Matvei yawned and scratched his neck. For the sixth time that night, he had completed a lonely game of solitaire. He lazily began reshuffling his cards for a seventh game. He wondered how many games he had played. Hundreds by now, surely.

I really shouldn’t have gotten caught, Matvei thought for the thousandth time. Matvei had been sentenced to guard duty at a gulag in Kamchatka in response to disorderly conduct.

Does it even count as a gulag? Matvei thought. Gulags tend to have hordes of oppressed prisoners who work day in and day out. All we have is the one. Was it really necessary for one man to have such security? He isn’t even being punished.

Matvei frowned. The man lived like a king. His cell had been created by combining twelve others, and was carpeted, with furniture and modern lighting. The Prisoner, his only moniker, wore suits and was allowed to make requests to the guards. He habitually requested a walk outside, in the morning and evening. Shipments of special luxuries occasionally arrived for the prisoner, with things like chocolate and reading material inside.

The man lives better than we do, thought Matvei. He dropped his cards on the table. He was falling asleep. A good guard mustn’t fall asleep at his post. Matvei forced himself to stand up, and picked up his rifle. He slung it over his shoulder, and stepped out of the guard tower onto the fortress wall. The gulag used to be a fortress on the north Chinese border, but was now guarding an unimportant mountain pass into Mongolia and had been erased from all records.

Matvei grouped into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette. He lit it, and looked over the compound. Each of the other four guard towers appeared to be occupied, and he spied another guard with a rifle leaning against the far wall, peering into the taiga.

Fyodor, probably thought Matvei. Fyodor enjoyed exploring the outdoors and always volunteered to take the Prisoner on his walks. Matvei hated taking the Prisoner on walks due to the extreme awkwardness of the venture: guards were not permitted to communicate with the Prisoner, who made his requests in writing on small pieces of paper that were always destroyed immediately after reading.

What a pointless load of garbage, Matvei thought.

The cold wind blew harshly over the compound. Matvei felt in his pockets for his gloves, but found none. Looking up, he noticed the guard in the next tower sitting in a chair bent over his desk.

He might have a spare pair, Matvei thought. At least it will give me something to do.

Slouching, Matvei made his way over to the next tower. The fort commander would have his hide for neglecting his post, but what would happen?

Nothing ever happens out here, Matvei thought. Nothing but snow and boredom.

He opened the door of the next guard house.

“Good evening comrade, might I bother you for an extra pair of gloves?” Matvei asked, more respectfully than normal.

The guard was peacefully slumped over the desk.

Matvei laughed. Someone less diligent than he was. That was new.

He nudged the fellow guard, but he did not move. Matvei frowned, and poked him again to no avail. He pulled his comrade up by his shoulder, and the man flopped back limp. His eyes were wide with surprise and glassy, and there was a red stain on his chest.

The cigarette fell from Matvei’s mouth. His hand flew to the emergency alert button under the desk, but when he clicked it, nothing happened. He stooped and looked at its working: wires cut.

He unslung his rifle and crouched, feeling panicked. His shouts were not likely to be heard over the swift winds, but if they could he might attract whomever had killed the other guard.

Matvei looked across to the wall where Fyodor has stood earlier. He was conspicuously absent. Matvei decided to make a break for the next closest guard tower, There he should hopefully find another guard and intact panic button. For precaution, Matvei also racked the bolt on his rifle. He could not hit the broadside of a tractor factory in Stalingrad with his rifle, but he may as well try.

Matvei cast a cautionary glance over the rest of the compound. All of the guard towers and walls were quiet. Usually at least a few other people were visible patrolling about or something.

Just as he prepared to go, a flicker of movement caught his attention. The metal door to the central keep were opening. A man wielding a stubby, ugly weapon emerged, clad all in black. He crept partway across the central yard, and made a hand motion towards the door. Another black-clad emerged, and then two more with another man between them. It was the Prisoner, easily recognizable by his suit. They strode purposefully yet furtively towards the gulag’s exit.

Suddenly, another guard sprung out from behind a stack of lumber in the yard, and opened fire on the suspicious group. Gunfire from the guard tore through the night, as the group leapt for cover.

Encouraged, Matvei lifted his rifle. He had a perfect line of sight.

However, as quickly as the guard had sprung out, one of the black clad men returned fire, and a burst from his weapon silently hushedly silenced the intrepid guard.

Matvei pulled the trigger, and, for maybe the first time in his life, hit his target perfectly. The killer of the other guard fell, oddly graceful.

As Matvei desperately racked the bolt on his weapon for another shot, one of the black-clad figures popped up across the yard. Matvei saw a flash of light from his weapon’s muzzle.