Safe Passage

The screeching rang through the station. Milo had heard the noise before. He raised his eyes to the rails. The train from Kyiv was arriving on time. It was a soviet era train — blocky, muted colors, not slow, not reliable, but it arrived most of the time. Different gauge, but repurposed to meet EU specs. Milo watched the train grind to a halt. The brakes continued screeching. 

Milo unwrapped the wool scarf around his face and looked at his bags. A few duffles. A backpack. A rifle in a gym bag. Riders disembarked from the train. They stumbled down the steps with trash bags full of their lives. Family heirlooms and photo frames poked through shopping bags. All the children’s eyes were red. There were no tears. No time. They were in Prague now. They were safe, but displaced. No one greeted them on arrival. No signs, balloons, hugs, waves, warm food, hot tea, an old uncle with bad teeth and a beard offering a shot glass full of mystery liquor and a cigarette poking out of a crumpled package. Their arrival was all they got. 

The trains emptied, and Milo grabbed his bags. He boarded with little fanfare. The conductor asked for no ticket. There was a nod. Milo tapped his gym bag. And he was let on. There was one other rider. His head was covered in a black wool beanie and a black face mask pulled tight across his face. Milo couldn’t see much of the man as he passed him walking down the aisle. What he did see were the man’s eyes. Cold blue eyes. Unflinching. Two spheres of deep ice held in place by the horror of existence. The man didn’t have a gym bag. His rifle sat between his legs. 

The journey to Kyiv was unpredictable. The only guarantee is that it’d be long. The train would move through the night, stopping infrequently at border crossings. Customs never boarded the train. Milo rested his head against the cold glass window. He watched city lights roll past him, the scenery fading into nothing in the night. Fields, he guessed.

The conductor made an announcement when the train crossed into Ukraine. Milo had slept a little. His dreams meant nothing, sounded like nothing. Even as he muttered the details to himself, affirming the existence of a woman in red walking through a river and evaporating into smoke, Milo couldn’t make sense of it. 

“Excuse me,” a voice said. Milo turned his head towards the aisle. The man with the black cap and facemask stood. “You’re a fighter, yes?”

“I’d like to be,” Milo said.

“You are,” the man said. “You own that title now.”

“Are you from Ukraine?”

“Mariupol,” the man said.

“I’m so sorry.”

“It is not your fault. That’s why we come back, yeah? You and me.”

“I’m surprised more aren’t on the train.”

“They think it is a lost war.”

“But we’re holding the line. Kyiv still stands.

“For now.”

“That’s why I came. As long as Kyiv stands, I will stay.” They held each other’s gaze.

Flashes of light flickered in the darkness on either side of the train. The black-clad man pointed towards Milo’s window. The flashes of light turned into explosions. The train rocked back and forth across the rails, heaving to one side ever so slightly and then recovering. Milo reached for his gym bag. The stranger rushed back to his seat and grabbed his bag and rifle. 

“Are you ready, friend?”