The M7 to Saransk

Konstantin downshifted the bus, the engine loudly protesting and shuddering along a snow-plastered roadway in Moscow. Stopping at a curb just outside the ceremony for conscripted Russian soldiers, he let the engine idle. Gripping plastic shopping bags that held their possessions, young Russians in tattered camouflage jackets looked lost, some vomiting into the hedge out of fear. A year after the Big Man declared war, most could see through the propaganda: the Ukrainians weren't Nazis and, perhaps worst, Mother Russia was losing. But there were always a few hardliners eager to start killing.

Staring stolidly through the windshield, Konstantin touched the lucky charm over his chest, feeling the cold metal through his thin outer down jacket. It was time.

He levered the door open as the recruits approached the bus, but didn't make eye contact as they stepped on board. After counting sixteen he glanced to the officials on the sidewalk, thugs in military police uniforms, and nodded. They waved him off.

Gunning the engine, Konstantin eased it into first gear, and set off down the road. All was according to plan.

Konstantin Molotov was part of the Outer Resistance, fighting for peace and getting paid a lot of money to save the lives of his innocent Russian countrymen. He knew there was a possibility some would not want to flee, but that was a chance he was willing to take.

The bus ride was quiet for twenty minutes before he took the detour to the mega shopping mall. Watching his mirrors carefully, he gradually sped up as fast as he dared without attracting attention. The turn into the parking lot was sudden and dramatic, waking each passenger from his apprehensive reverie.

"Station One," Konstantin shouted, pulling up next to eight cars. Here his authority was critical. If he kept shouting at them they wouldn't have time to question him. He yanked the door open, stood, and waved them all off. "Go, go, go!" he yelled. "Station One!"

There wasn't a Station One. Not one the Russian army knew about. Nor was there a Station Two. But the would-be soldiers didn't know that. He glared angrily at each of them as they scurried forward, heads down, and made their way off. This was Konstantin's idea: instead of making contact with recruits who didn't want to go to war, then planning individual escape routes, he forged his own credentials as an army driver and kidnapped the entire lot. Seven drivers, all part of his team, stepped into the wind and started shouting, selecting two each by name and ordering them into their cars. Konstantin turned off the engine, stepped down from the bus, and made his way to the car that was left, an older, beat up Mercedes. He pointed to the two that were left and directed them to the back seat.

"Orders!" he commanded, hoping he wouldn't have to explain further.

The younger kid immediately ran to the car and got in, not wanting to be abandoned in the gray, icy parking lot of a mostly empty shopping mall. The other stood and looked around for a few seconds, watching the first cars leave, before submitting to Konstantin's shouts, the cold Mercedes throttling to life.

Each car drove in a different direction, as was the plan. The military police could catch some of them, but not all. They would eventually cross different border checkpoints, some after driving thousands of miles.

Konstantine wanted to feel them out before the next station. One spoke up first.

"What was wrong with the bus?" the larger, surly one said.

"Sorry for the confusion," Konstantine said. "Naturally there are spies, so we have to take precaution. So, are you looking forward to seeing some action?"

The young, skinny one replied, "Not really. But there's probably not much choice." He tried a weak smile. "My name is Aleksandr."

"Hello, Aleksandr, you can call me Roman," Konstantine said. He was driving fast.

The surly one was Denis Nokonov, who just nodded to himself.

"What about you?" Konstantine asked. "You are not excited to travel overseas?"

"This is not a vacation," Denis said. "We're not going to the Caribbean, just another post-Soviet country."

"But you are eager to defend Russia against the Nazis in Ukraine?" Konstantine asked, watching his reaction in the rear view mirror.

"Yes, why not?" Denis said. His tone was challenging.

Konstantine locked eyes with him for a second, then nodded.

No one said anything for a long time, until late in the night, when Konstantine drove into the parking lot of an old, abandoned railway station. He had made excellent time, and the two cars, a red Audi and a newer Lada SUV, were already waiting.

"Okay," Konstantine said. "Station Two. Denis Nikonov, you're going with the other driver the rest of the way. He has your papers." Vyacheslav, waiting in the Audi, would drive him across the border.

"This isn't right," Denis said, as the Mercedes stopped and switched off. "We're all changing cars again?"

"Special assignment," Konstantine said. "Take your complaints to the Commander. He's waiting for you. Come, Aleksandr, you're with me."

The Lada was more comfortable than the Mercedes, and in better shape that Konstantin expected. Aleksandr, buckled in next to him, was smiling slightly as they left the parking lot and headed to the freeway. "This is just like Hogan's Heroes," he said.

"Sure," Konstantine said. "Sort of."

Aleksandr fished into his plastic grocery bag, pulled out a pistol, then leaned back, pointing the barrel at Konstantine.

"Where are we going?" Aleksandr asked, his smile gone.

"Who brings a gun along?" Konstantin demanded. "The army will give you guns. You don't bring your own."

"You're not with the military," Aleksandr said.

"We're heading toward Saransk," Konstantine said. "If you are so eager to fight in the war, why did it take you a year to enlist?"

"My mother was sick," Aleksandr said.

"Is she is better, now?" Konstantine asked.

"She is dead," Aleksandr said.

"I am sorry your mother has died," Konstantine said. "But there are many lives we can still save."

"The lives of Nazi rebels?" Aleksandr asked.

Konstantin sighed. "Yes. Would you like me to show you where the rebel base is? You can take this information to the Big Man. You'd be a national hero."

Aleksandr kept the gun on him as he drove. It made him nervous, but he suspected the kid wouldn't shoot him while he was driving. But the long trip would soon become tedious.

You know why we call Putin the Big Man?" Konstanine asked. "Because he's so tiny. You see? It's a joke."

Here the details become fuzzy, as I'm shunting information together piecemeal, trying to mold a word sausage whole. There are some records from Outer Resistance, but most of it is word-of-mouth stories recorded on my iPhone.

There's a knock at my cabin door. Hold on.

I'm back at my desktop. It's nothing, just a white van in the driveway. I don't recognize them, so they'll eventually go away. Where was I? Aleksandr.

Aleksandr's story is important, and it starts when he was a kid, hearing the sound of his father's belt, leather whipping against denim belt loops. His father had the habit of doubling the belt, pulling the ends tight before snapping the leather together in a loud cracking noise, just to let Aleksandr know he was there.

"Aleksandr!" he would ramble after he came home from the pub. Squinting at his son and gripping his belt, he would say, "Let me tell you little something about life."

And this is why Aleksandr gripped the gun in one hand, the barrel wavering slightly as they sped down the freeway.

It's already morning, and Denis Nokonov has checked in at the hotel. He fires up the desktop computer, gets online, and reads the latest Reedsy Prompt, 'Story Form.' He scrolls down, selects Submit Story, and starts typing.

Meanwhile, the white van has returned. Two men stand on the porch and smoke cigarettes near the door cam. I recognize a few Russian words.

Konstantine and Aleksandr pull into a dark, desolate gas station. The pumps are working, but the shop looks closed.

"I'm getting gas," Konstantine said. "You want anything?"

Instead of pointing the gun, Aleksandr is loosely clutching it, resting his hand on his stomach. His eyelids are all but shut. "It's not open."

"If no one's home, they won't mind," Konstantine said, tapping buttons on the pump display.

Aleksandr smiled slightly as the fuel rushed into the tank.

"Grab the bag," Konstantine said. "The paper bag behind your seat."

Aleksandr stirred back to life and reached into the back seat. Inside the bag were metal cups, a bottle of orange juice, and a large bag of onion flavored rings. "Funyuns," he said. "Where did they come from?"

"Some factory," Konstantine said. "Probably England. I don't know, America? New Jersey?" He tapped his lucky charm inside his jacket as the gas nozzle shut off. When he returned to his seat and started the Lada Aleksandr was alert, yet the gun was in his lap. "Grab the cups."

Konstantine lifted his lucky charm out of his jacket pocket, the smooth metal of the flask reassuring in his hands. "Stolichnaya," he said, pouring the vodka. "The real stuff, before it was sold and rebranded. Only half a cup for now. There's still much driving to do."

Aleksandr took his cup, paused for a zdorovie, and said, "If we're going to die, we might as well die as Russians."