Last special

Commissar Lavrukhin was in a depressed state. The waiting chilled the soul of the train chief, as did everything inside the wagons entrusted to him. The multi-ton train had been standing still for five days now, frozen in the middle of a snow-covered wilderness.
Breathing out steam, the commissar climbed up the ladder into the vestibule, where he encountered Venechka—a graying intellectual with round glasses and perpetually disheveled curly hair. During the journey, Lavrukhin had never bothered to find out what Venechka’s profession was—whether he was a writer or an engineer—but it mattered much more that he irritated him every time.
“When will we finally leave, my dear?” Venechka asked, anticipating his thoughts, as he took a drag from a cigarette clamped between his frozen fingers.
“Soon. We’ll be leaving soon,” the commissar waved dismissively and retreated behind the door leading to the locomotive, where Venechka, as a mere passenger, was strictly forbidden to enter. Behind the thick steel bulkhead lay the spacious tender compartment, where the cold outside air mixed with the resinous smell of coal dust and already distinctly carried the warmth emanating from the glowing firebox. Noticing that the amount of coal had noticeably decreased, Lavrukhin went to the cab of the driver Putilin, but found him in the stoker’s compartment instead. His face seemed even more wrinkled and exhausted than usual, covered with oil and soot.
“Well, how is it going? Are they sitting there?” Putilin asked wearily, wiping sweat from his forehead.
“They’re sitting there,” confirmed the commissar.
“What do they want anyway…?”
“I don’t know,” Lavrukhin shrugged. “They seem to be waiting for something. But what?”
“Maybe…” the driver hesitated cautiously. “Should we take them along? Why are they just sitting there?”
“Together? The commissar pondered, mentally calculating how he would accommodate the passengers, but after finishing his calculations, he replied: “That’s possible. But can the engine handle it?”
“The engine can handle it,” Putilin nodded confidently. “It’ll run a bit slower, but it’ll definitely work. You know… The main thing is to keep moving,” the driver patted the resonant side of the firebox with satisfaction. “If only I could find myself an assistant to load coal. Otherwise, I’m stuck here like a slave on a galley…”
Indeed, the stoker was missing. He had died about a month ago and now lay somewhere in the icy steppe, buried right on the railway embankment.
“I suppose I’ll find someone new,” Lavrukhin agreed.
“At least don’t give them coal for nothing,” Putilin suddenly added, catching his companion’s surprised look. “Yes, there were some travelers here… They asked. Promised to clear the tracks.”
“And what did you do?”
“Well, I gave them a bagful. It’s a pity… They’ll freeze,” the driver said sadly, even somewhat guiltily, looking at the commissar. “You should talk to them again. You know, diplomatically. We need to move on. The engine can’t stand still.”
“A diplomat, huh?”
Lavrukhin snorted and walked away, inwardly calling Putilin a “liberal humanist” and a couple of other fancy words. In the vestibule, he met Venechka’s gaze again as he smoked.
“You still need some clarity. When will we finally leave?”
“Soon!” the commissar replied, trying to maintain his composure. “We’ll pick up people and go. Please take your seat.”
“Excuse me! What people?! Why?! We all paid for our tickets…” Venechka tried to add some more arguments, but Lavrukhin had already jumped off the footboard and started walking away through the snow. The intellectual had no desire whatsoever to step out into the frost after the commissar. He finished his cigarette and headed back to his compartment with the firm intention of drinking tea—definitely with lemon and sugar.

* * *

The camp of the “sit-downs” stretched along the entire railway track. Old trading stalls were arranged in uneven rows, sometimes directly on the rails. Roughly reinforced with rotten boards, bricks, rusted iron sheets, rags, and other scraps scavenged from around the area, they represented typical housing for the local inhabitants. It seemed those who had initially come here were simply afraid to miss their train. But time passed, the long-awaited locomotive never appeared on the horizon, generations changed, past goals were forgotten, and soon waiting for a better life gradually became life itself. The current residents of the camp, it seemed, no longer even remembered why they had been sitting there in the first place. Dirty and ragged, they huddled together near fires burning inside leaky barrels. Evidently, within these hollowed-out shells of people, some strange spark of hope still smoldered, fueled either by their own semi-religious faith or by the personal fanaticism of their leader. In any case, everything here was done—or not done—solely at the whim of the stout foreman Korovchuk.
He sat cross-legged on a pile of old tires, his broad, flushed face and fat belly spilling out over his belt resembling some Asian khan to Lavrukhin. Without taking his hands out of his pockets and without greeting anyone, the commandant immediately got down to business:
“We had agreements.”
“I haven’t heard anything about that…” Korovchuk replied, shifting his heavy rear slightly on the tire.
“But you promised Putilin,” the foreman’s face spread into a greasy grin.
“Well,” the foreman’s expression turned oily, “maybe we promised him, but not you.”
“What difference does it make? You said you’d clear the tracks.”
“Probably… But we didn’t say we’d do it immediately,” the fat man continued, staring intently at the bewildered commandant. “You’d better give us another coal bag. One won’t be enough…”
“No,” Lavrukhin choked out.
“What do you mean ‘no’? You’re supposed to help us!”
The commandant’s voice grew firm and acquired metallic undertones.
“Certainly. But you won’t get any more coal from us. Tomorrow the train will leave. Those who want to can board and go with us; everyone else will have to clear the tracks anyway. Is that clear to everyone?!”
He practically roared the last words, causing Korovchuk to wave his chubby hands frantically.
“All right, all right! Let’s not get upset, comrade chief. We’ll go! But let’s take some time to think things over… Give us until the day after tomorrow?”
“All right,” the commandant softened. “But I’ll come again tomorrow.”
He swept his piercing gaze over the quiet people gathered around. Some looked back with fear, others with menace, and still others with incomprehension. It seemed that in this thin, tall man in a greatcoat and peaked cap, they saw for the first time some other meaning, some other force—not at all like the one wielded by the corpulent foreman—and this simultaneously attracted and frightened them. Lavrukhin turned away and, feeling human eyes on his back, walked back toward the train. To take off his unbearably tight boots, tuck his frozen feet under a scratchy camel blanket, stretch out on the conductor’s bunk, and fall asleep—that was probably all he wanted right now.

* * *

In the morning, Lavrukhin was awakened by a piercing scream: perhaps a woman’s, perhaps not, but hysterical and shrill. However, within a minute it became clear that the cry came from the aging Venya. From his confused explanation, it followed that someone had attacked the engineer Putilin during the night, apparently killed him, and fled. Indeed, a bloody trail led across the snow from the locomotive toward the camp. The metal floor of the vestibule and the handle of the door leading to the tender and cab were also stained with blood. Yet the “deceased” was sitting right there, pressing a handkerchief against his broken head. Lavrukhin wasn’t sure whether to be more surprised by the sudden resurrection or by where Putilin had gotten the handkerchief, which in his greasy black hands seemed snow-white.
“Well, he seems alive,” remarked the commandant.
“Look at our driver! His hand is shaking!” Venya continued to lament. “How will he run the train now?!”
“I’m fine,” Putilin grumbled unhappily. “It’s annoying—I got hit with my own bucket…”
“Who?! Details!” Lavrukhin pressed, pushing aside the now-useless intellectual.
“I couldn’t see clearly. I went out to relieve myself. I saw someone messing around in the tender. I scared him off. Apparently, he panicked and… Judging by his figure, he was young.”
“Understood. These ‘sit-downs’ have come. They need our coal. They’ve marked their path,” the commandant stated the obvious conclusion and gazed thoughtfully toward the camp.
There, somewhere at the point where the tracks converged, tents were scattered and black smoke rose, but there was no sign of any movement.
“And you still wanted to put these so-called citizens on our train… They’re all animals there!” Venya chimed in, but no one paid attention to him again.
“No one will come,” Putilin said. “But we need to leave… The engine must move, otherwise we’ll come to a complete standstill. The lubricant will thicken, the pistons will seize up, and if the internal pipelines freeze and the nuts burst loose…”
“Then deal with the internal circuit. Tighten your nuts!” Lavrukhin snapped. “As for the external one, I’ll take care of it. I said ‘until tomorrow,’ so it’s until tomorrow.”
Pulling his peaked cap tighter and raising the collar of his coat, he once again set off decisively toward the makeshift settlement.
“Well, where is he going again? Who is he talking to?” the intellectual Venya shook his shaggy head, watching the commandant walk away through his shiny glasses.
“To people,” the engineer replied, though he himself was no longer sure of his words.

* * *

In the camp, there was indeed no sign of human activity. Neither scattered coal nor, much less blood, could be seen on the snow. What had been stolen during the night had long since been skillfully hidden somewhere deep within this junkyard caravan. However, the fate of the coal concerned Lavrukhin only as a last resort. Spotting Korovchuk’s massive figure, the commandant headed toward him. The foreman sat like a king in an old chair with wooden legs, warming his chubby hands over a burning barrel while those closest to him bustled around him. He also noticed Lavrukhin’s approach and, without turning his head, spoke first.
“Tell me, commandant, where do these rails lead?”
“To there.”
“And what’s there?”
The question clearly interrupted the commandant’s fighting spirit.
“Well, I don’t know… East…”
“Ah-ha,” Korovchuk drawled approvingly. “We’ve discussed it here and decided that we all need to go West. So don’t rush, commandant. Move the locomotive. And then we’ll all go together.”
“What?!” Lavrukhin protested indignantly. “That’s completely impossible!”
“Well, get used to it, comrade chief,” Korovchuk replied. “We’re not like you… We’re democratic. The people decide.”
“I see. So we’re just rambling again… Stalling for time? Don’t want to negotiate? Fine, I’ll leave—I don’t care.”
The commandant really started to walk away, but suddenly a large man rose from a group sitting nearby. In his gray padded jacket and brown boots, he was almost invisible until he stood up straight. Nervous or perhaps following some kind of etiquette, he pulled off his hat, crumpled it in his strong fingers, revealing his golden-brown hair, and then approached with a couple of broad steps, loudly declaring:
“And I’m fine with the East. Why sit around doing nothing? We need to move. That’s my opinion.”
A tense silence fell over the small area surrounding the foreman’s chair. Lavrukhin once again felt the weight of hundreds of eyes upon him. Peeking out from behind tent flaps, hidden under hats pulled down low, staring sullenly—everyone was waiting for something now.
“Do you need reminding of our rules?” Korovchuk boomed. “Anyone who doesn’t sit still lies down!”
“I don’t care!” The man stretched even more defiantly, glaring insolently at the flushed, angry foreman.
“Sit down!”
“I won’t. I think we should go. It’s better than freezing our asses off here,” the man said, looking around at everyone. “Guys, girls! Who’s ready? Come on, follow the commandant! Let’s go somewhere already! The train won’t wait forever.”
Movement stirred among the tents. People began approaching the clearing where Lavrukhin and the blond man stood, carrying their simple belongings.
“And you?” asked the commandant, noticing that the big man carried nothing.
“I’ll come later. There are still many old folks here, women… And kids too. We need to talk. Help them. I’ll bring everyone tomorrow morning.”
“What’s your name?”
“Savchenko.”
“You’ll get killed, Savchenko…” Lavrukhin muttered.
“My guts are made of steel!” the man smirked. “They’re cowardly by day and alone. But at night… I don’t sleep.”
The commandant nodded, then led the gathered people toward the train. On the way, he regretted not shaking this man’s hand. He’d gotten used to keeping his own always in his pocket. Then he decided maybe it was better that way—not to irritate anyone unnecessarily. What if it worked out?

* * *

Throughout the day, until late evening, people arrived at the train, bundled up in whatever they could find. Groups of five or six people, each carrying a small amount of luggage.
Venya stood by the open door of the vestibule, watching as newcomers were assigned to carriages, and as usual, smoking.
“Why should we take anyone in, may I ask?” he grumbled, spotting Lavrukhin.
“Don’t worry. We’ll accommodate everyone.”
“Have you even checked them?”
“I’ll check each one if necessary. Maybe start with you?” the commandant snapped back. Venya fell silent but didn’t leave his observation post. He continued to watch suspiciously and curiously at unfamiliar faces. He lit a second cigarette.
The men looked gloomy—faces etched with hardship. Women wore shapeless puffy coats and scarves wrapped tightly around their heads, as if they’d just crawled out from under a cow. Some had children with them—just as dirty and disheveled. A motley crowd, in short.
Then a more graceful figure separated from the general mass. A young girl, barely twenty years old, also wearing a jacket with a hood, but more fashionable-looking, and obviously attractive. She immediately approached the commandant. Of course, she was trying to charm him. A prostitute, probably. Such women can sense right away which man they should attach themselves to.
These thoughts made Venya’s finely tuned nature feel strangely disgusted, so he threw away his unfinished cigarette and went into the compartment. Besides, he couldn’t hear any further conversation between the new passenger and Lavrukhin anyway.
“Comrade commandant,” the girl stammered. “My name is Ksyanka. May I speak with you?”
“What?”
“I have a fiancé back home… Kolya.”
“Why didn’t he come with you?”
“He says you won’t take him. He’s afraid…” Ksyanka lowered her eyes. “He stole coal from you the other day…”
“Why are you covering for him?” Lavrukhin smirked.
“It wasn’t his fault… He’s just a fool!” The girl looked seriously at the commandant. “It was his boar—the foreman—who forced him to carry coal at night so no one would touch me. Otherwise… Well, Kolya bought me for two sacks of coal. I told him, ‘Let’s go together,’ but he said, ‘You go yourself,’ and he himself was already barred from coming here.”
“Alright,” Lavrukhin thought for a moment. “I’ll talk to your Savchenko tomorrow. If he approves, we’ll take your Kolya. But only under your responsibility.”
Ksyanka’s eyes lit up with joy. Suddenly, she grabbed and hugged Lavrukhin so tightly that he nearly lost his balance.
“Oh, thank you, comrade commandant! Thank you so much! May I kiss you?”
“No, that’s not allowed!”
Pulling away, Lavrukhin left the beaming girl and walked along the wagons. He needed to oversee the loading and placement of the newly arrived personnel. Although the stream of people winding across the white field like a black snake finally dried up by nightfall, the commandant couldn’t sleep. Tomorrow promised to be difficult. Going over his thoughts in his mind, Lavrukhin poured himself tea several times, then checked if his pistol was loaded, wrapped himself more tightly in his camel coat, fluffed up the clumped pillow, but ended up meeting the pre-dawn twilight in a half-sleep.

* * *

He finally woke up when Putilin began banging on the heavy tender door. Throwing on his overcoat and shoving his feet into those cursed boots, the stationmaster stepped out onto the vestibule and silently greeted the engineer. Lavrukhin seemed so disheveled that Putilin even paused, deciding whether to start his usual spiel again:
“Well? Are we going today or not? Because…”
“Yes, I know! I know!” interrupted the stationmaster.— The machine must go. The grease will thicken, the pistons will seize, the nuts will come loose… We’ll go! We’ll go! Warm up the apparatus.”
Satisfied with the answer, Putilin smiled, but Venyachka appeared in the vestibule with an unusual concern on his animated face.
“Excuse me, did I overhear that we’re going?”
“So it is.”
“But, please! How can this be?! Yesterday Oksana Evgenievna enlightened me… There are still people left there, in those slums. Children, grandmothers… What are we going to do, just leave them behind?”
“That’s true,” agreed Putilin.— And Savenko didn’t show up yesterday either. I thought he’d be my stoker…”
“You might stop worrying me?!— Lavrukhin exclaimed.— Calm down already! We won’t leave anyone behind.”
He literally jumped off the footboard into the snow.
“You’ll freeze running around like that,” Venyachka offered helpfully.— You should get yourself a new coat…”
“I wish I could afford a suit made of steel…” Lavrukhin replied.— Heat up the engine!”
Covering the distance to the “sitdowns” camp faster than usual, he found it in ominous desolation. Some tents had been cut open and turned inside out. Apparently, having lost their owners, they were immediately looted by neighbors or the brigadier’s henchmen. The master of the garbage world himself was right there—in his place. Slumped in an old chair, he warmed his hands over the fire, tossing small logs into the barrel.
Suddenly, Lavrukhin noticed with horror that charred legs protruded from the container, sticking out of familiar brown boots. “At least they took off the shoes…” flashed through the stationmaster’s mind. “They don’t care about anything…” But he asked his question with utmost composure and a slightly detached sadness:
“So they killed him after all?”
“This is our internal affair, citizen chief,” Korovchuk smirked in response.
From somewhere among the pile of rags, once someone’s dwelling, a little girl crawled out, rushed toward Lavrukhin, and, burying her face in the folds of his overcoat, whispered quietly:
“This is my daddy… There’s no one else left…”
“Understood. Stay close.” The stationmaster didn’t look at the girl; he only stared intently at the shapeless figure of the brigadier.— Why did they kill him?”
Korovchuk caught the stationmaster’s gaze and spread a greasy grin.
“He fell onto a rail and hit himself several times.”
“Uncle policeman, they’re all lying!” squeaked the child, clutching the strange skinny man tightly as if he were her last hope.— It was them who beat him with sticks at night.”
“I know. Don’t worry. We’ll think together what to do with them…”
“You’re thinking about something else, citizen chief,” the brigadier chuckled.— You’d better think about whether you need to go anywhere at all? Why? Stay here. You’ll live like butter. There’s enough coal for a long time. Unload your tender… And we’ll help.”
Korovchuk chuckled self-satisfiedly, but immediately changed his expression when a black pistol muzzle was aimed at him. The thugs behind the leader rose from their seats, but didn’t dare rush forward without orders.
“Everyone back! Back! I’m leaving. Understand? The girl comes with me.”
Keeping the gun aimed at him, the brigadier continued to persuade the stationmaster, but the latter wasn’t listening anymore.
“So… And also… Is Nikolai here? Come on! Ksanin’s fiancé, the one who… Nikolai, come out!”
A thin young man emerged from behind Korovchuk’s henchmen.
“Do you remember beating up dad?”
“No… He didn’t touch anyone.”
“So you’ll come with me too,” ordered the stationmaster.— Come on! Quickly!”
The boy nervously glanced back, then moved closer to the man in the overcoat.
“You rat! I’ll crush you!” roared the leader.
“Sit down already! You love sitting anyway. Or else you’ll run away from me!” put him in his place Lavrukhin, threateningly poking him with the weapon, then looked around at the other spectators, invisibly watching the scene from their hiding places.— Anyone else want to join us? No? Well, that’s it… If you want to die, then die. If I see anyone following us, I’ll shoot them right in the forehead.”
“You won’t get far anyway,” Korovchuk muttered through clenched teeth.
“The train can’t be stopped.”
“We’ll see about that, citizen chief.”
The stationmaster didn’t continue this pointless argument. He only glanced once more toward the tents where people were hiding inside, and muttered bitterly:
“Idiots, damn it…”
He spat into the snow and walked back toward the train with the worried Kolya and the calmed-down child.
Several times he mentally scolded himself for losing his temper. There was no way to reveal the Makarov. An unjustified risk. What does he have? Eight bullets. And they have anger, bravado, and one irresistible desire to seize free coal. His calculation was based solely on the assumption that the fat pig would lose his nerve and wouldn’t unleash his gang. Emotions. Childishness. Be that as it may, the chase wasn’t part of Korovchuk’s cowardly plans, so there was no chase at all. And the locomotive was already just a few steps away.

* * *

Lavrukhin examined the train. The black, angular giant, belching hot steam, towered against the white earth and gray sky like a fantastic dragon stretching its long tail along the railway line. One set of wheels was almost as tall as a human being. Special rails and tracks were three times wider than usual. They knew how to build back then… A real leviathan! And what was it carrying? Perhaps some warheads—not otherwise. A remnant of the nuclear age.
But now what? Where is it taking us? And why? Maybe it’s easier just to sit here and wait for happiness to fall upon you? And is there any happiness at the end of this journey? Who will meet us? Aren’t they just as gloomy faces?
The stationmaster’s heavy thoughts were interrupted by the whistle of the locomotive. He looked—the others had already boarded—the stationmaster alone stood in the snow in his painfully tight boots. Climbing up the long steep ladder, he loudly closed the last door, crossed the tender, and peeked into the cab.
“So? Are we going or not?”
“There’s…—the soot-covered face of Putilin expressed anxiety.— They’ve piled up some crap on the rails. And it seems they’re cutting sleepers. There might be casualties… My boiler is already… under pressure.”
Silence fell. Only the loud rumbling of the giant machine reminded that it couldn’t stop under any circumstances.
“What should we do?” repeated the engineer.
Lavrukhin pondered again, but immediately remembered the surprised Kolya. His Ksan, sold for a couple of sacks of coal. The frightened girl whose name he still hadn’t even learned yet. He remembered those disgusting faces gathered around the mutilated body of blond-haired Savenko. He recalled the brigadier’s satisfied and greasy face. And unexpectedly for himself, he answered very clearly:
“Crush them, Putilin.”