The man was now talking to him in English. Carmine didn't know English, but judging by the man's hand gestures, he could understand he wanted him to follow him.
In a weird mix of Russian, French, Italian and hand gestures*, Carmine told the man that he was going to grab his gun again. After he did so, he followed the man, and started introducing himself.
"My name... Carmine Cannizzaro. Dissident... Sicily. You understand?"
The scene was quite comical to behold.
*All of these languages will be transcribed in English
Jack nodded as the man reclaimed his gun, smiling beside himself at the roundabout method of communication. As the stranger joined him and Lukas, he spoke again with Jack only managing to pick out a few crucial details.
"..... Carmine Cannizzaro.... Sicily.....?"
Jack smiled and nodded. He pointed at himself.
"Jack Philby, from London. Englander."
He extended his hand to Carmine.
Wilhelm's eyes snapped open. He did not move, though his eyes scanned the carriage. Because he had been unconscious mere seconds ago, his brain was transmitting Theta waves, meaning that his thoughts would not wander, but he would be fixated upon solving problems, military-style. He was given advanced powers of deduction without these meaningless think-bubbles clogging up his mind. A quick examination of the surrounding area showed that all of the tables and chairs had fallen across the room and piled up against the bunk beds. The bookcase directly across from Wilhelm teetered dangerously. It could fall at any second. A few of the windows had shattered, leaving broken glass scattered everywhere and allowing the icy air to permeate the cabin. The atmosphere was unsettlingly quiet. Bodies were strewn about the carriage in varying degrees of unconsciousness. The dead silence was broken by groans of effort. A man dressed in rags struggled across the overturned carriage, using whatever handholds he could to keep from falling to Wilhelm's side. He reached the bookshelf, the one piece of furniture that had stayed in place. It was precariously positioned. There was no way that it would stay in that spot for long. The man put his hand on the side of the case, and books immediately became dislodged. Das Kapital, V. 1 by Karl Marx smacked Wilhelm in the face. The thoughtful side of his brain briefly started up again with the thought "Time to go. "
His laptop was already in its case for some reason, and said case was conveniently located right next to him. He slung it over his shoulder. He also grabbed his jacket, which had fallen into his lap while he was unconscious. The mouse would have to be left behind. The climbing man had, by this point, clambered across to the center of the bookcase. It began to tilt. "Nyet! Nyet!" he cried as he tried to move himself back to where he was. It was too late. The rack of books, man and all, began to fall across the carriage. Wilhelm scrambled and leapt into the next bed. The book shelf made contact with the wall, sickeningly splattering the poor man who had endeavored to climb across. A cacophony of glass explosions accompanied as the windows along that wall began to shatter. "Hvordan kunne du har vaeret sa dumme?" he asked under his breath.
He climbed into the next bed and looked at the body next to him. A surprisingly well-dressed man was sprawled across the floor of the cabin. Wilhelm couldn't help but take his pulse. He was alive, but hurt. Knowing that nothing could be done for the man using the supplies at hand, Wilhelm said "Beklager, bror." He continued on his odyssey across the carriage. After pushing aside multiple dead bodies, he finally reached the end of the corridor. An exit hatch lies to the left. A Soviet officer sat next to it. He was in a coma. He had a death-grip on a Makarov, and a Kalashnikov was slung on his back. Despite the loot that could have been taken from the body, Wilhelm left empty-handed, because he did not know how to use the Kalashnikov and could not pry the man's fingers from the pistol. He ducked and stepped through the wide-open hatch.
The wave of cold hit Wilhelm like a speeding car. He immediately stuffed his hands into his armpits for warmth. His glasses instantly fogged up from sudden temperature change. The sounds of men talking in Russian, English, Italian, and French punctuated the whistling arctic winds. The confusion of the sudden changes in the environment saw Wilhelm staring down at the ground. After a few moments of concentration, he realized that the white was speckled with flecks of red. It formed a trail. His eyes followed it. The streak of scarlet terminated at the body of a man who seemed to be homeless. His clothes were ragged enough to imply that this man had seen a lot in his lifetime. Wilhelm approached him, checked for a pulse, and was surprised to find that Poor Man #2 was still alive, as compared to Poor Man #1, who had just recently met a gruesome end at the hands of a particularly violent bookshelf. Once again knowing that nothing could be done to help the guy, Wilhelm left him as he was, unapologetically saying "Another hobo bites the dust." in English.
He finally stepped back and rested against the roof of the train. That one small journey from the back of the carriage to the front of the carriage had taken so long. The Theta waves of his brain had long since been replaced by Beta waves, meaning that he was actively thinking and concentrating rather than just doing. A man on the other side of the train could be heard saying "Jack Philby, from London. Englander." in a British accent. Wilhelm immediately began to panic, thinking What if they're with the ICA? What if they try to kill me? What if they know who I am? Is there some kind of price on my head? All of these paranoid thoughts prevented him from traveling to the other side of the train and meeting these men.
Lukas said to the new arrival in Russian,
"Your English is not the best, is it? I'll act interpreter for now, Carmine, is it? We need to help the people who de-railed the train, I have a feeling that the ICA... Do you know of them? I have a feeling that they caused this, and we need to help them if we want to survive this any longer! Will you help get rid of any communists in the area? We'll be running out of time!" Lukas then heard the rustling behind him.
He immediately turned around, but nothing met his eyes, so he continued to talk to the other two, extremely anxiously, and hurriedly.
"Veronica! Are you doing anything?"
The man leaned out to fire at the soviet to the right, but by sheer bad luck a bullet met with his right arm.
"ARGH... My..." He screamed, yet somehow also whimpered.
"Troke!! Are you Okay?"
"Get 'em down!" He screamed at her.
"Open fire!" His face was now a shade of purple, and his screams began to turn into gurgles.
"I'll try!" Veronica leant out of cover, and she placed a bullet to each man's head.
"Yes!" She shouted gleefully, she than remembered her partner, and leant towards him, "Are you Okay, Troke?"
"Get it out!" He said quickly, staring at his arm, and pulling out a small Swiss army knife out of his pocket with his left hand.
Veronica stared at him, in the silence that followed the battle.
"I've heard of the ICA. You lead the way, I'll cover our backs." said Carmine, glad that at least one of the two men talked Russian.
"AAAAHHHH" Troke screamed, as Veronica cut into his flesh to remove the bullet.
"A bit more Troke, we don't want you getting led poisoning, it's either this or the wound becoming infected..."
"I...Know...That..." Grunted Troke
"A bit more, eugh, I'd hoped I'd never have to see the inside of you..."
"That's the...opposite of... what I.... want you to hope." He groaned out with a small grin, Veronica stifled a laugh, hoping to hell he was joking. Her cuts with his knife were almost done, and then she'd...
"Okay, I'm pulling out the bullet," Veronica yanked out the metal; Troke whimpered and clutched the wound once she was done, "You got a bandage?"
"Rip off some clothing, that'll serve." On his orders Veronica tore off some material on his left arm, using his knife, and bandaged the wound.
"Okay Troke, let's get those civilians and our men off that train, and lets get back to the base!" Veronica said kindly.
"Right," said Lukas to both Carmine and Jack, "Let's meet up with our friends, who we have never met." He chuckled.
"Sounds good. I'll get your mates from the cells."
Turning, Jack moved back to the train, quickly meeting the rest of the prisoners. Again, language proved a barrier so he simply pointed them in the direction of the others with the name 'Lukas'. Quickly seeing the last man out, Jack made to leave, but a noise made him heistate.
What was that? Sounded like it was coming from the other side of the train... Another guard maybe?
Returning to his newfound allies, Jack spoke to Lukas.
"I think there's someone hiding on the other side of the train. Should we check it out?"
Sounds of gunfire permeated the air. A pitched shootout was occurring at some point in the snowy wasteland. Were the terrorists trying to board the derailed train? The Soviets must be trying to fight them off. Despite this, the conversation on the other side of the train continued. The Russian back-and-forth persisted. Wilhelm's thought tangent was interrupted by numerous words sounding suspiciously close and footsteps approaching from inside of the train. "Oh nej. De kommer." he whispered to himself. He crouched and slowly moved away from the hatch. There was a pause, and the footsteps retreated. The idea of a hostile, possibly armed presence so close by did nothing to slow the beating of his already hyperactive heart. He left the poor, unconscious man where he was in the snow and cautiously approached the emergency exit. He peeked through the opening and observed the empty compartment. A fresh trail of snowy footprints cut through the aisle. What if he comes back? I'm going to need a weapon. He eyeballed the comatose Soviet officer to his right. The pistol was still in his hand. Wilhelm looked around for something that might assist him in defending himself from an attack. Something caught his eye. A case on the ceiling, with bright red Cyrillic characters painted on the border was, until recently, mounted on the wall. A pane of glass covered whatever may be inside, and a spider web of cracks permeated said pane. No doubt something useful was in there. It would be a difficult task to retrieve the contents. An idea began to form in Wilhelm's head. A lamp, the bulb long since destroyed, hid under a bunk bed. He grabbed it and stabbed at the case, clearing out the broken glass. The item inside was unfortunately less than useful. Instead of something to use as a weapon, like a fire axe or an extinguisher, a pathetic-looking crowbar was in there. He poked it a few times and it clattered to the floor. Okay. I guess I could go Gordon Freeman on their asses. Not that he exists. He picked up the crowbar and started for the exit when he noticed the knocked-out officer again. Maybe some use could be gotten out of this thing. He put his boot on the man's chest and began to literally pry the gun from the Soviet's hands. Finger after finger came off, and the Makarov clattered to the ground. The crowbar was promptly discarded and Wilhelm made off with his new toy.
Michau slowly awoke to the sound of muffled voices. He had evidently been bleeding from a gash in his left forearm. As he struggled to lift himself, he noticed that the train was on its side. Suddenly, the whole horrible scene came rushing back to him, and he realised the urgency of the situation.
What if they're coming for me? What if they just want to kill us all?
He grasped the opening above his head, what had been the door, and desperately tried to pull himself out. The pain in his left arm shot along his shoulder like an arrow and he dropped to the floor again.
I must get out. I must get free.
Struggling through the pain, he slowly lifted himself out of the overturned carriage and into the cold Russian air. He fell from the train onto the cold, hard ground. His arm hit the ground first, swiftly followed by the rest of his body. This caused him to cry out in agony as the entire weight of his body came tumbling down on top of his severely damaged limb.
"Shit! Arghhhh! Help me! My arm! My arm!"
He began to whisper to himself.
"My arm's bleeding. It's bleeding. It's fucked." The whisper grew to a groan, then to a shout. "My arm. My arm's bleeding. My fucking... my arm! Help!"
Richau suddenly ceased to yell deliriously and stumbled hazily over to what appeared to be survivors. Looking like a reanimated corpse, he reached them and promptly demanded a bandage.
"A tourniquet... does anyone have...... to stop the bleeding...... I'm dizzy...... I need to..... to stop the blood......."
"Holy crap! Another survivor!" Cried Lukas, as he saw the bloodied businessman he turned to Carmine and said in Russian, "Tear off some fabric on your suit, and patch him up! Just make sure it's tight! I have to go and check this out, I'm sorry...."
Lukas began to run, before a reply could be made by Carmine, and navigated the wreckage of the train, managing to reach the other side, where a bullet-soaked mound stood, with a man and a woman walking towards the wreckage, the man was bleeding from his right arm, with a makeshift bandage on his arm, and a painful look on his face.
He looked up at the emblem on the uniform...
...It is them! Lukas ran up and hugged them both, before they could even react to draw their weapons, and he sang praise happily towards them in Russian.
"I'm Lukas, by the way, I can't believe you saved me!"
"Well..." Veronica bumbled out awkwardly.
"You both are brilliant..."
"Thank You," Said Troke through gritted teeth, "But I wouldn't have had to take a bullet if you hadn't screwed up your mission. We only saved you on Fat Dogs orders."
"Oh..." Said Lukas, his face turning red, despite being freezing from having only a T-Shirt on in the middle of the Tundra.
"Sorry about Troke," butted in Veronica kindly, "He usually is a dear, but he gets rather grouchy in these situations. We need to get back to thee compound as soon as possible, to patch him and everyone else up. I'm Veronica, by the way."
"Nice... Nice to meet you both," Said Lukas, calming down slightly, and getting into a more neutral position, "Do you want a help gathering the others up?"
"Yes, we'll need help persuading most of them to the nearest Compound."
"Which is?" Lukas asked curiously.
"Compound 42b" Troke quickly said.
Lukas could only stare in awe at them that he would be going to the legendary Compound 42b.
"Well, let's round them up!" Said Veronica cheerfully, as if she was making cookies, instead of herding refugees.
Deep in the lands of the dying, he stood. He looked at the darkness. Memories of his life passed slowly along a linear track. Yet, it wasn't his time yet. He knew it. He felt it.
Gediminas opened his eyes and looked at the darkness. He got on his knees and hung on to the edge of the fallen train to get up. He moved along until he reached a group of survivors, of whom the businessman he saw earlier was a part. He detached himself from the train and like a rag doll walked forward, towards the survivors. The lighting was bad enough to make his face look like a skull. The old, sunken eyes stared into the group he approached.
He sat down close to one of the unknown men and ripped off part of his coat, then tied it around his wound. blood soaked the thick material in a moment. He sighed and leaned against the train. He sat there for a while, breathing loudly.
Carmine nodded his head, and immediately tore off the right sleeve of the shirt he was wearing under the coat.
The businessman was lyng against the undercarriage, looking more dead than alive. Carmine wrapped the fabric against the blood-stained sleeve of his jacket.
"So, you speak Russian?" said Carmine, looking at the man. He had to keep him talking, to know whether or not he was still alive.
"It would be much better if we could move you back inside. It's too cold out here."
Just as Carmine had said these words, he noticed another bloodied figure coming towards him.
"Fuck. I better go get more men to help me out here." he said.
"So where are the others?" Troke asked Lukas in a manner that resembled an interrogation.
"You mean our men in the ICA?" Lukas replied.
"Yes, and any civilian congregations in the area."
"I know both, but why would you want to bother with civ..."
"We're planning on taking them back to the compound with us," Butted in Veronica, "it's either that, or let them freeze to death."
"I suppose so," Replied Lukas, "Follow me."
He backtracked his footsteps, and eventually found Carmine stood over another bloodied man,
"Carmine, I didn't know you were a medic," he chuckled to the Sicilian, "These are our de-railors, Veronica and Troke.
"Shit," Veronica said rather sadly, "Look what we've done!" She proceeded to tear off a sleeve on her jacket and tend to the tramp-like man, while whispering encouraging words to him.
"Troke, hold my goggles for a few minutes." She took off and threw her goggles at Troke, her face was odd without goggles, her blue eyes and fair brown hair suited a propaganda poster than a soldier.
"Well while you two are acting medic, me and Troke? Is it? Well, we'll find the civilians and bring them here." Troke nodded and walked into the carcass of the train, Lukas turned to Jack quickly, and spoke in English, "Jack, you'd better watch out for any bad guys in the area, borrow Veronica's Makarov for defence." Lukas walked into the train after Troke.
Lukas walked into the carriage, and looked on the floor, and what remained of the tables and beds for any life and supplies, he stumbled across a skinny man with black hair, slumped across the table, and groaning.
Lukas heaved him under his shoulder, and brought him outside to Carmine, Jack, and Veronica;
"I found him unconcious inside the train, no major injuries by the look of it, just a bump to the head, keep an eye on him!" He laid him down on the snow.
Jack nodded from his position behind a metal sheet, scanning the area for any Soviet soldiers with the rifle he had taken from Veronica.
"When are we getting out of here? We can't stay for much longer, they'll be sending in helicopters."
"Hmm..." Veronica wondered, "We'll just wait to patch these guys up, wait for Troke, and we'll get going, we'll have a 28 hour journey to the compound, so you'd better be ready for a walk," Her English carried the distinctive Russian accent, but it somehow complemented her speech.
Wilhelm stood just outside of the hatch. He admired the Makarov he had worked so hard to retrieve. This admiring didn't last, because the pistol was just a mass-produced generic excuse for a sidearm to make the Soviets look slightly more imposing. There were so many better weapons in the world. He considered throwing the handgun away, but did no such thing because the thing at least fired bullets and could be used for defense. The chatter on the other side of the train started up again, causing Wilhelm to break free of this chain of thoughts. He glanced up and did a double take. The body of the homeless-looking man was gone! Deductive thoughts began to permeate his mind.
He stepped back into the carriage and confirmed his hypothesis that the businessman had disappeared as well. How the dying body on the ground managed to move himself from that one position was beyond Wilhelm's thought processes. There was no trail of blood-droplets leading through the train. The man had been bleeding profusely. There was no way he could have gone anywhere without leaving some kind of a trail. It was impossible for the man to have navigated through the wreckage without leaving at least a bloody hand-print or something. Something cold hit Wilhelm on the shoulder, the shock causing him to drop the Makarov. It landed on its muzzle, accidentally firing with an ear-splitting BANG. That is just great. Just in case the ICA didn't have a reason to kill me, they definitely have one now. He picked up the weapon and pondered what caused him to drop it in the first place. Something freezing had landed on his shoulder, despite the fact that he was inside of a carriage. He looked up, and there was an open hatch directly above him. How did I miss that? A little bit of frost had fallen onto his shoulder. A few bloody fingerprints were on the rim.
With a relatively small amount of effort, he hoisted himself onto the skyward-facing side of the train. Footprints and drops of blood created a trail that simply walked straight off of the edge. Wilhelm peeked over the side and saw that the line of prints continued and eventually terminated at the body of, who else, the businessman. He was lying in the middle of a group of people with a tourniquet around his arm. Said group of people consisted of two men and one woman wearing Soviet military uniforms with all different emblems, as well as a civilian man. The poor guy he had seen earlier was lying unconscious next to the businessman, as was another civilian. Wilhelm hopped down and landed on his heels, sending a jolt up his legs. He began to get apprehensive about approaching the people. They could try to steal his laptop, which was still in its case slung around his shoulder. If he lost that, there would be hell to pay. He finally decided to take a risk and approach the group. "Hi." he said, using his limited Russian vocabulary. "Uh.... Taler de Dansk?"
Note: Italic phrases are thoughts, and italicized speech is Danish.
Lukas saw the man approach, he spoke with strained Russian, Lukas held out his hand to this new arrival, and tried to indicate he was this man's friend, but he could hardly begin, as more heavy footsteps came their way.
"Okay," Troke walked out of the train, and held an unconcious slender young woman with light brown hair over his shoulder, and placed him down next to Veronica, "Can you help..." A roar was heard in the distance, the party turned around, and saw a unpleasant sight; A military transport train, it was heading their way, and fast, if they didn't go now, the 55 soldiers on the soon-to-be-derailed train would gun them all down.
"Shit!" Veronica cried.
"What are we going to do?" Lukas asked.
"We run- we are all ready to go, come on!" Troke shouted
"What about her?" Lukas cried, pointing at the woman.
"We can't save her, it'll take to long to carry her, and she looks like she's fading, she has major head injuries." Veronica quietly replied.
"Well, we can't let her be tortured by the Soviets! They'll kill her!" Lukas continued to stare at the unconscious woman.
"There's only one humane thing to do..." Troke whispered, he held out his uninjured left hand, it held a small Makarov pistol.
"... I'm afraid there is," Veronica took Troke's pistol.
"You can't..." Lukas muttered.
"...I'm sorry young lady, goodnight." Veronica held the muzzle up towards the girl's head, and slowly pulled the trigger.
Turning away, Jack spat onto the icy ground.
The scene had left a nasty taste in his mouth. Spitting again, he heard a gunshot from the train and flinched, bringing up the rifle in the direction of the noise. Nothing more came. He lowered the rifle but kept his eyes on the train.
"Hi. Uh.... Taler de Dansk?"
Jack turned, seeing a new man come stumbling out of the train.