was deafening. It was amazing the train moved at all, given the condition of the engine. She had been overhauled so many times that it was fair to say none of the parts had been together very long. Like a new brigade, he thought. The pieces grated against each other. They heaved and groaned, trying to find their proper place within the jumble of machinery.
Petronov stepped into the dining car; it was really more of a baggage car with a makeshift galley in the rear. Altynbayev, the old cook, lay on the counter, a pair of dirty towels stuffed underneath his head for a pillow. He was snoring so loudly that Petronov could hear it over the groaning of the engine. His huge belly heaved and jiggled as the train climbed through the pass. Petronov looked down at him for a moment, at the stubbly beard, the bushy eyebrows, and resisted a sudden urge to heave him from the counter. This is where the men ate their meals. It was disgusting to see the old cook sleeping on this surface, with his filthy boots and grimy hair. Petronov had reported Altynbayev so many times that it hardly seemed to matter anymore. Nobody cared. Nobody gave a damn, so why should he?
He looked up and noticed Shafir only a few feet distant through the door. He was standing on the flatbed car, directly in front of the turbine, looking down at something by his feet. Then Petronov heard a dull explosion. The train rocked underneath him. He almost lost his footing for a second. He looked up and saw Shafir look back . . . and grin. The flatbed car began to pull away. Petronov cursed. He opened the rear door and almost tumbled from the train.
Shafir had blown the coupling. The last two cars were slowing down. Without even thinking, Petronov leapt across the chasm, across the glistening rails, and landed roughly on the open car.
The wind almost threw him from the train. It was blisteringly cold. Petronov turned to see the engine and the first two cars speed off, climbing through the narrow pass now at a startling speed. Then he felt a sharp blow on his back. He stumbled to his knees. Shafir was standing over him, a shovel in his hand.
The bearded soldier swung at him again, but Petronov shimmied to the side, and the shovel deflected off the surface harmlessly. Petronov kicked, connecting with Shafir’s stomach. The soldier staggered backward, tripping on one of the metal cables that held the giant turbine in place. Then he went down.
Petronov leapt to his feet. He felt the wind propel him, toss him like a piece of paper across the flatbed car. He crashed against the soldier and Shafir punched him hard in the face – once, twice. Petronov punched back. Suddenly, a second explosion, much louder than the first, reverberated through the pass.
Petronov caught a vague glimpse of flames as first the engine, and then the first car and the dining car skidded from the rails. There was a mighty crash as they ground against the stone embankment.
Shafir staggered to his feet. He started running but Petronov caught him by the ankle and the bearded man went down. Petronov leapt on top of him. He pummeled his back, his neck. He grabbed him by the chin. Shafir began to crawl away but Petronov wouldn’t let go. He rode him like a horse. He twisted the mighty neck, one hand around the soldier’s forehead, the other clasping his beard. He pulled and pulled until he heard a brittle snap , and the soldier slumped to the deck.
Petronov collapsed on top of him. They had only fought for a minute or two, but he was completely exhausted. He felt his chest heave, struggle for gasps of freezing air. He pushed Shafir aside. The dead soldier’s body rolled across the flatbed car, over the edge, and vanished out of sight. The car began to crawl. Without the engine, the steep grade of the mountain pass was acting like a break. Petronov sat up. He breathed a huge sigh of relief, then turned and saw another bearded man beside him standing on a rock, immediately beside the train.
The man was
Petronov stepped into the dining car; it was really more of a baggage car with a makeshift galley in the rear. Altynbayev, the old cook, lay on the counter, a pair of dirty towels stuffed underneath his head for a pillow. He was snoring so loudly that Petronov could hear it over the groaning of the engine. His huge belly heaved and jiggled as the train climbed through the pass. Petronov looked down at him for a moment, at the stubbly beard, the bushy eyebrows, and resisted a sudden urge to heave him from the counter. This is where the men ate their meals. It was disgusting to see the old cook sleeping on this surface, with his filthy boots and grimy hair. Petronov had reported Altynbayev so many times that it hardly seemed to matter anymore. Nobody cared. Nobody gave a damn, so why should he?
He looked up and noticed Shafir only a few feet distant through the door. He was standing on the flatbed car, directly in front of the turbine, looking down at something by his feet. Then Petronov heard a dull explosion. The train rocked underneath him. He almost lost his footing for a second. He looked up and saw Shafir look back . . . and grin. The flatbed car began to pull away. Petronov cursed. He opened the rear door and almost tumbled from the train.
Shafir had blown the coupling. The last two cars were slowing down. Without even thinking, Petronov leapt across the chasm, across the glistening rails, and landed roughly on the open car.
The wind almost threw him from the train. It was blisteringly cold. Petronov turned to see the engine and the first two cars speed off, climbing through the narrow pass now at a startling speed. Then he felt a sharp blow on his back. He stumbled to his knees. Shafir was standing over him, a shovel in his hand.
The bearded soldier swung at him again, but Petronov shimmied to the side, and the shovel deflected off the surface harmlessly. Petronov kicked, connecting with Shafir’s stomach. The soldier staggered backward, tripping on one of the metal cables that held the giant turbine in place. Then he went down.
Petronov leapt to his feet. He felt the wind propel him, toss him like a piece of paper across the flatbed car. He crashed against the soldier and Shafir punched him hard in the face – once, twice. Petronov punched back. Suddenly, a second explosion, much louder than the first, reverberated through the pass.
Petronov caught a vague glimpse of flames as first the engine, and then the first car and the dining car skidded from the rails. There was a mighty crash as they ground against the stone embankment.
Shafir staggered to his feet. He started running but Petronov caught him by the ankle and the bearded man went down. Petronov leapt on top of him. He pummeled his back, his neck. He grabbed him by the chin. Shafir began to crawl away but Petronov wouldn’t let go. He rode him like a horse. He twisted the mighty neck, one hand around the soldier’s forehead, the other clasping his beard. He pulled and pulled until he heard a brittle snap , and the soldier slumped to the deck.
Petronov collapsed on top of him. They had only fought for a minute or two, but he was completely exhausted. He felt his chest heave, struggle for gasps of freezing air. He pushed Shafir aside. The dead soldier’s body rolled across the flatbed car, over the edge, and vanished out of sight. The car began to crawl. Without the engine, the steep grade of the mountain pass was acting like a break. Petronov sat up. He breathed a huge sigh of relief, then turned and saw another bearded man beside him standing on a rock, immediately beside the train.
The man was
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