction.

Three hours later, Twelve appears at the kolkhoz in its natural form. Parts of its surface are darker. It moves slower than usual.

You heat a ration and place it next to Twelve. It sits without eating for a long time. Then it absorbs the food. The dark patches fade slightly.

You don't make any more trips after that.

---

It starts with headaches. Second day, worse. Third, you can't stand without the room tilting.

February 11th. The fever comes. You've been careful, keeping yourself fed, staying warm. Something got through despite everything.

You spend most of the fourth day on the mattress. When you try to get up for food, your legs shake. Twelve is already moving. It brings a ration over and opens the can. The metal bends under its grip, the lid comes off crooked. It pauses, looking at the damaged can, then at you.

You reach for it. Your hands shake too much. The spoon slips from your fingers twice.

Twelve picks up the spoon. Scoops some food. Holds it toward you.

The spoon touches your teeth first. Twelve adjusts. Each spoonful is more careful than the last.

You lie down. Twelve sits next to the mattress.

---

The fifth day, you can't get up. Everything feels distant. Sounds muffled.

Twelve keeps the stove going. You see it moving in fragments, adding wood, bringing water, holding the cup to your lips. Some spills. Twelve wipes it away with its hand.

A wet cloth on your forehead, pressing gently. When it warms, the cloth goes away. Water wrung out. The cloth returns, cool. Over and over.

When you open your eyes, Twelve is always there.

---

When you wake, there's someone standing over you. A yak in a white coat, broad-shouldered, with short horns. Holding your arm. A sharp pinch, a needle sliding into your skin.

You try to pull away. Your body won't respond. You try to speak. A dry rasp.

The edges blur. The horns, the coat, the hands. Green showing through. The yak's face smooths into something you recognize.

It finishes the injection and pulls the needle out. A bead of blood on your arm. Twelve wipes it away with its thumb.

It sets the syringe down and sits back, watching you.

You stare. Twelve reaches out, touches your forehead. Its hand is cooler than before. It pulls the blanket higher over your chest, tucking the edges around your shoulders.

You close your eyes.

Later, you surface enough to wonder. The clinic in Chadan. Twelve must have gone alone. Forty kilometers through the snow, there and back, while you were unconscious.

Sleep pulls you under before you can move.

---

The fever breaks on the eighth day. You sleep most of the time, waking only when Twelve brings water or food.

It's learned to feed you without spilling. When you can't finish, it sets the can aside without pushing. It stays close, keeping the stove going, rationing the wood.

One morning you try to sit up. Twelve's hand hovers near your back. You manage it on your own. The effort leaves you breathing hard.

You reach for the water cup. Twelve picks it up first and hands it to you, its fingers positioned so you can take it easily.

You try to stand. Your legs shake. Twelve's hand is on your elbow, steadying you. Firm, not tight.

Three steps before you have to sit back down. Twelve lowers you onto the mattress, one hand on your back, one on your elbow.

It sits down right next to you.

---

Two weeks before you can walk outside without resting. Three before you can chop wood for more than a few minutes.

One afternoon during the third week, early March, you wake from a nap to find Twelve gone. You open the door. Cold air hits you.

Twelve is near the administrative building, pulling boards from the equipment shed and carrying them over.

You watch for a few minutes, then go back inside.

Over the next few days, Twelve disappears for short periods. An hour at most. It always comes back and checks on you immediately, touching your forehead, watching your face.

---

March 9th, 1993. You're outside checking the coal supply when you feel hands on your face.

Twelve's hands, covering your eyes from behind. Gentle pressure.

It helps you stand and starts guiding you backward. One step, then another. The ground changes under your boots, from packed snow to wooden boards. The air smells of fresh wood and dust.

Twelve stops you. Presses your shoulders down. You lower yourself onto a chair that creaks under your weight.

Twelve's hands leave. You hear footsteps cross the room. Silence.

A touch on your shoulder. A signal.

You open your eyes.

The administrative building. The collapsed roof has been patched. Boards nailed across the holes, gaps stuffed with cloth and tarp. Broken windows covered. Debris cleared from the center of the room.

A table. Rough wood, uneven legs, solid. It wasn't here before.

On the table, a plate with several pieces of preserved meat arranged in a row. Next to the plate, a small wooden stick with cloth wrapped around the top, burning. On the surface, written in charcoal:

"Happy birthday."

You'd forgotten. Completely forgotten.

Twelve is standing beside the table. Hands clasped in front of it. Waiting.

You picture it transforming into a clerk, walking into the administrative building in Chadan, finding your file from the kolkhoz, learning your birthday. Spending weeks patching the roof, clearing the room, building a table. Rationing the preserved meat.

Twelve picks up another piece of charcoal. Slowly writes below:

"Make a wish."