by Serhiy Zhadan; Reilly Costigan-Humes; Isaac Stackhouse Wheeler
“Which way now?” Pasha asks, once he’s worked up the nerve.
“Straight,” the kid says with a nod. “The road’s straight ahead.”
A field of sunflowers looms up ahead—last year’s ungathered harvest. The dark sunflowers, dried out by the summer heat, look like a scorched forest. Another row of trees is visible beyond the sunflowers. And then there’s the road. Just have to walk through the flowers.
Pasha goes first. The kid follows, as usual. The sunflowers part, whipping their hands. Water flows up their sleeves. “They’re just going to stand there,” Pasha says to himself, thinking about the sunflowers. “Like zombies. Cursed and forgotten. Until somebody plows all this up.”
They keep moving—slowly, but they’re still moving. The sky grows dark, the black mass of the trees bears down on them. Two hundred yards to go, one hundred and fifty, one hundred. Distinct trees gradually appear in the air at dusk, ducking out of the darkness. And meanwhile, military vehicles emerge plainly and translucently from behind the trees—a column of trucks, tanks, and APCs. They roll along leisurely, without beginning or end—the first ones have disappeared around the fork in the road, the last ones are unseen in the evening twilight. They keep going and going, rolling along the half-frozen road. “They’re coming from the south,” Pasha finds himself thinking. “From the national border. The former national border,” he corrects himself. “The former border.”
“There are so many of them,” the kid says, mesmerized.
“Bad timing,” Pasha replies.
“Yep. Could’ve hitched a ride if we’d left half an hour earlier, you know?” he scoffs.
“What are we gonna do? Wait it out?”
One of the trucks suddenly peels away from the column and comes to a halt; three soldiers hop out of the cab. They walk down a hill, go over to the field, and stop. Pasha instantly crouches, pulling the kid down with him. Shh, don’t move. They’re coming. The soldiers wade into the sunflowers, lazily moving in Pasha and the kid’s direction. The distance between them grows shorter; Pasha hears sunflowers snapping underneath them, someone bursting into loud laughter, someone else cutting him off, hears them get quiet, stop, and listen warily to the afternoon silence. They examine the fog, examine the smoke on the horizon, consult each other briefly, turn around, and swiftly head back to the truck. The vehicle sets off, wedges itself into the column, dissolves into it.
“Let’s go back,” Pasha says quietly. “Now.”
And he runs, crouched over, toward the ravine. The kid obediently runs after him.
They get back to the neighborhood after dark, at around six, taking some barely visible paths to the main street. Pasha picks up some hunks of brick along the way in case he needs to fend anyone off. The street’s empty, though; their steps echo resonantly, the city trembles somewhere out there in the dark, like a tormented man in his sleep. The earth’s slightly frozen; breathing in the cold air is painful but nice. “We’ll warm up at the orphanage,” Pasha thinks. “We’ll spend the night and try again tomorrow.”
“You cold?” he asks the kid.
“No,” the kid lies.
“Yeah, right,” Pasha thinks. The cold numbs your hands and face. You want to get to a warm building as quickly as possible, even if it doesn’t have any running water or electricity. Just get out of the cold, warm up.
They pass the well. Even though it’s dark, Pasha spots fresh tracks all around, left by the treads of a heavy vehicle. It’s as though somebody was hanging around here, at the intersection, not knowing which way to go. Pasha tenses up but doesn’t say anything to the kid. They keep walking. The worst part is that the tracks lead straight to the orphanage. The clumps of clay and black mud on the gray wet asphalt are fresh, left recently. Apparently, the kid’s spotted them, too, and he knows what’s going on, but he isn’t saying anything. He’s hiding his head in his shoulders, warming his hands in his pockets, and keeping quiet. Pasha’s been carrying the bat for a while now, tucked under his arm like a baguette. They walk past the wrecked bus stop and get to the orphanage grounds. Going inside is scary; the space between the trees feels particularly empty—step into that emptiness and it’ll suck you in for good. The kid ventures onto the path first. He walks between the wet trunks, his eyes fixed on the twilight at his feet so he doesn’t trip on someone’s severed head. They eventually make it across the grounds to the gate.
“The lock,” the kid says quietly.
“What about it?”
“They busted the lock,” the kid explains.
Pasha takes a closer look. The lock really is busted, but the gate has been shut neatly. The kid takes a step forward.
“Stop,” Pasha says, firmly latching onto his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
They stand there and look straight ahead, not knowing what to do. They see someone approaching—coming out of the darkness from the orphanage, right at them. “The gym teacher,” Pasha thinks. “Going on a water run. He was the one who opened the gate. He’s the only one with a key.” But it’s someone short and unremarkable, a gnome holding a box, coming right at them out of the darkness. Pasha is taken aback. It seems like the gnome is, too. Pasha quickly turns on his phone flashlight; the light from the screen snatches sharp angles and deep cavities out of the darkness for several seconds. Autumn jacket down to his knees—probably someone else’s—track bottoms with white stripes, ragged winter boots. Black hat, heavy face, sliced up by wrinkles. Black circles under his eyes—must have health problems. Clearly has bad breath. Pasha doesn’t want to check, though. The gnome’s holding a bag of pasta. He catches a glimpse of Pasha’s beard, heavy boots, and baseball bat during the several seconds while the screen is on and immediately tenses up. But then he glances at the kid and relaxes again. Oh, good, they’re locals, from the orphanage.
“Where you goin’?” he hisses, his voice low and hoarse.
“Where’s Valera?” Pasha replies. He doesn’t know who this guy is or how to talk to him.
“Who the fuck is Valera?” the gnome hisses anxiously.
“The gym teacher.”
“They took your gym teacher away.” The gnome wants to push his way past, but Pasha won’t step aside, so he has to explain further.
“Where’d they take him?”
“To the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“They stabbed him.”
“Who?”
“Fucked if I know!” The gnome can’t take it anymore. “They just stabbed him. Then they loaded him into a bus and took him to the hospital.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Everyone’s gone,” the gnome mutters nastily. “And you should leave, too. It’s just not safe around here.”
“Where you taking that?” the kid asks, pointing at the pasta.
Pasha wants to ask about the pasta, too, but before he can, the gnome shoves him, squeezes his gut past him, and runs away. Pasha considers darting after him, but the kid restrains him.
“Where you going?” he whispers. “Leave him alone. Let’s get out of here.”
“What do you mean? We have to see what’s going on.”
“There’s nobody in there,” the kid says, his tone insistent. “He just told you.”
“You’re gonna listen to that guy? Maybe someone stuck around. Gotta check it out.”
“There’s nobody in there,” the kid insists.
“What’s wrong?” Pasha asks him.
“Everything’s fine,” the kid answers. “There’s nobody in there. Let’s go.”
“He’s scared,” Pasha figures. “The gnome with the pasta freaked him out. Oh, Lord, what did you expect from him? He’s only thirteen. Obviously he’s scared.”
“Come on, Sasha,” Pasha says in a calm tone, like everything’s just fine. “Maybe someone stuck around. Gotta check it out.”
“What if one of them, one of the locals, is in there?” the kid asks.
“Well, what if Nina’s in there? Or one of the oth
er kids?” Pasha insists. “We can’t just leave without even looking.”
“Well, what if they’re gone? What if they actually took Valera to the hospital?”
“I don’t believe him,” Pasha replies. “I won’t believe it until I see it.”
The kid thinks.
“All right,” he says. “Let’s go. Just be quiet.”
They push the gate, and it opens with a piercing squeak. Pasha hesitates for an instant but then steps inside. The kid follows closely. They pass the main building and approach the gym. Dark, dead quiet, door opens inward. Pasha takes a cautious peek. He turns his phone flashlight on. There are tracks all over the floor—the distinct imprints of army boots and a wide, dirty streak. It’s as if someone’s dragged bags of cement across the gym. Pasha’s already beginning to suspect something is wrong; he quickly walks down the hallway, runs toward the basement, and bursts into the first compartment. Scattered things, rumpled sheets, mats. They packed in a hurry, leaving their clothes and belongings behind—even their toothbrushes are still neatly arranged in a dry cup. Pasha runs over to the third compartment, Sasha’s compartment. The sleeping bag’s gone, the books are still there. They weren’t interested in books. Pasha and the kid run back upstairs, walk over to the cafeteria, go inside, and look around. Dishes all over the floor, trampled metal bowls, bent forks. The corner where the food was—empty.
“Damn, they cleaned everything out,” Pasha says.
“Who did?” the kid asks.
“Well, those guys, the locals. Those bastards.”
“What’d you expect from them?” the kid asks. “They hate Nina. They would’ve burned the place down a long time ago. They were too scared, though.”
“Not anymore, I guess.”
“You got that right,” the kid says. “Pasha!” he calls suddenly.
His voice makes Pasha spring up and come over immediately. The kid’s looking at the corner, and Pasha follows his eyes. Cold stove, overturned chair, trampled newspapers with dried bloodstains on them. And a winter coat. Pasha lifts his phone, shines it ahead. Several barely noticeable bullet holes in the fabric—have to get close to spot them. Pasha walks over and touches the coat. It’s still wet. He counts the holes. Four.
“What’d they do that for?” the kid asks, almost inaudibly.
“I don’t know,” Pasha answers. “Don’t know.”
“Did they kill him?” the kid queries.
“Maybe,” Pasha answers. “Maybe. They don’t have any pity for anyone,” he says, sticking his dead fingers in the punctured fabric. “Anyone at all.”
His heart tightens; he feels his head spinning, his body tipping to one side. He tries to center himself. It feels like this spring—big, cold, steel—has been tightening inside him for the past two days. It’s been tightening this whole time. Every minute, every second. It’s been tightening all the way, to the limit. It’s been tightening, pressing on his chest, not letting him breathe, cutting off his airway. And when he starts to suffocate, when the lack of oxygen numbs his chest, Pasha slowly counts in his head:
ten
nine
eight
seven
six
five
four
three
two
one
that’s it—
and the spring loosens up, squeezing his heart hard. Pasha gasps for air, deeply and abruptly, chokes, doubled over by a violent cough, resting his hands on his knees, struggles to catch his breath, senses that the spring is still loosening up, repelling him, spinning him around, and giving him the energy to keep going.
“Hurry up,” he says to the kid. “Hurry up, let’s go.”
His voice, dry and demanding, surprises the kid; he’s surprised, but he doesn’t object. All right, let’s go. They turn off the flashlight, head outside, slip through the gate, and dissolve into the trees.
“You’re all the same.” Pasha repeats Sasha’s words as he rushes through the darkness. “Everyone’s the same.” At least everyone he knows is. They’re all one and the same. Pasha thinks back to two Septembers ago: the first week of classes, sunny day, still feels like summer, the sun’s lazily drifting over the slate roofs of the Station, chains of train cars, dark red like wet bricks, rolling along behind a row of dry pines. The students are messing around in the flowerbeds in front of the school, cleaning up the grounds, swinging old spades at the robust steppe weeds that have overrun the surrounding area. Off to the side on the athletic field, the younger kids are raking, gathering something up, working away. This is a good chance for the teachers to get some sun. Pasha’s standing in his classroom—the window’s open—taking in the warm air turned slightly bitter by the smoke, and lethargically watching the kids. Vadik, the shop teacher, a friend of Pasha’s you could say, is the guard on yard duty. Workmen’s jeans and a dark dress shirt, anxious and inattentive. He doesn’t like kids and doesn’t really bother hiding it. The kids don’t like him either, and they don’t bother hiding anything. Kids don’t hide anything at all. Compulsory education is designed to break them of that habit. The upperclassmen aren’t doing much of anything, mostly just keeping each other from working—the boys are yelling over each other and the girls are watching it all with poorly concealed admiration. The guys in eleventh grade are hassling Dimka—lives by the train depot, skinny frame, narrow shoulders, yellow unkempt hair. Dimka’s a bad student and a bad dresser. And he doesn’t talk right either. So they’re giving him a hard time, treating him like a punching bag. Much to his credit, he is fighting back, but he’s just kind of going through the motions. He’s yelling and trying to fend them off, but then four or five come after him at once, so he doesn’t stand a chance. Pasha realizes that it’s gone too far. They’ve already taken one of Dimka’s shoes off and now they’re trying to toss it into a sorrowful September maple, but Pasha doesn’t feel like getting involved. After all, the shop teacher’s down there. It’s his responsibility, let him handle it. But the shop teacher is just standing there, his back resting against a tree, smoking inattentively, and watching. And it’s abundantly obvious that he doesn’t care what happens to them. Let them kill each other for all he cares. That’s precisely what they’re doing, actually. They knock Dimka down and start burying him in the flowerbed. The blade of a spade glistens in the sun. “I should step in,” Pasha thinks, but he doesn’t. And Vadik the shop teacher doesn’t step in either. And then the spade strikes Dimka, who’s been buried by this point, right on his skull. The hollow sound of metal on bone is followed by a desperate, overpowering, dizzying wail. Dimka lies in a half-finished grave, furiously smearing blood across his forehead. And blood runs into his eyes, blinding him and mixing with the mud. Only then does the shop teacher dash toward Dimka, throw the upperclassmen off him like they’re little puppies, grab him, and drag him back to a classroom. And then the rest of the teachers flock to the wailing, wounded student. Pasha runs over, too, scurries around, doles out some advice, and keeps getting in everyone’s way.
Then they had parent-teacher conferences. It turned out that Dimka only had one parent. Well, he had two, but his father couldn’t come—he was in prison. His mom came and made a real stink. The students kept quiet, froze her out. At first the teaching staff was freezing her out, too, but then they all started talking at once, first blaming the victim himself, then blaming the upperclassmen, and then they gave Dimka’s mom some flak. You didn’t raise your kid right, didn’t give him enough attention. Pasha wanted to speak up, tell everyone what had actually happened, but he didn’t speak up or tell anyone anything. Instead, he got up, went outside, and had a smoke. The shop teacher followed him.
“That bitch,” he said, clearly referring to Dimka’s mom. He asked Pasha for a cigarette.
“It’s my last one,” Pasha replied.
The shop teacher took that as an invitation, fished Pasha’s last cigarette out of the pack, quickly smoked it, and then went back inside to keep arguing. Pasha quit smoking afte
r that. For good.
That was a year and a half ago. Just a year and a half ago. Tranquil times, things were steady. A year and a half ago, Pasha would go to work and teach private lessons in the evenings and on weekends. He made more than enough to get by. He shopped at thrift and wholesale stores; you could almost have called him well dressed. His jacket was shabby, though, and he bought defective boots—he had to get them repaired. They were brand name, though. Basic cellphone, Chinese-made backpack. He didn’t really need anything more than that. Maryna shopped for herself. They didn’t eat out. Well, there weren’t any restaurants at the Station.
A year and a half has gone by. Nobody needs tutors anymore. The kids are gone. Maryna left him. The shop teacher is on the other side of the front.
They run to the steep steps that lead down toward the city. The kid’s tired; he’s dropping back and spitting a lot. Pasha takes his backpack and slaps it on his chest like it’s a parachute. It’s not too heavy for him because his own backpack is almost empty, except for the canned goods, tapping together hollowly. The kid’s clearly hurting, though. He really needs to get warm, but where is he going to get warm out here? The fog has lifted completely, and a round moon the color of slightly stale cheese with a glint of red at the bottom—as if it’s been dipped in warm blood—hangs above the city. The sky’s as empty as can be: no stars, no movement, just the fatal sheen of a full moon hovering over this valley of death that they’ll have to cross, from beginning to end. Farther off, beyond the railroad tracks, a high, white flame is blazing. Settling smoke is smoldering nearby. And you can hear the businesslike crackle of automatic gunfire all around the city. You can feel movement in the city. It’s as though somewhere over there under the full moon unseen swarms of people are racing down the crumbling streets, searching for warmth and food. You can’t see them from here, but you can easily hear them, which makes things even more unnerving.