The rain fell in sheets, drumming against the clay runnels and swallowing all sound. Pryna moved first, keeping low against the wet pine logs of the cabins. She pressed herself close to the rough-hewn timber, listening. The rhythmic splash of boots on the muddy path, the low murmur of voices, the occasional clink of metal against uniform — the guards were everywhere. Irsa, surprisingly agile for all her city-bred elegance, sloshed along behind Pryna, her borrowed coat a shapeless sack. Gavril brought up the rear, a looming presence, his movements economical, unnervingly quiet. Pryna glanced back, a flicker of worry in her eyes. Luka. He should be safe in the cabin, bundled in their warmest blankets, dreaming of honey-cakes. But her little brother had a habit of appearing when least expected, a ghost of her own past, a constant reminder of what she had to lose. They skirted the long bunkhouses, their unglazed slots dark. The commune had never finished the flues in the communal dormitories, driving half the youths into patched shacks along the perimeter. “The supply depot,” Pryna whispered, pointing with her chin. The building was a squat, rectangular shape, darker than the night around it, a few stray barrels stacked near its corrugated iron walls. A single kerosene lamp hung from iron wire by the main door, throwing yellow grease across the threshold. Two armed sentries stood beneath the lamp, their oilskin mantles slick and dripping. One stamped his feet, grumbling. The other hunched, pulling his collar tighter against the relentless downpour. It was a miserable watch, and Pryna intended to make it more miserable. Irsa took a deep, shuddering breath. Her face, even in the gloom, looked pale, but her eyes held a strange, brittle resolve. “Right. My cue.” She smoothed her sodden coat, a bizarre gesture of vanity, then stepped clear of the timber wall, directly into the lamp's greasy halo. “Officers!” Irsa’s voice, usually crisp as dry parchment, broke with a high, curdled shrillness. “Officers, an outrage against the Republic! My state certificates! My deposit in the district future!” The guards startled, their rifles lifting slightly. “What in the—who are you?” one barked, his voice rough. Irsa staggered forward, affecting a dramatic, almost theatrical stumble. She clutched at her chest. “I am Irsa Vant! A loyal daughter of the Vesnian Republic! An educated youth, dedicated to the advancement of our collective through diligent labor and, most importantly, through *investment* in the Grand Vesnian Dam! And they’ve been stolen! My state bonds! The very foundation of my belief in our glorious future!” The second guard, younger, scoffed. “Stolen? Who would steal worthless paper?” Irsa gasped, a sound of profound offense. “Worthless paper? Citizen! Are you questioning the integrity of the Vesnian Treasury? The solvency of the basin? Are you implying the paper issued by the Central Commission is anything less than an inviolable pledge?” Her voice rose, shrill and indignant, echoing with the very propaganda she knew they were fed daily. “No, no, I just meant—” the young guard stammered, flustered. “You imply treason!” Irsa shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You imply that our leaders would betray the trust of their people, that the future they promise is a lie! I demand justice! I demand an investigation! Who is the saboteur among us who dares to steal the very symbols of our dedication? Perhaps it is *you*, Comrade, with your defeatist talk of ‘worthless paper’!” Her performance was magnificent, a perfect imitation of the zealous, self-righteous citizens the state cultivated. The older guard, clearly caught between dismissing a hysterical woman and risking an accusation of disloyalty to the state, visibly hesitated. He nudged his younger companion. “Go, report this. Bring Supervisor Yefim. This is… an administrative matter.” The younger guard, relieved to escape Irsa’s furious tirade, nodded quickly and jogged away, his boots splashing loudly. The older guard, however, remained, his rifle still held loosely, his attention fully on the wailing Irsa. As Irsa redoubled her efforts, launching into a passionate monologue about the sacrifices she’d made for her bonds, Pryna and Gavril slipped past the corner of the depot. The rain continued to pour, washing away the mud from their boots, masking their entry. Inside, the depot opened cold and cavernous, smelling of wet burlap and sour grease. Bundles of industrial tarps, thick and heavy, were stacked high. Pryna’s eyes adjusted, sweeping the area. This was exactly what they needed. It would be enough to waterproof a raft, perhaps even two. Her gaze fell on a stack near the back, covered by a larger, heavier sheet. Perfect. It would conceal their activity. Just as Pryna reached for the edge of the tarp, a faint rustle sounded from behind them, near the door. Gavril, who had been pulling out his knife, froze, his body rigid. Pryna turned, her throat going dry. A small, familiar figure, barely visible in the gloom, was trying to squeeze through a gap in the doorframe. Luka. He looked up, his wide, innocent eyes reflecting the faint light from the lantern outside. He had followed them. A guard, alerted by the subtle movement of the door, stepped into the depot, his flashlight beam cutting through the darkness. It landed directly on Luka, who froze like a startled fawn. The guard’s mouth flattened in a sneer. “Well, well. What have we here? A little stowaway out past curfews.” He started to raise his rifle, a slow, deliberate movement that spoke of malicious intent. Before the guard could even fully lift the weapon, Gavril moved. It was a blur of motion, silent and deadly. He launched himself forward, a primal force. His large hand clamped over the guard’s mouth, silencing the shout before it could form. The rifle clattered to the floor, instantly muffled by the thick mud. A flat crack followed as Gavril drove his palm heel hard beneath the guard's chin. The man collapsed limp into the dirt, his torch rolling aside across the floorboards. Gavril dragged him back into the dry dark behind a pyramid of grain crates. Luka, wide-eyed but surprisingly quiet, watched the whole thing. Gavril returned, his gaze sweeping over his brother-in-law, a silent command in his eyes. Luka understood, nodding solemnly. He moved to help Pryna, small but determined, pulling at the edge of a heavy tarp. They worked quickly, unrolling the heavy, black tarps, folding them into manageable bundles. Gavril shouldered the largest, making it look effortless. Pryna and Luka took smaller ones, Irsa, still outside with her theatrical wailing, unaware of the violence that had just unfolded. The rain seemed to intensify, a deafening roar on the corrugated roof. As they slipped along the cedar wall toward the cabin lines, a piercing, mechanical wail tore through the basin. It was the warning siren, a sound they had only ever heard during drills. This time, it vibrated with a genuine, chilling urgency. The rain seemed to pause, suspended in the air, listening. Then, a voice, scraped thin by wire horns mounted to the eaves, bellowed through the dark. “Attention, all hands! Attention! Curfew enforcement is in effect! All hands to quarters! Remain in your assigned berths! Repeat, return to your berths! The spillway sluices… have been opened early!”

Tarps and Treason