By Blood We Live

"It's a one-minute stop," said the stationmaster, who was standing by the tracks with a red flag in his hand. He looked suspiciously at the empty car. He was alone on the platform, his uniform-like his face-old and crumpled, his eyes dull and dead.

"I've already arrived," Denis said.

A gleam of curiosity appeared in the eyes of the stationmaster. He looked over Denis from head to toe, then asked: "Got a pistol?"

"Revolver."

"Licensed?"

"No."

The locomotive whistled and started to move. The stationmaster rolled up the signal flag and slid it into a tube. He glanced at the departing train.

"What about your traveling companion?" the stationmaster said, pointing. Denis saw that the vagrant's foot was visible through the open door of the train car.

He'd asked as if by inertia, in exactly the same way that he had stepped out to meet the train, in exactly the way he had rolled up the flag. The man had observed this kind of behavior before. Too many times.

"He's going farther," Denis answered. "Is your town a big one?"

"Two hundred thirty people," the stationmaster said. "And there's an infant, too, the daughter of a schoolteacher. But she was born sickly." He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know whether she counts."

The knocking of the wheels grew silent in the distance and only the whisper of the sea remained. "My name is Denis."

"Pyotr," the stationmaster said. He extended his hand-mechanically, lifeless. Denis pressed his palm-firmly, steadily. "Oh, you're completely frozen," Pyotr said, some emotion, at least, appearing in his voice. "Let's go inside. I'll make you some tea."

Denis nodded and followed him into the station-a small, one-story building made of red brick, the roof covered in tile.

They drank tea in the cold, dilapidated office. In the corner, old red banners with golden letters gathered dust-awards for victories in some kind of Socialist labor competitions from the previous century. On the desk was a black plastic telephone, out-of-place, incongruent-a relic of a time before everything turned to shit.

"Does that thing work?" Denis asked, and gulped down the hot tea.

"You've got to be joking." Pyotr didn't even smile. "But we're supposed to have one. Nobody rescinded the rule."

"Is there electricity in the town?"

"There's a generator in the hospital. They've been bringing in a little bit of oil," the stationmaster said cautiously. "The fishermen have a wind turbine. An old one."

"How do you get by?"

"Like everybody else," Pyotr said, with no trace of resentment. "We do whatever we need to. We poke around in the soil, but there's very little good soil around here. We catch fish. During the day the freight train will come by; we will send ten barrels of fish to the city."

"Salted?"

"Fresh. We interlay them with wet grass-seaweed. They'll last a day."

"What else?"

The stationmaster hemmed and hawed. "Well, in general, nothing. There's no work. There was no point for you to get off the train here."

"I always find work," Denis said. He poured himself more tea from a fat nickel teapot. It was the only clean and well-conditioned object in the office. And the tea brew was the real thing, as though from a past life.

"Unfortunately, there's no sugar left," Pyotr said. "There's never enough sugar."

"I don't drink it sweet."

The stationmaster raised his tired and pleading eyes: "You should go. The freight train will set off in the afternoon-I'll put you on it. I can talk to the engineer, he'll let you in the cabin, you can go as-"

He failed to explain the word "as"-as right then there was a knock at the door, and someone entered the office.

"Well, now," Pyotr whispered as he stood.

Denis finished drinking his tea, then turned around.

A young man was standing at the door-thin, black-haired, with brash, lively eyes, and bright-red lips, as though they had been painted with lipstick. He was wearing a black leather coat with shining silver braid-studs and black leather pants that fit tightly over wiry legs. In his left hand, he held an automatic pistol by his side-carelessly, with boyish defiance.

"Who's he?" the young man asked.

"He's just passing through," the stationmaster said. "He got off the morning train. He was riding in the freight car; he was completely frozen. He's leaving in mid-afternoon."

The young man remained silent and bit his lip.

"Who's this?" Denis asked the stationmaster. "Some kind of pretty boy?"

Pyotr choked on his tea and shook his head.

The young man's eyes became big and round from the insult. He didn't say a thing-for which Denis mentally complimented him-but he immediately began to raise his weapon. The stationmaster dove under the desk.

The revolver in Denis's hand shot just once. A hole appeared in the young man's black leather jacket, and the air smelled tartly of gunpowder. The youth glanced at Denis-hurt, like a child forbidden to play a game-and fell heavily to the floor.

"You go," Denis said to Pyotr. "I'll clean up here."