[h1]Russia[/h1]
[h2]Tyumen[/h2]

A low hum filled his ears as Tsung woke up. Still under the hum there sang the distant ring of battle that echoed in his ears, and the panic gripped him.

With a start he shot up out of bed, eyes wide and face pale as he gripped at the edge of the cot. He froze the moment he sat up, gazing straight at the face of a plastered wall on the opposite side of the room. His chest heaved up and down with great swinging movements. His hands held the side of the cot tight and he felt himself shaking as he scanned the room.

It wasn't large, but neither was it small. Filling up the empty space made by having thrown the furniture to a chaotic pile in a distant corner a platoon's worth of cots and beds had been dragged in, all of which occupied by a still sleeping soldier. A sudden fear strangled him. Was he dead now and this was his ghost seeing the victims of battle as they lay in their final state? But a voice from alongside him brought down the cold fear that spun in his blood.

“About time you were up.” the low grump voice of Wi Hui spoke up. Tsung turned.

Sitting alongside his bed Hui leaned back in a chair, legs crossed and stretched out as a weakly lit cigarette hung in limp lips. He looked at Tsung with a bored placid face. The sunlight falling through the window behind him shone gold off his bald head. There was no better a confirming sight for Tsung to see than him. At least it proved he was alive still.

“I, uh...” Tsung started, confused. He felt as if he hadn't had a proper sleep, a dull soreness coursed through his body from head to toe and there was a dim tin ringing in his ears, “How long was I out?” he asked weakly.

“About twelve hours, maybe.” Hui noted, “You passed out in the field. For a second we all thought that you had been shot through the window.

“But of course, it seems like you just shut down.”

“I-...” Tsung started uncertainly, “I um... I don't know what happened. What happened?”

Hui shrugged indifferently, “Medic said you probably were just over-excited and stimulated or some crazy shit and you'd come back around.” he shifted in his seat as he looked around the room, “A lot better than the other fuckers here.” he pointed out in his dry voice. He looked over to the bed alongside Tsung where a crumbled body of a passed out soldier lay, the steady rise and fall of his chest was the only confirmation of his living despite the vast blood stain slowly trailing down the white linens covering him. His face looked badly burned.

“This sad fuck took a big gut shot. I got to sit hear and watch the surgeons try to close his belly wound.” Hui chimed, “I think he'll be going home.”

The thought didn't make Tsung feel any better and he felt his own stomach twist and growl. His face knotted as he keeled over and his hands went to his stomach. His palms touched bare skin as he turned to sit up out of bed.

“Hey comrade, have decency.” Hui shouted in dry protest, “You're naked, docs took all your clothes to check for wounds, nurses took your uniform to get clean. I've had the honor of seeing enough mangled penis today, I don't need to see yours.” he added in a much lower tone.

Tsung froze to realize he was right. With his legs half hanging off the edge of the bed he was about read to throw himself out. The sudden embarrassment was enough to freeze his stomach and he sat awkwardly half-off the edge of the bed. Blood rushed to his face as he pulled the blankets up closer around him. “T-thanks.” he stammered.

“Good show, thank you.” Hui cheered, flicking the ashes of his cigarette onto the dusty carpeted floor.

“Well, uh... I-...” Tsung stammered and staggered over his words as he pulled himself back on the bed. Pulling up the sheets in the sudden awareness of his unwarranted nudity, “When do I get out?”

“When the doctors get back to check on you.” Hui pointed out, “I dunno, I think they were expecting you to have lapsed into some insane coma. You weren't responding the entire time.”

“So I... I suppose it was bad then?”

“You were pretty deep in.”

“Oh... So where's everyone?”

“Well, our tank blew up and command wanted Song out in the field still so he jacked command from someone else and went out into the field. I imagine that guy is taking this moment to nap last I checked. And Tse Lin is doing what Lin does.”

“Were you both waiting for me to wake up?”

“Not the entire time.” laughed Hui, “But, sort of.” he admitted with a tinge of guilt, “There's not a thing of shit to do here in Tyumen for us so we've been trading spots. If Lin intends on keeping a schedule at all, it's about time for her to relieve me.”

“She's been here too?”

Hui nodded, “Or in her own way.” he said dismissively, “Uses this time to look at those picture-books of hers. She's a fucking geek like that.”

“Her, what?”

Hui rolled his eyes, “Those mystery comics.” he mumbled, “Shit, you forget that too? Detective Gong Shu and shit.”

“Oh...” Tsung mumbled, laying back against the dry plaster wall behind him. He felt loose grains and motes of plaster wall fall against his shoulders and back as his head rested on the wall. He still felt weak, and as things caught up a weightless sort of shake crawled over his body. He felt a uncomfortable sharpness in his world.

“How...” he started, “How did it go?”

“That fight?” Hui asked, Tsung nodded silently.

“I suppose it went OK.” Hui thought back, “We won, I guess. A big group of Russians from upriver I hear managed to retreat. But we stopped the unit we were hitting from retreating. No one's given me numbers, but I hear some several hundred got shot, a few more drowned in the river when our armor on the other side of the river capsized their boats. We mopped up and captured the rest. They're well on their way east now, for who the fuck knows what.”

Tsung nodded along. His head felt heavy. But the sudden pop of an opening door drew up his attention. He looked up to the far-side of the room. Tse Lin was on her way in.

“He's awake!” she declared as she walked over. She drummed a rolled up magazine against he knuckles as she strolled towards the two men. He look of relief was painted across her round face, “How was your nap?” she asked him.

“I-ahh...” he started to say. But his tongue swelled. The memory of once having caught her in the shower hit his head. He picked up his knees as it washed down to fill an awkward erection. “I-it was...” he tried to find words, looking away.

“He's been a bit out of it since he woke up.” Tsung cut in, “Stammering a lot. Give him a bit and our little greenhorn will be back together.

“Shit, green?” Lin laughed. She tapped upside the head with her book as emphasis, “Pretty sure he just bailed from his first burning tank, I think that validates him not being fresh meat now.”

“Lin, that was all of our first times bailing from burning armor.” Hui reminded with a cold voice.

“I wouldn't speak for Song.” Lin offered back, “So if our little shit's awake I suppose I'll go get the doctors then?”

Tsung wasn't looking up at either of them. He was looking ahead, trying to avoid contact. He was afraid they might notice the painful awkwardness not just in the back of his eyes, but painted in hot rosy pink across his face. He drummed his knees as the rest of him throbbed.

“Sure, whatever.” Hui invited. Lin nodded and turned back, heading for the door. As he foot falls faded as she headed for the door Hui leaned in, inviting Tsung's attention to Lin.

“You know,” he began, “Lin has a fine ass, don't you think.” Hui laughed.

Tsung's voice turned nervously in his throat as his eyes followed her butt out the door.

[h2]Moscow[/h2]

Rain pattered against the cold glass window. Standing looking out over the outer tenements and blocks of Moscow, Ullanhu watched as the gray rainfall came down in a curtain over the Third Rome. In the hazy dreariness across the expansive urban sprawl of the city the golden towers and onion spires of its many churches stood above the low-standing structures of central Moscow, older Moscow. In its dense network of tight narrow streets cars droned through, or men and women walked through the rain.

Somehow in all that was with the rest of Russia, its desolate abandonment and threat of violence (most notably that of the impending forces of China in the east) there was left an island of subtle sanity left in Moscow itself. Although armored cars and armed men patrolled the streets holding order, these were shut away from the mind; as Ullanhu had come to note.

The apartment in stood in formally belonged to Vasiliy's uncle, as he had been told. But he had left the city, left Russia all together some time ago. He had left with the rent paid, some several months in advance. According to the agent's parents he had been intending to stay, or looked as if he was. But when they arrived he had left, taking as much of his baggage with him. Vasiliy had spent the rest of the day looking for information on his uncle, where he had gone.

And that was several days ago.

Now the Siberian agent was gone on long irregular excursions into the city. Whether to search for information on his uncle to make sure he was alright or to determine their coming angle of attack was a mystery, even to the observant Chinese agent. But he had stopped trying to make sense of Vasiliy's motives and activities, so long as he brought details to him.

But there was another thing that bothered Ullanhu. Simply: the foreigness of being so far from home. He was in Europe now. Well inside its outer fringes by many accounts. And the city of Moscow looked every bit the part. Even so far away from the center, and muddled by the gray rainwater that washed the city from above he could stand and see the brightly colored mansions nestled in the distant central okrugs. The churches that dotted the landscape in proud triumph also brought the realization in. He wasn't in a secular land, he was a holy one. Where the measure of daily pride wasn't spent on pride of revolution or to liberation, but to salvation in God. And nothing more typified that than the ghostly marker of the crimson towers and banded onion-shaped spires of the distant Saint Basil Cathedral; or so he was told that's what the building was.

Below the window the Moscow River wound its slow steady course east, cutting its winding snake path through Moscow itself and being lost among the baroque apartments and narrow cobble streets of the older, ancient narrows of the capital.

There was a sound at the door, Ullanhu stood up. A twitch shot through his hand as he jumped to his side; searching for a gun. But turning he saw Vasiliy, and he eased.

“Where've you been this time?” he asked.

“Scouting.” Vasiliy declared openly, walking towards his Chinese partner. A smug smile on his face, “I think have plan.” he boasted.

“You do?” Ulanhu asked.

“Best as could think, but will need to more do.” he coughed feebly, “But I confirm there private subway terminal under Kremlin at least.” he admitted, turning aside to the kitchen table.

The meager apartment was sparse, and perhaps only three rooms: a bathroom, a sitting-room kitchen, and bedroom; Vasiliy and Ulanhu traded between the couch and bed in the next room. And as much as it was sparse it was small, no bigger than a matchbox for living, the two men had just enough room to maneuver about themselves as they sat down at the table.

“How'd you come to find out?” asked Ulanhu.

“I do searching, asking.” said Vasiliy, “Where get, and who from. Found basement, in basement is door. Is also elevator. Think elevator where president office is. Also asked. Some men, if trust you tell you anything. And some men easy to trust win. Ask them, 'I hear stories of subway. Is true?'

“Some of these men, be there long. But not feel rewarded. Slip something to them. They tell. Answer is yes: it does exist.

“As told, is emergency evacuation line: when in threat by maybe Germans or English. In times of emergency, czar may give order to shut down Metro, take car out, and abandon the city. System connects to the Sokolnicheskaya Line – or how you say: red line.

“We can take tracks to north-east. But we fast need be. Soon as we get to last station we must escape from city, fast as wind. Fast as horses, my Mongolian friend.”

“I never really rode a horse before.” Ullanhu admitted.

“Oh...” Vasiliy mumbled, with some shame, “But you get picture, yeah?”

“I believe I do. But it sounds like you have a plan, so what's the hold up?”

“So, is problem: we need time to make escape. I need to figure out how to make time.

“I just need few days longer.” Vasiliy trailed off. 

[h2]Surgut[/h2]

In the days following its capture, the town of Surgut had allowed itself to slip into the ethereal void of loosing importance. To the Russians: the town was lost, far beyond the city of Tyumen and too deep into the wilderness to save. And so far deep in the Siberian north, it was not worth the effort. It came that in control of Surgut that the Chinese could claim to dominate the territories. From the Ob north was communist wilderness. And across the distant Tobol into which the river flowed the unsettled wilderness, a backyard in which to out-maneuver any foe. These factors thus made: Surgut was well and good behind the front-lines, and out of the way of combat.

Riding aboard the improvised buggy as provided by the Siberian military, Quan Yun-qi watched disinterested as he passed through the city. Lapsing so far behind everything and put under his occupation a sleepy city. In the days following the autumn days of Republican Tyumen the tensity among the residents waned. Upon receiving the first supplies from the river, there was an almost uneasy certainty these occupants could put the city back to work.

“I'm bored.” the officer complained to his driver. The dull ache of not being on the front was nagging into Yun-qi and chewed his heart and every limb. Like a magnet his mind found itself drawn to the war that now crept slowly away from him. But unlike a magnet, it became only stronger as it marched away from him.

In his time he had entertained his thoughts corresponding with his wife, the nurse that had stitched him back together when he had been hacked with a machete in Mindanao; and now their child. But the periods between letters were drawn, dull, and listless. He had all the time to read and write: but horrifyingly none of it seemed to have life without something to write about.

“I know that feeling.” his driver remarked listlessly. He stared passively out across the empty road as he maneuvered the vehicle through the streets.

The Siberian regulars had arrived and took up their rolls, effectively being what the Chinese were. But here they were, stuck in a limbo.

“The town is nice and all, but I really wish we had orders.” Yun-qi continued to complain.

Surgut was a newer settlement than the cities he had yet to see in the far west. It lacked the same sort of pedigree shared between ancient metropolis' like Moscow or Beijing. Its avenues and roads were wide and open, accommodating for the traffic of the twentieth century. The echo of the puttering engine behind them puffed softly off the brazenly barren, and uninspired faces of apartments.

Every so often something older would be seen standing, some decadently painted home or office. Or some log cabin house, painted over in bright hues of blue. But these were few and far between with the cinder block construction that dominated river-side Surgut.

“I've heard rumors,” the driver said, making conversation, “I'm not sure if you've been told or not. But I hear that there is talk among the residents that we may have killed their own.”

“I was never told.” Yun-qi admitted, “When was this supposedly to have taken place?”

“Some time before we entered town proper. I have not heard details.” the driver said, “But they say some men, maybe fourteen men in all did not return from the fields. Some are believing one of us did it.”

“You say some, so who are the others not-us?” Yun-qi asked.

“I hear talk of a Mafiya. But I don't know who those are. But they sound like a triad. There are a couple organizations I guess that get brought up: the Phantoms of the Wood and the Horses of Perm.”

“They sound ridiculous.” spat Yun-qi, “So I suppose the Russians are superstitious then?”

“Which ever the case, comrade: they are frightened of something.”

“Yes well, let's not all jump at ghosts.” Yun-qi groaned, “Stop the car.” he ordered.

“Why so?”

“I want to take a walk.” the officer grumbled.

With a sputtering put the buggy came to a stop. The traffic deadened roads of Surgut provided no concern of causing an accident, or even traffic infractions. But even if this factored, on hearing of the Russian fears Yun-qi highly doubted any still-operating police would risk indicting the Chinese on such an offense.

Stretching, Quan Yun-qi looked up into the sky. The clear blue sky spanned unadulterated from north to south. And east and west. But turning to the west there was rising a black smudge, crawling and dispersing against the clear azure sheet. He froze, surprised and stunned. “Comrade, what is that?” his driver asked tensely as he too saw the thinning black column as it dragged against the open skies.

Like a tree bent by a harsh wind, the smoke plumed up from the ground, grinding and filing up as it followed something along the ground. Yun-qi had no answer, “We can't be...” he started, “It couldn't? Could it?”

He stepped hesitantly towards it. The column of acrid sooty exhaust was trailing fast and wild. It was like a silent phantom at first, until he heard the hard pounding of the engine, and the screams along the tracks. It was a train, and it was racing fast. Too fast to be safe. As its roar grew louder, and the smoke more ominous he heard the screams of whistles as officers in pursuit shouted aside the onlookers.

A pinching fearful curiosity sprang to his mind, and he turned down an alley, sprinting for the tracks.

His boots fell in pace with the roar of the engine of the iron horse as he chased it through the narrow wet alleys. Bounding through the clear streets passed onlooking residents and the tense soldiers as they looked between he and the train's raising tail.

Throwing aside trashcans Yun-qi spilled out atop the embankment between the city and the river-side port. The interlaced network of tracks running parallel courses through with the spindly steel-framed cranes hanging overhead. And with the roar of the train reaching a crescendo those on the dock looked towards it in awe, and turned to run.

Yun-qi did turn. And his heart which had been racing turned to stone before the chariot dressed in flame. Snapping violently along the tracks the train showed no sign of stopping, or even of slowing. The fire that lapped out of its windows leaving a trail of red-hot silk spewing coal-black smoke. At its head a burned man hung as a totem, strapped in chains. And the moments froze as it leaned on its wheels as it tore into the final turn, the billowing fury that engulfed it screamed as the steel screamed.

There was a moment where all froze, even the tongues of fire. The clouds stopped, gravity froze. Soldiers and civilian alike locked in a frozen moment, taken in by the picture of the locomotive as its shell tore open. The iron casing peeling back from twisting cracks that glowed with Hellfire. In the sudden wave that drummed from the locomotive's bowls Yun-Qi was thrown back as someone grabbed him by the shoulders. A hellish roar filled his ears as the back of his head cracked against bricks and the lights went out.

[h2]Volgograd[/h2]

Low and resonating, the voice of Basil sang out from the bridge of the ferry. Slumberingly slow and deep as that of a bear the boatman sang aloud the [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m9JtNijl5ts]Song of the Volga Boatman[/url] in a deep voice. With a low tempo so that every syllable was like that of a religious chant. In rose and crescendo with the break of every wave as the chugging fairy boat navigated the sand and rock-reinforced channels and banks of the Volga River. The trees that stood over the far banks of the Volga stood as spectators that trapped and echoed the man's off-key, too deep singing voice. The river echoed in his low baritone voice as they ship sailed along.

Jun sat on the deck, legs crossed as he looked out over the bow of the boat with the man's voice singing out from an open window in his cabin. He did not mind the singing so much. The trip had turned regular, boring. Along the course of the Volga they passed communities and  towns that had become isolated come the fall of the Empire. Some looking better off than most, but all looked on the brink.

As they wound through the waters the river came to open wide, as it entering into a lake in its own right until the banks of the already wide river were more insurmountable than before. The dark blue waters underneath them shone in the bright afternoon sunlight and in the distance above the water's edge the span of a length bridge cut across the river where it narrowed again.

“We near!” Basil cheered loud, as he broke from his slow rendition of the Volga Boatman, and as the boat passed underneath the rusted red rail bridge that crossed the Volga river. Chugging low and slow under neath they passed under the steel girders and through the shade of the narrow bridge and kept moving.

The river was quick to break down here. Beyond the bridge turning into a network of islands in the middle of the river. Forming intertwined arms and knotted ribbons of water as the river continued on a drifting course towards the Caspian.

The song resumed, turning over from the first chorus as the ferry began to meet with the wooden or aluminum tubs of men fishing in the river. Paddling out of their way as the large ferry boat past they looked up with expressions of curiosity. Jun watched as they passed them from the cover of the railings and shadows of the deck.

Along the right bank of the river the shadowy tombstones of imperial factors showed through the boughs of trees. Between the green leaves the burned, blackened remains of Russian industry sat silent at the river side. The smoke that billowed from them long choked silent, held within the brick and the broken glass that shone erratically in the afternoon sunlight.

“Gift of the Turks!” Basil declared from the upper deck. Jun looked up as he came out of his hiding. The ferry boat captain leaned half out of an open window with one meaty arm resting in the frame.

Jun looked back down from him to the northern shelled face of Volgograd. “It was perhaps one of the most shocking things we all heard after the death of the czar.” he continued, “When the Turks swelled north out of the Caucus and swept into our cities. In disarray, our noble armies could not fight the Muslim foes. They came clear to Volgograd – our old Tsaritsyn – and took the Jewell of the Volga to their own.”

The ferry boat continued to plod along, passing the concrete of industrial retaining walls. Empty desolation ruled the bank of the river in monotonous gray. A blemish on the gem that Basil so loudly praised.

Clearing the islands in the center of the river a new bridge spanning the river came into view. Crawling out from behind the spruce and the rocks of the river-side the great concrete bridge conquered the wide-river in two sweeping arches. The heavy cement construction giving air to an immortal integrity, conquered even from a distance by the daily traffic in and out of the city. At the wilderness side, the unconquerable vast hills and plains of southern Russia. And opposite the towers and empty pride of an imperial city.

They pulled up closer to the river's shore. As rocky and overgrown embankments gave way to a structured dock-side. Behind the low trees the baroque rises of Volgograd stretched out across the hills, dominated at the front towards the river by a pillared and regal old river terminal. Clear and empty, the shell of the building resembled that of a theme park after season. The abandoned kiosks and park benches that stood facing the water's edge empty of their life and importance. A few men, disheveled and filthy wandered about. They rose their heads to find the new boat came to bump against the tires strapped to the side of the pier.

“All ashore!” Basil cheered jovially with a smile. For once the middle-aged Russian looked happy, the happiest he had been in years, by Jun's measure.

With a hard clump Jun's boots hit the cement of the ferry pier. His body swayed as he again stood on solid ground and he stumbled several steps forward like the village drunk. Equilibrium shot, he staggered ahead for the shade of the terminal's concrete canopy. Among the unswept debris that piled in the corners of the open-air terminal building the chirping of songbirds echoed in the artificial cave. Frightened by his sudden arrival, a spooked dormouse broke out of its cover in the nest it had stole in the overhang above Jun's head. The sound of the rodent startled the agent, who reached for a sword that was not there.

His tension eased, and his heart-rate lowered as he realized what it was. Sighing, he walked over to a wall and leaned against it. Waiting for that familiar stability to return to his legs. He looked behind him to the ferry boat docked at the pier's edge. Basil leaned over the rails watching Jun.

“I wish you luck.” the man shouted from the boat.

“Same to you.” Jun answered, he looked back towards the city and the rows of townhouses all facing the river.

“I think I will stay here for some time.” Basil nodded confidently, “It's not Perm, so it is a change. Where will you be going?”

“Still anywhere but where I am.” replied the agent.

“Well if it is anywhere I can take you, then I will.” smiled the ferryman, “If you have the money to pay of course. I must still eat!”

Jun smiled, if dry and tense. “I'll keep it in mind.” he said, “I assume you don't know much about the town then?”

“No, unfortunately not. I am a stranger: much like  you. But we will make it, I know that much! And by God's will, we shall endure. For what little hope is left in my fatherland it will be shared by us.”

God. Hope. Jun laughed, leaning off the wall, “As to you.” he said, as his last words to the ferryman.