marching style. Shibnev had his slung off his left shoulder, trigger up,
and Pionka held his like he was about to charge a bunker. Meanwhile,
Gorborukov, the team’s designated driver, was locking up the Kung as he
always did when they might be gone for a while. Under other
circumstances it might have been comical, but in this case it evoked a
different sensation when he said, “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up.”
They didn’t wait for him but headed down the tiger’s limping track; the
right forepaw wasn’t even clearing the snow now. Though the ground was
wide open, they were so used to walking single file that they fell into this
formation out of habit. Trush led the way, breaking trail, followed closely
by Shibnev and Pionka. They were affected—and irritated—by Gitta’s
manic barking and their eyes darted across the clearing and then to the
forest edge, which stood like a dark wall before them.
The sun shone brilliantly on the undisturbed snow; the only shadows
there were those cast by the men themselves—long, even at midday. Gitta
continued darting up the trail and then back to Trush, barking incessantly,
but she gave no clear indication of the tiger’s whereabouts. She didn’t
know. As they walked, the men scanned the clearing, an expanse in which
it would have been difficult to conceal a rabbit, and then they focused
their attention on the forest ahead, which was beginning to look like one
enormous ambush. With the exception of the dog, everything was calm
and nearly still. Behind them, smoke rose lazily from the Kung’s
chimney, drifting off to the north. Gorborukov was still standing there by
the back door, holding his rifle like a broom. In the clearing, the slender
stalks and blades nodded reassuringly, as if everything was unfolding
according to plan. The men had gone about twenty yards when Shibnev,
picking up some kind of ineffable, intuitive cue, calmly said, “Guys, we
should spread out.”
A moment later, the clearing exploded.
The first impact of a tiger attack does not come from the tiger itself,
but from the roar, which, in addition to being loud like a jet, has an eerie
capacity to fill the space around it, leaving one unsure where to look.
From close range, the experience is overwhelming, and has the effect of
separating you from yourself, of scrambling the very neurology that is
ron
(Ron)
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