The dogs hate it. They’ve never been holed up in a rattling, swaying, windowless wagon. We were barely able to load the animals into the train and I had to postpone my abandon-Katvar plan. While the hunter boy stays with the dogs to keep them from panicking, I walk toward the front of the train, climb out of the first wagon and along the narrow gangway. Steam and smoke block my view as I make my way alongside the tender. I knock at the door of the cab; it’s jerked open a short moment later.
‘Oy! There you are.’
‘Yep,’ I answer and squeeze past the black overalls.
The man who introduced himself as Garth sports two missing teeth and an eyepatch. If I’ve ever pictured a pirate, he would look like Garth the conductor.
In the back, Mischa is whistling and shovelling coal. He’s patiently taught me how to pronounce his name. It’s taken me a while to get the sibilant right — short and soft, the vowels long and soft, a bit like Mee-sha-h. A name that rolls pleasantly off my tongue and doesn’t fit the scrawny crow-like figure with blackened face, hands, and clothes.
‘You wanted to talk to me?’ I ask Garth.
‘Aye! Good and bad news. Good news is, the tracks are free of snow. Bad news is, tracks aren’t free of dumbasses.’
Shit, I still don’t have enough ammo. Cold runs down my spine. ‘Where?’
‘Worst place possible: Moscow. Don’t know how you guys can switch trains under these circumstances, but we are working on it.’
‘Details, please,’ I say.
He shrugs. ‘We kinda saw it coming. The weapons factory in Moscow was bound to be attacked one day or another. I radioed my buddy…’ he taps on a small black box, ‘…and told him what kind of ammo you need. He is trying to…um…organise it for you. Oleg’s buddy is, well, as useless as Oleg right now.’
The little scene yesterday has robbed old Oleg of his illusions. He hates the woman with hair the colour of fire; she’s a nasty bitch is what she is. That’s what he hollered from midnight through sunrise. But he’d promised to come with us and get me my ammo, so he boarded the train this morning. Conspicuous clinking has been coming from his ruck and ever since he drained the first of his bottles, he’s been singing and dozing back in the coal box.
‘Your buddy will try to steal ammo from underneath the BSA’s asses?’ I ask.
‘Aye. Didn’t go into detail, but he has a few friends who are happy to help.’ Garth picks at his teeth and I don’t look too closely at what he’s extracting from between the gaps.
‘Any intel on the BSA forces? Number of men, weapons, locations? Anything?’
He frowns and wags his head. ‘The people there are not…you know, soldiers, warriors. They produce stuff, trade stuff.’
‘Steal stuff.’
He chuckles. ‘Aye.’
‘Can you ask your friend?’
He nods and wipes his fingers on his greasy pants.
‘I’ll go talk to Katvar for a moment. Say, is that exhaust thing very hot?’ I point to where the steam is rising.
‘The steam engine? You can fry food on it. We sometimes do.’ He smacks his lips and grins.
‘Shit.’
‘The problem being?’
‘I need an elevated point with a clear view to fire my rifle from.’
‘Oh, aye! Why don’t you use my dome?’ He points straight up at a dirty, knitted blanket taped to the ceiling. I lift my eyebrows. ‘It’s a curtain,’ he explains and pushes it aside. There’s a small glass dome, and above it, the pink evening sky.
‘That’ll work.’ I tap my knuckles on his shoulder.
Katvar is dozing in a heap of dogs when I enter our wagon. ‘Hey,’ I say softly. Images of his half-frozen body, curled up in furs, face pale like death push into my mind. His eyes crack open when the dogs begin to stir. He smiles at me and my mouth does a funny contraction thing. He is shocked. It’s the first time he’s seen me smile without sarcasm.
I wipe the stupid grin off my face. ‘How much ammo do you have for your rifle?’
He holds up nine fingers.
‘That’s…very little.’
‘We plan to stay hidden, to avoid BSA territory until we reach Svalbard,’ he reminds me.
‘Well…’ I sit down on my ass. ‘We’ll run into them approximately two hours after nightfall, just before we are due to switch trains. I only have eighteen bullets for my rifle and twenty-two for my pistol.’
‘I have fifteen arrows. Plus the dozen Birket gave you.’
I bury my head in my hands and try not to laugh. His rifle is a shitty old thing. I doubt he can hit a man from a distance of fifty metres. And his bow? He might as well use that for firewood.
I groan and pull myself together. I’ve functioned well enough under worse circumstances.
‘I’ll talk to Garth. Don’t worry, I’ve got this. Keep your head down and the door locked when night falls. If the train slows down or even stops, keep your weapons ready.’
He gifts me his darkest expression as I leave for the cab.
Garth is still on the radio when I walk in. He speaks a mix of English and what I think must be Russian. I wait until he switches off the radio.
He inhales and grunts. ‘The BSA is about a hundred to a hundred fifty men strong. They’ve rolled in several heavy machine guns and three rocket launchers. They’ve used explosives to get over the walls of the factory. They now control the supply of energy and drinking water to break the people. They’ll need them to work the factory and to keep up the deliveries of steel, food, and whatnot. In less than two days, the BSA have taken control and established a base camp.’
‘They are getting better at it,’ I mutter. ‘How many can we expect to show up when our train rolls in?’
‘They don’t know we’re coming, so maybe a handful? I don’t know. My buddy said most of them are inside the factory now with about twenty men patrolling the perimeter.’
‘Where do they keep the heavy weapons?’ I ask.
‘At the factory. All the men are armed. Semiautomatics, pistols, knives, hand grenades.’
I look up at the dome, pull down the short ladder and climb in. The view is perfectly clear. Steam flows along the side of the train and only an occasional wisp trails over the glass window of the dome. The dome’s size is on the tiny side — only my upper body fits in, my legs have to rest on the ladder and the muzzle of my rifle has to stick out of the front window. ‘I’ll have to smash the glass,’ I tell Garth.
‘Hold on,’ he says and throws a few tools around, then hands me a glass cutter. ‘Use this one.’
The tool has a black suction cup and a tiny white crystal fastened to an adjustable metal arm. I measure the diameter of my suppressor and cut a hole into the window that fits my weapon, but only just. Then I slap my forehead. With the window blocking my scope, my night-eye is worth shit. So I cut a much larger hole. The wind blasts in my face, but I can now see the glaringly white heat signature of the steam dome ahead, the piping and engine.
The disappearing sun paints the clouds violet. ‘Garth?’
‘Aye?’
‘Can we switch trains somewhere else?’
‘Oh, sure. Buddy and me already talked about it. As soon as it’s dark, he’ll move his train some fifty kilometres northeast of the city.’
‘Why can’t this one go to Syktyvkar?’ I ask.
‘Not enough coal and water.’
I climb down from my vantage point, drink from my canteen, stretch my neck, and close my eyes. With any luck, they won’t be able to move their heavy weaponry in time. With any luck, the train tracks are too far away from the BSA’s rocket launcher. But something tells me that a weapons factory needs deliveries of steel and other heavy stuff. And those are usually delivered by train.
‘Do you know the precise location of the BSA and factory?’
‘’Course I do.’ He pulls at a drawer and rifles through papers, then peeks behind all kinds of measuring devices fastened to the walls, and finally finds a stack of maps in a tattered bag underneath an even more tattered coat that hangs off a broken pipe.
‘There.’ He slams his finger on the map.
I have to squint to find what’s what on the faded paper. ‘The train tracks split up here, here, and here.’ My index finger trails over black lines. ‘Which way is our train going?’
Garth answers by poking his pinky at a line that’s half a kilometre from the factory.
‘Okay, this can work. I was worried we would take that route.’ I indicate the tracks that pass right by the factory.
‘No, that’s the supply route and a dead end.’ He looks up through the windows. ‘Moscow should be visible soon,’ he says quietly, as if the enemy were in earshot.
‘Tell Mischa to fire up the engine; I need us to blast through this shit as quickly as possible.’
Garth nods and hollers a command at his colleague. I take my position in the dome. My scope shows me the city at the far horizon.
‘Lights off,’ I tell Garth.
The metal tracks disappear in the blackness. Far ahead, one small light gleams in my scope’s night-eye — it must be the factory. My breathing is calm. The landscape before me is painted in shades of grey and green. The automatic image amplification compensates for the white hot engine just in front of me. Within seconds, it’s muffled to a dull, flat grey.
‘Tracks are free,’ I say softly. ‘When I tell you to get down, you don’t ask questions. How bulletproof is the engine?’
‘Pretty okay so as long as no one fires a rocket at us.’
‘Good.’
Silence and darkness. My senses are wide open. A faint clattering reaches my ears. ‘What’s that?’ I ask and the next moment the cab door opens and a draft ruffles my short hair. I pull my hood over my head.
‘Our mute friend,’ Garth says, somewhat amused.
I look down and see the dark outline of Katvar holding his rifle and his longbow, the quiver on his back is full of arrows.
I growl in frustration. ‘We are not hunting rabbit here, Katvar. Get back with the dogs and keep your head down.’
He lifts his head slowly. And then he holds up his right hand, his middle finger erect.
‘Fuck you, too,’ I say and focus on my job.
The thought of my low ammo reserves gives me a headache. When I escaped from headquarters, I could only pilfer two boxes with twenty rounds each. Now, I regret using some of my limited ammo for target practice and hunting.
Fifteen rounds are now in my left arm strap, one is in the chamber of my rifle, and the remaining two are in my breast pocket. I can’t win a battle with this, but I might be able to scare off a handful of men. Ahead of me are more than a hundred well-armed soldiers. On my side are three men — not counting drunk Oleg in Mischa’s coal box — and none of them are a good shot as far as I can tell. And even if they were, their ancient collection of weapons is laughable.
‘We have to take it slow here,’ Garth says and I can feel the pull of inertia.
The train slows. A bridge appears — an outdated construction of metal and concrete. The small, red numbers in my scope tell me that the bridge stretches over two hundred metres. The river is a broad, lazy mass of slush. My stomach churns. I don’t trust this bridge, it looks far too tattered and its metal arches provide too many hideouts for sharpshooters.
‘Heads down!’ I warn and scan the entire construction through my night-eye. There’s nothing but icicles and a bunch of dozing, fluffed-up crows. I inhale a slow breath. We cross the bridge at a snail’s pace. The screeching and groaning send shivers over my skin. I try not to think of drowning in the icy water below. As we reach solid ground, I exhale.
‘Is this the only bridge here?’ I ask.
‘Aye. Speeding up now.’
Buildings rise up left and right of the track. They look like decomposing molars — their roofs are crumbling, their walls blackened by naked vines, aged lichen, and soot. Between them, in what once were streets, grow tall trees without foliage, their branches clawing one another. Grey snow covers everything. The wind sings between abandoned houses.
The buildings creep me out — too many potential hiding spots for the enemy and only one escape route for us: forward.
I focus on what lies ahead: the metal tracks, the city centre. The factory is hidden behind the numerous buildings. Occasional movements draw my eyes into the maze of concrete claimed by wilderness. People are running parallel to us, keeping a distance of approximately one hundred metres. The hairs on my neck rise. Their silhouettes speak of danger — hunched posture, packs on their backs, muzzles pointing to the ground.
‘Armed men at three o’clock,’ I say. ‘Speed this machine up, Garth!’
We move around a gentle bend and then I see it: a bulky black mass eight hundred fifty metres ahead of us, right in the middle of the tracks.
‘They know we’re coming. Artillery at twelve o’clock! Full speed now!’ I hiss at Garth, lower my eye back to the scope, and exhale. Six men, one heavy machine gun. Inhale, hold, curl fingers. The machine gunner falls and is quickly replaced by the man at his side. The muzzle flashes of the machine gun interfere with my night-eye, half blinding me. Bullets ricochet off the steam engine.
Breathe. Focus on the target. Shut off distractions.
I slip in another round and squeeze it off. After the third man is down, muzzle reports come from nine o’clock and twelve o’clock. ‘Stay flat on the floor!’ I shout and fire.
My prickling skin reminds me that I’m in an extremely vulnerable position. I’m right atop a train — easy target for anyone with half-decent shooting skills. There are at least five men with rifles firing at me from the buildings to my right.
A hole is punched into the window. I feel a dull impact on the right side of my hood and shoulder. Time slows. I take out the last of the men ahead of us, then shout, ‘Can’t this fat bitch go faster?’
My voice sounds odd. Kind of hollow.
‘She’s heavy, she needs a little encouraging.’ Garth grunts and huffs, muttering a lot of fucks and shits.
I scan the perimeter. Lights are flickering in the streets and in a building ahead of us. I punch the stock of the rifle through the window and take the rest of the glass out. The cold air sharpens my senses. More shots are fired — tziiinks of bullets against the engine’s steel skin, the booms of muzzle reports follow.
Then a crash and I’m jerked forward.
‘That was the machine gun,’ Garth hollers through the screeching. A moment later, the noise ceases. ‘Okay, she pushed it aside.’
The train speeds up again and the wind slaps my face harder than before. I gaze down, about to shout at the men to shut the door because the draft is too strong.
And there stands Katvar, held at the back of his coat by Garth. He moves like water — drawing the string and letting go of the arrow. Fluid and focussed, back and forth.
I blink and check what he’s shooting at, but I can’t see anything from where I stand. I hear the cries of pain, though. And finally I get it — he’s not shooting at men in the streets, but at men who managed to climb aboard the train.
At once, I smash the back window of the dome and point my weapon at the top of the train. They are in full view and fall like flies. And just when I think we are winning, my ammunition is gone.
I pull my pistol and keep firing until I hear empty clicks. ‘Katvar!’ I holler and slide down the ladder.
He has a wild look on his face when he turns to me.
I point up. ‘Two. Very close.’
He’s up there in a flash. He can’t draw the bow all the way, because the space in the dome is too limited, but he takes the men down with two precise shots.
‘Get down,’ I bark when he gives me a thumbs up. He slides off the ladder and I jump up on it to scan the perimeter. No human heat signature in my night-eye. Not ahead of us, not on either side of us or at our back. The silence hurts my head. Did we get them all? Is it over already?
I take my time to make sure we are alone. The distance from Moscow grows. Feeling strangely calm and whole, I step off the ladder.
‘You are quite the rabbit hunter.’ I huff.
Katvar’s eyes grow big and he takes swift steps toward me. His fingers pick at my hood. ‘Blood,’ he signs.
I touch the side of my face, my hand comes away wet and sticky. My fingers don’t tremble. I feel great. ‘A scratch.’
He shakes his head and gestures, ‘Sit.’
I obey and he kneels down next to me, points to the lantern and to Garth, and, when the light flickers on and fills the cab, he lowers my hood, opens my coat and moves it off my shoulder.
‘Shards,’ he signs. ‘I’ll pick them out of your skin.’
A cup appears. ‘Home-brewed,’ says Garth.
I sniff. Sharp. ‘Thanks, but I puke every time I drink alcohol.’
‘So you drink like a girl and kill like a man?’ Chuckling, he holds his belly. Mischa, who has now joined us, chimes in.
I look at everyone in the room. ‘Considering that the only professional killer here is a girl, and that the only drunk person is male and lies unconscious in the coal box and two other men didn’t snap a single shot at anyone, while the rabbit hunter did an awesome job protecting us, I wager that I kill like a girl and drink like a girl.’
A hoarse chuckle pulls my gaze to Katvar.
‘Shut up,’ I say and grin. ‘Garth, give him the first aid kit, if you have one. And the booze. We need a disinfectant.’
———
Garth’s buddy calls himself Pip. He doesn’t look like a pip, though. He’s a hunk of a man and I can’t keep my eyes off the hairy knees that peek out from underneath coarse, woollen shorts and above a pair of pink rubber boots.
Pip’s train looks just like Garth’s — a rusty thing that appears ready to fall apart with every cloud of steam it burps. They call it “camouflage.”
I’d asked Garth why he’s not armed, because that’s something I don’t get at all — unarmed people.
‘I’m a simple conductor,’ he’d said and smiled an innocent smile. ‘When the BSA comes searching my Matryoshka, they don’t find anything they want to have. No weapons, no pretty train, no nothing.’ He pointed at the broken pipe with the coat hanging from it. ‘Fake piping. I found it somewhere and put it up for…decoration. Pip and me, we hide our fat Matryoshkas in full sight.’ And then he laughed.
Pip has the same laugh as Garth’s. He laughs at everything and everyone. When he chuckled at Katvar’s hand signs, I was ready to punch his broad face. But then he signed back and that surprised both Katvar and me.
The sign language he uses is very different to what I’m learning, but close enough to lead to confusions and mix-ups that send Pip into recurring bouts of amusement.
Oleg — still nursing a bottle of something that smells like petroleum — bade his farewell when we changed trains. He made good on his promise and, together with the ammo Garth and his buddy “organised,” I’m now one hundred sixty bullets richer. Katvar has to wait until we reach Syktyvkar to barter pots for arrows. We might even trade his rifle, because he trusts the accuracy of his bow more than the rusty old thing from way back when.
The dogs still hate trains. They’ll have to deal with three more days of being cooped up in a wagon. At least they have straw to sleep on and the remaining half of a moose to eat. They’ll be fat and eager to run once we arrive in Syktyvkar.
Since we defeated the BSA in Moscow and boarded our second train, I feel as if nothing can stop me. I will not think about the sea ice yet. The people of the north will tell us how to cross it, Katvar said.
I wonder where Sari is and if she’s returned safely to her people. When I look at Katvar, I wrack my brain on how to best send him back home. Sometimes I wish he weren’t brave and proud. It would be much easier to get rid of him. Just being the asshole I am plus the danger that lies ahead would be enough to repel anyone with a healthy survival instinct. But he seems to believe I have a soft core.
Naiveté doesn’t suit him.