by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” Pasha said with a nod.
“What about your kids?” she asked, clearly uninterested.
“They’re doing fine, too,” Pasha assured her.
After that, the kids didn’t even want to talk to him; it was like he didn’t exist. It was like his subject didn’t exist. When school let out, Pasha would breathe a sigh of relief and head home. When he had to leave for school, he’d breathe a sigh of relief. He felt his best during the quarter-mile walk from his house to the school building. Sometimes on his way home in the evening, he’d sit down on the bench and pretend he was waiting for a bus. He’d tuck his chin into his collar, sit there, and look at the dark apple orchards with flashes and rumbles beyond them. In the spring the sky is so resonant; everything bounces off it, makes it reverberate, like an empty tanker. “What could I tell them?” Pasha thinks. “What could I teach them besides grammar rules? Everyone has to decide for themselves what to do and who to be with. It’s every man for himself,” Pasha thinks, and wraps his coat even tighter around his shoulders to protect himself against the thick fog, against the twilight encompassing the train station, and against the blasts that are starting up again somewhere behind the high-rises.
“Hey, mister,” says a surly voice. “You still breathin’?”
Pasha springs up, still not fully awake, the sweet taste of sleep and tranquillity lingering in his mouth. Alyosha is standing in front of him: jacket zipped up to his throat, which makes his head somewhat birdlike, and he has bird eyes, too. Vulture eyes. He stands there, his green sneakers pattering in the cold water as he shifts from foot to foot, takes his red hands out of his pockets, blows cold air on them, sniffles, his frozen nose quivering, and looks ahead, the whites of his eyes bloody.
“You comin’, mister?” he asks. “Or you gonna stay here and freeze your butt off? You already paid, so let’s get rolling.”
“Yeah, I’m coming, gimme a sec,” Pasha replies, stands up, and sees that Alyosha isn’t alone.
A group about a dozen strong is plodding along behind him through a fine spray of rain. A woman—around forty, dark, puffy jacket, short skirt, high heels—is out front. Well-dressed, self-confident, nice haircut. You might think she’s walking home from the office. In her regular life, she’s probably a government official who knows how to take bribes. The only thing is, now she’s carrying a large bag from the hardware store on her back, and something’s jingling heavily, something like metal dishes or copper utensils. “Looks like she ransacked a church,” Pasha thinks. Following her are two other women, one very young and the other much older—clearly a mother and daughter—their arms intertwined. The older woman keeps affectionately calling the younger one “Annushka,” but the younger one doesn’t even respond. Annushka speeds up a little, like a runner trying to pull away from her closest competitor as she goes around a bend. Her mom won’t let her, though. She’s hanging on her daughter’s arm like an old winter coat, holding a duffle bag in her free hand. Behind them, a young girl is pushing a stroller. Pasha thinks that she could pass for someone in his class, he could teach her. “But do I really need to teach her anything?” he asks himself. “Seems like she’s doing just fine without me.” The stroller’s packed with clothes and bottles of water—just a big, damp heap, not packed in bags. The local sidewalks have done a number on the wheels. You can tell that the stroller is used often, that it’s simply indispensable around the house. But there’s no child in the picture, and you don’t even want to ask where it is. Next in line is a little woman in a fur coat. The fur coat is all she has—no suitcases, no bags, no bundles. It seems as if that fur coat is her family’s sole valuable possession, so she isn’t taking it off, she’s fused to it. “She looks like a squirrel,” Pasha thinks. Her worn-down shoes stomp through the puddles. The heels are uneven, so from the back it looks like she has two hooves. Behind them an old man’s pressing a teenage girl—either his daughter or granddaughter—against his side, under his down jacket. She’s wearing a gray spring jacket and holding a bloated backpack in her right hand. A self-assured, young blonde woman is walking along behind them, one hand clenching a pack of cigarettes, the other loose on the handle of a wheeled suitcase. She’s wearing sneakers, ripped jeans, and a little orange jacket. If they decide to shoot, they’ll start with her, obviously—she’s the most radiant of them all.
Pasha lets this whole bizarre procession pass and falls in behind them. “This is gonna take a while,” he thinks. “I’ll walk with them as far as the meat-packing plant and then peel off.” The procession walks slowly, as if nobody’s in any rush to get anywhere, as if they all have truckloads of time, a whole train car filled with time—one of the hundreds lurking here in the fog like drowsy animals. Most of them are battered and burned out, some are riddled with holes, but a few are more or less undamaged. They’re waiting for their turn—nobody’ll make it out alive. The procession advances down the platform slowly, stopping and crouching with every bright flash in the evening sky. When the platform ends, Alyosha stops and turns toward the group. Everyone freezes. The teenage girl cranes her neck at her grandpa and asks a question, but he puts a finger against his lips—Be quiet, listen, not now. Alyosha resolutely wipes some snot from his nose and scans the group.
“First, some ground rules,” he says. “Turn off your phones, no smoking.”
“It’s like we’re at the theater,” Pasha thinks.
“Follow me,” Alyosha continues, his tone surly. “Keep it down and keep up. You’re on your own if you get caught.”
“Who the hell am I even listening to?” Pasha thinks. But he doesn’t say anything; they told him to keep quiet, so he keeps quiet.
Alyosha hops off the platform, right into the fog. The woman with the bag waits—is he going to offer her his hand, help her get down? He doesn’t, so she hops down too. The something metal jingles inside the bag. Alyosha hisses threateningly somewhere in the darkness. Then Annushka jumps into the darkness, taking her mom with her. She jumps gracefully; the old lady flies after her like ballast dropping from the basket of a hot-air balloon. The girl with the stroller goes to jump, but then balks. Pasha can’t stand to look at her like that, so he pushes his way to the front, jumps down, takes the stroller, and gives the girl his hand. Once the girl lands on solid ground, she yanks her hand away warily, grabs the stroller, and disappears into the fog. After that, the blonde girl charges toward Pasha and tosses her suitcase down. Pasha catches it, scraping some skin off his hands in the process, and puts it on the ground. Then he catches the blonde girl.
“Watch it,” she advises him coldly, and disappears, too.
After that, Pasha carefully lowers the granddaughter and then reaches up to give her grandpa a hand. His hand is bony and unyielding, the hand of an old teacher at a bad school grabbing a naughty student by the ear. Hoof Lady is the last one remaining on the platform. Pasha extends his hand; she accepts it, steadying herself—her touch is nice, dry, like she’s just left a warm apartment—hops down with surprising finesse, crashes into Pasha, pushes off of him with equal finesse, and tucks her hair back with one quick movement. Her face is wet from the rain, but she’s smiling, like she’s enjoying a nice stroll. Maybe she just doesn’t want to reveal how scared she is.
“What’s with your fingers?” she asks Pasha. “You break your hand?”
“I’m good,” Pasha answers reluctantly.
“All right,” she replies incredulously, turning around and shuffling her worn-down hooves along the railroad gravel.
Pasha glances back at the station one more time. He sees men with rifles stepping out of the building onto the platform. Stocky’s running after them. No camo jacket—clearly, he didn’t have time to put it on. Pasha’s dog is running after them, always getting in the way; he’s holding something in his mouth, something dark, something it’s best not to look at. Pasha doesn’t look.
The gravel crunches under their feet; t
hey see the occasional empty bottle or supermarket bag on the ground; the snow along the tracks was melted away some time ago by the same fire that charred the train cars. Alyosha’s walking like a zombie. With determination, that is. The women can barely keep up. The blonde is having a particularly hard time. She’s dragging her suitcase, which bounces on rocks and flips over repeatedly, dragging it like an anchor, just can’t drop it. Pasha catches up to her and offers to pull it for her, but she recoils from him, accentuating just how terrified she is and thanking him stiffly, even though it would’ve been better if she hadn’t thanked him at all. Pasha stops and lets the rest of the solemn procession pass.
“You get the cold shoulder?” says the one in the fur coat with a laugh, nodding at the blonde woman.
“Yep,” Pasha answers and waits for everyone to get some distance on him before he starts moving again.
At first, everything’s going just fine. Alyosha runs, and everyone runs after him. Alyosha crouches in the wet weeds, and they all crouch down as best they can. Alyosha tells them to shut their traps—who could ignore Alyosha? They quickly leave the side tracks behind, crawl under a tanker (“the power lines are down, don’t get shocked,” Alyosha says), and walk along a corridor of busted and burned train cars. And then the corridor comes to an end, and up by the switch the tracks start heading north. Alyosha veers left, takes a path only he knows, moves through tall, dry cattails, skirts a burned truck, hops over a ditch, and ducks under a crooked concrete wall. Everyone else follows suit. The old man’s panting by this point, his granddaughter, tucked under his warm jacket, is starting to cry, the blonde woman is anxiously twirling her cigarettes, glancing warily at Alyosha. They were ordered not to smoke, so she isn’t lighting up. Hoof Lady takes some pieces of candy out of her pocket and offers the girl one. She pauses mistrustfully, yet eventually accepts it. Hoof Lady tries pushing one on Pasha. Pasha refuses automatically.
“You really don’t want one? Just take it,” Hoof Lady says. “What’s your name? Mine’s Vira.”
Pasha tells her his name but still doesn’t take the piece of candy.
“All right, fine,” Hoof Lady—Vira, that is—says with a laugh and tucks the candy away in her pocket.
“So,” Alyosha says. “Down there, on the bridge, they could start shooting. Walk fast, don’t make any noise. Ready?”
“Need a smoke break first,” says the blonde woman.
“You can smoke when you get home,” Alyosha answers, gets up, and quickly sneaks along the wall.
“Asshole,” she mutters at his back. Alyosha hears her—his shoulders even twitch—but he keeps going, so she has to keep going, too.
The going’s tough. Their shoes keep landing on crushed bricks and rebar. Alyosha pauses sometimes, takes out his phone, cautiously turns on the flashlight, and hops over yet another ditch. At one point the blonde woman can’t take it anymore, sits down on her suitcase, and starts griping about something. The column stops. Alyosha’s standing up ahead in the darkness; he doesn’t circle back. Vira leans in to say something to the blonde woman. Hey now, don’t get all bent out of shape. Vira takes her by the hand and helps her up. C’mon, gotta get going. She nods at Pasha. Quit standing around and help. Pasha picks up her suitcase and feels that it’s empty. He starts dragging it anyway, though, dragging it behind everyone.
A little later, Alyosha slides through a hole in a fence; everyone follows him reluctantly. They plod across an empty lot under a sky that flickers a fiery white. Those lights are somewhere in the east. When they flash, you can see every bush along the nearly imperceptible path. It looks like they’re walking back to the locker room after losing a soccer match. How does their guide know where he’s going? Nobody has a clue. He doesn’t appear to know any better than they do. He stops abruptly at one point. The woman with the bag crashes into him in the darkness, the girl with the stroller crashes into her, and Annushka and the old lady crash into her. Everyone stands, waits.
“Hold on,” Alyosha says. “Quiet. Gimme a sec.”
“We’re lost,” Pasha thinks. He takes off his glasses and cleans them—like that’ll help. The teenage girl slips out from underneath her grandpa’s jacket and puts her backpack on. Vira walks over and starts patting her on the head. The blonde woman can’t take it any longer; she takes out a cigarette, roots around in her jacket pockets, finds her lighter, and flicks it. A small, distinct flame escapes. She tries to catch it with the tip of her cigarette, tries again and again, but can’t.
“Are you out of your mind?!” Alyosha turns around, sees the flame, and darts toward her. “Put it out!” he shouts in a whisper. “Put it out, now!”
A short, piercing whistle comes out of nowhere, then something explodes off to the side, about fifty yards away. Chunks of earth go flying every which way, everyone drops to the grass, the teenage girl screams, her grandpa lets out a shriek, a terrified sigh of sorts. It’s as if he wants to hold all his fear inside but can’t. Everything stands still for several seconds, and then something whistles by and rips up the grass.
“Follow me!” Alyosha yells. “Get moving.”
Everyone gets up and runs across the field, as if this is a game they’re playing. They’re struggling, though. Annushka’s dragging her mom; she’s dangling behind her daughter, trying to keep up. The woman with the bag disappears somewhere up ahead. The old man’s lagging behind, panting, dropping back. Pasha runs up to him, tosses the suitcase aside, picks up the girl, takes the old man by the arm, and begins carrying them. There’s a third blast, somewhere nearby. Pasha thinks he feels a hot breeze grazing his face, but that’s probably the fear talking, just the fear talking. Run away from here, get to a safe place. The sky lights up again; the black silhouette of a building surfaces up ahead. Alyosha’s bitter scream comes out of the fog—over here, god fuckin’ dammit, get over here! Everyone runs toward his voice. In the very back, Pasha’s carrying the girl and the old man. He can feel his knees buckling—he’s nearly spent. “Almost there,” he reassures himself. “C’mon.” The building’s close, very close. There’s another flash, up in the air. Pasha runs forward, carrying the girl and the old man, and reaches a wall. He sees a broken doorway and tumbles through it, his elbow clipping the jamb. He charges inside and crashes onto the floor, still pressing the girl against his side. She lets out a desperate cry, Pasha tries to calm her down, but how can you calm someone down when everyone else is yelling? The old man is lying on the floor, off to the side, groaning. The blonde woman runs, nimbly diving toward the wall.
“Against the wall,” Vira yells. “Against the wall, now!” Everyone bolts into the darkness, sprawls out on the floor, and holds still. One lands very close by, on the other side of the wall. It’s scary when that whistling starts, then things ease up. Basically, it’s scary while you’re listening to that whistle, in that instant. Then you start thinking about what to do, then you don’t have time to be afraid. After that, bursts of automatic gunfire crackle dryly. They aren’t coming any closer, though. “All right, that was the worst of it,” Pasha thinks. He takes off his backpack, places it under his head, takes out his phone, and checks the time. “It’s only five. Feels like New Year’s Eve,” he thinks. “You’re celebrating and celebrating, then you look at the clock and it’s only five. How long am I gonna have to lie here?” The floor’s wet. Pasha immediately feels it on his back, but he’s afraid to lift his head, so he keeps lying there, trying not to think about anything. “Just can’t fall asleep. I won’t ever wake up,” he thinks and falls asleep right away.
He sleeps briefly and anxiously—no dreams, like always, just some pictures on the tips of his sleep, as though somebody’s showing him something, but as soon as he tries to get a closer look, they retreat into the shadows, taking the pictures with them, laughing maliciously, glaring at him from those shadows. “What’s depicted over there?” he thinks. “What is that?” A freshly whitewashed hallway, dark spots showing through, like on a dead person’s skin. A metal staircase is att
ached to the wall; there’s an opening at the top. If you climb up, you get to the roof. There’s a wet stone floor. “No, the wet floor’s here, where I’m lying with my head on my backpack,” Pasha thinks. “What’s up there?” The attic, packed with his old things, is up there. And in the middle of everything are two big suitcases. “I have suitcases in my attic?” Pasha asks himself. “No, I don’t,” he answers his own question. “I don’t.” And he walks over to the suitcases. He walks over, and goes to open one, but a heavy canine scent hits him and he balks. Then the person showing him all this steps away from him into the shadows. C’mon, follow me. You have to see this. You’ll be scared stiff, you’ll be scared numb, but you’ll look at it anyway. C’mon.