Chapter 8: The Room Across the Corridor

Molotov woke up and immediately knew something was wrong. It was past midday and eerily quite, plus something in the air tasted uncanny. There was no way to describe it but it was there nonetheless. Had he really been asleep all that time?

He made himself get up, pulling on his dressing gown as the morning frost greeted him with its obligatory chill. In the hall, he found a several sets of semi-dry footprint smudged muddily into the carpet. They seemed to be heading across the corridor. Towards Joseph's room...

Molotov took a deep breath, trying his hardest not to catastrophise. There had to be an innocuous explanation for this! Surely Stalin would have called him if there had been a problem in the night?  After all, he, Molotov, was the one he trusted most. His closest comrade...

'Joseph! Did you have a rave in a field last night?' Molotov called good-naturedly, tapping gently on the handsome leader's door. 'Wake up! It's past 12...'

Nothing.

'I'm going to come in. Ok?'

He counted to ten for a response before gently nudging the door open.

Molotov's heart skipped multiple beats. Joseph was lying on the floor. He wasn't moving...