This story is an entry to 
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"СКБ Прогресс". Space Missile Center Progress.
The writing stood out on the roof of the latrine, indelible against the cobalt blue metal, sparkling under the dirty white sky of a first spring attempt.
Gennadiy waited impatiently, hopping from leg to leg in the mud and throwing stones at the door of the makeshift bathroom.
Not far away, Drogol pointed to a litter of kittens wagging his tail, the snorting nose pressed between the mesh of the net surrounding one of the last houses before the forest. From his sharp eyes and outstretched ears, a curiosity shone halfway between the festive and the ferocious.
"Stop it with these stones, Genna, or there's no deal."
The Siberian husky slipped off his nose from the net, the time to direct a dry bark in the direction of the voice filtered by the rotten wooden boards.
"Even Drogol is annoyed with your complaining, Anton. The sun sets quickly." Gennadiy said, throwing another stone with a theatrical gesture as if he were casting a dark curse. The dirty pebble ended up right in the crack above the door.
"You're a bastard, Genna. Forget me leaving this pisshole”.
Perhaps, it was better to leave him in peace, free to concentrate. It was not only the hours of daylight but also their fathers, who in a few hours would be home with the day's loot and would certainly have wanted to find them ready to help with the recovered material. The boy stared at the makeshift latrine with the mark of the nearby Pleseck's cosmodrome: a missile and a satellite with its orbit in evidence stood out against the blue background and the white silhouette of a planet.
That symbol often appeared in the most unthinkable places of Dolgoščelę, an insignificant village in the Russian region of Mezen, a stone throw away from the Arctic circle. It seemed as if over the years millions of spores from the nearby cosmodrome had taken root and proliferated among the simple urban elements of that group of houses between tundra and sea.
From the time of the cold war, when the launch program intensified, for the population of the region to recover the pieces of the rockets embedded in the snow became an essential second job. One that, eventually, could replace the traditional activities of hunting and fishing and grant those poor families better odds against the sublime yet sharp immensity of nature. Sifting through the snow of the tundra in winter was easier than in summer when even the streets flooded and boats built with rocket shells came back to use after the seasonal dormancy.
Recovered metals such as gold and titanium could be sold to Arcangelo's black market. The activity ended up involving all family members, each with a task in an efficient recycling chain.
The door of the latrine opened wide. Anton, the son of the country's pastor and Gennadiy's inseparable friend, now stood out against the shining metal like a war hero."
Anton, if they discover us because of your endless shitting, I swear this time your bike is mine."
"Stop worrying and think, instead, of their faces in front of our loot," replied Anton with a seraphic expression.
"East, beyond the lake. Where the caribous' footprints stop," said Gennadiy absorbed, his mind already gliding on the untouched expanse of snow of that spot deep in the forest.
"Aha. Today we go hunting for the wrong pieces," Anton urged hinting a smile.
Both friends nodded solemnly before answering to the tundra's call.
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“We would have been halfway already if we hadn’t stopped to rekindle your shitting skills,” Genna was hoping his words pierced Anton hard from the wrong side and shut that hole forever.
“I like to travel light,” Anton said with a smirk.
The forest though was a new foray and realization dawned on the two friends that rants about conquering the forest were not the same as doing it. The manly air that both friends wielded soon started to melt like a shell of wax and the cold weather could do nothing to stop it. The mutt’s raised ear did not instil confidence either.
“No turning back, Genna.”
“Zip it.”
The dark and desolate forest that they had seen so many times before appeared sinister today, most certainly hiding something nefarious within its bosom. It was as if the forest had learned of their plans and put up a monstrous mask to kill the boys’ spirits in its entirety. It seemed to have worked.
“Some other time?”
“Sure, Genna,” Anton turned back, visibly relieved.
Just when the boys’ bravado had bowed to reality, Dragol had other plans. The mutt barked and shot into the woods.
“No, Dragol, no,” Genna yelled. Now they had to follow.
“That stupid dog.”
“Anton, keep it down. We don’t know what Dragol saw.”
Anton sensed the gravity of the situation from Genna’s quivering tone. The barks were still audible, but the boys’ eyes were yet to dilate enough to handle the transition from the sunlit snow to near dead darkness. And if the horror and their inability to see the horror was not enough, Dragol went silent with a yelp almost as instantly as he bolted into the woods.
“What’s happened?” Anton whispered.
The boys stopped. Their panting was the only noise polluting the trained silence of the woods. They realized their mistake when they turned back and saw only darkness. They had come too far.
“Dragol.. Dragol,” Genna’s calls were just a shy over a whisper.
“I see something,” Anton pointed ahead. They could see silhouettes; more than one. They walked slowly and then the picture became clear.
“Wolves. Shit man,” Anton’s feet refused to cooperate as they witnessed Dragol’s fate. One of the wolves had its canines embedded in Dragol’s throat. The other wolves held the hapless dog down. But there were two more which appeared to keep a watch, and those were the ones unnerving the boys.
“We have to get out,” Genna said. They tiptoed back and hoped that the wolves weren’t looking for more games. The nervous and near-blind steps gathered pace. The intention was to put some distance between the wolves and them, more than finding light and moving towards it.
“Crackkk,” a boulder sliding down was accompanied by something that the boys hated – noise.
“Run,” Anton yelled. Almost at the same time, barks followed. Those were coarser and deeper than Dragols’. The boys already knew the sharp canines and excellent eyesight that would be accompanying those barks.
“Anton, we must be on a slope. That rock slid down. Up there we may see the edge of the forest,” Genna gathered some logic amidst the madness.
No matter how fast the boys ran, the barks grew louder. At the top of the slope, they saw the fading light, but Anton wasn’t sure the wolves would stop at the edge of the forest. Amidst the barks, crackling dried wood pieces, and pounding hearts, a new sound brought hope.
“Tat..tat..tat..tat.,” a Kalashnikov announced its presence. It had the right impact on the right creatures. The barks subsided. The boys bolted out of the forest and came face-to-face with gun-wielding men.
“Papa,” Anton said.
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Anton felt guilty about Dragol’s unnecessary loss.
‘East, beyond the lake. Where the caribous' footprints stop,’ Anton remembered Genna’s words. Now he had reasons to believe that he knew why the caribous’ footprints stopped…
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