As Luck May Have It
Short Story
It was stunningly violent, the way the train broke apart in the snowy field.
The timer on the mine had been so precisely set, that it had looked as though an invisible hand had pinched the coupling between the third and fourth carriages, before tossing it aside, like a picky toddler with its toys.
A sharp sound leapt across the plain, followed by the finality of the carriages and bodies landing in the snow.
Smoke wafted up about the single telephone line draped across petrified poles, marching off single-file into the distance.
There was silence.
Then, a cry.
A baby’s sharp squawk, among the wreckage. The terrible screams rose and fell over the landscape. No bodies were animated by the piercing sound. They just kept emptying into the snow, just as the baby’s lungs were filled and emptied, over and over.
As the minutes slid by, the baby’s screams became softer, the cold settling in. The blanket it had been wrapped in by its mother, who was somewhere amongst the wreckage, had lost its tight grip around the child’s body. Its cries began to grow fainter and fainter. Silence seemed ready to reign supreme once more.
The purposeful crunch of boots held its victory at bay. A pair of footsteps approached the aftermath of the explosion. Two bearded, warmly-dressed men came to halt in front of the cold baby.
The taller one, with the ginger-rooted hair, nudged the small bundle with his foot.
The baby made a feeble sound in acknowledgement, but it was all it could muster from lips already turning purple.
“My God,” said the tall one. “It’s still alive.”
“Fancy that,” said the short one.
“Shoot it,” said the tall one.
“Shoot it?” said the short one.
“Yes, go on, I set the mine,” said the tall one.
“Why don’t you shoot it? Your mine didn’t finish the job,” said the short one.
“The mine did as intended. Clean up is your job,” said the tall one.
“You’re being ridiculous,” said the short one.
The baby yelped weakly.
“Ha! See? The little human agrees. It is you who must shoot it,” the tall one exclaimed triumphantly.
The short man glared at the bundle. The child’s small limbs had begun to tremble.
“Hurry up, Oleg,” said the tall one. “You done this a hundred times already.”
“Not to a baby, Vladimir,” said Oleg.
“It’s a smaller version of the hundred you’ve already shot,” said Vladimir.
“Vladi-”
“Shoot it, Oleg.”
“I don’t want t-”
“Shoot it Oleg, shoot it now!”
Oleg whipped out his handgun and fired.
The baby narrowly avoided being crushed by Vladimir’s body as his life was stripped away and he fell.
Oleg put his gun away. He reached down and picked up the child. Opening his jacket, he cradled the cold baby to his chest.
“There there, Vlad,” he cooed, reaching for the first name on his mind. “You’re much better than my old friend Vlad.”
Oleg turned and retraced his footprints off into the snow.
