The ways in which Zohar Jacob’s’ debut story weaves the fantastical and the industrial together with possible realities and bits of what feels like Bulgakov’s and Tolstoy’s DNA are astounding. ~ Julian and Fran, September 10, 2023
Between Truth and Death on the Murmansk—Saint Petersburg Line
by Zohar Jacobs
Karelia, Russia: April 2022
Halfway between Murmansk and Saint Petersburg, snow had started sifting down from the dark sky, coating the concrete of the deserted railway platform in a lace of greasy slush. Dmitri slid a little as he hurried back to the train. He had only gone on leave that morning, and he could already feel the time trickling away.
Two weeks of freedom from the rotten ice and the rotten food, from the frigid waters of the Kola Bay with their tang of salt and rust and oil and industrial effluent, from the barracks and the hazing and the bizarre alterity of navy life. Only the invincibly ignorant could claim that being one-eighth rusalka meant you were fated to be a frogman. Unfortunately, the invincibly ignorant were the vast majority of the military.
Dmitri sighed and swung himself back aboard the train. He’d left the light off in the sleeper compartment. Sodium vapor streetlights cast tree branch shadows across the walls. He blinked, disoriented, imagining for a moment that he saw the wood veneer and battered leatherette bench seats of an old Soviet carriage.
In the dark corner by the window, something sat quietly. Dmitri’s heart leapt. Stifling an exclamation, he fumbled for the light switch.
Under the faintly yellowish overhead lights, the man at least looked like a man. He was probably a decade older than Dmitri, maybe thirty or thirty-five. Dark-haired, he had a pale face and dark circles under his eyes. Fatigue, perhaps. A poor diet.
He’s a vampire, thought Dmitri, who hadn’t been sleeping well himself.
“Good evening,” said the man, who was probably not a vampire.
“Evening,” replied Dmitri warily.
Strange things lurked in the forests of Karelia. Russia was overflowing with the dead, the undead, the might-as-well-be dead. The only question was how to tell the difference.
“Retro, isn’t it?” said the man, looking around the compartment. “Allegedly the Arktika service. This shit keeps happening.”
Dmitri shrugged and said nothing. He saw the modern train he’d first boarded in Murmansk nine hours ago. But the ghostly wood veneer of a Soviet train drifted in the corner of his eye like an afterimage whenever he blinked.
It’s nothing, he told himself. In the navy, he’d learned that having a sense of curiosity didn’t pay. That can’t be what he’s talking about. I’m just tired.
With a squeal of metal against metal, the train dragged itself into motion again. Dmitri had gotten off the train in Kem to buy instant noodles from the little twenty-four-hour corner store, but come back with sausages and vodka. Fourteen hours until Saint Petersburg. Nothing for it but to drink.
Warmed by his first swallow, Dmitri looked over at his traveling companion, who had unwrapped some pirozhki and was blamelessly washing them down with a bottle of imported Belgian beer. Almost certainly not a vampire.
He felt guilty for making assumptions. “There’s plenty of vodka.”
“If you’re not an alcoholic,” replied the man with a quirk of his mouth. “If you’re offering . . . ? Why not. Thanks.”
They toasted the coming springtime. They said nothing about the special military operation, which could look after itself.
“You headed to Moscow?” the man asked once the vodka began to thaw their brief acquaintance.
“To Saint Petersburg. On leave from the Northern Fleet.”
A noise from the man that might have been disapproval—or sympathy. “Officer? Enlisted?”
“Conscript,” admitted Dmitri.
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