Starting from South America, speeding through the world

Chapter 290 Uprising
Fifty kilometers west of Saratov Oblast.

The streets of Borisogrebsk were dusty and gray in the early morning.

Vorokin pulled the collar of his old cotton coat tighter and walked along the roadside with his head down.

It snowed a little last night, but now it's all melted into mud, making a "squeak" sound when you step on it.

His left hand was in his pocket, and his right hand was holding a tattered lunchbox.

Although there are still forty minutes before I have to start work, I need to go early.

Foremen don't like punctual people, nor do they like quiet people.

Unfortunately, he had both.

The butcher shop at the street corner switched to selling soybean meal cakes three years ago.

The proprietress broke her leg while queuing at the distribution station, and it hasn't fully healed yet.

Now, she sits numbly in the sun on an old wooden chair by the door.

As you walk further ahead, the chimneys in the industrial zone have long since stopped operating, but the assembly lines are still running.

This border city hardly undertakes any real "production" tasks.

It's just about dismantling, recycling, and transporting those endless piles of scrap metal.

Vorokin's job was to strip, layer, and classify the waste cables.

My fingers were calloused from being worn down, and they felt like a rat's tail to the touch.

When he arrived at the ruins near the factory, he habitually slowed down.

There used to be a library here before the war; I used to come here often when I was studying.

Ten years ago, he could recite poems, Pushkin's and Lermontov's.

Now, the library has become a warehouse for storing oil drums.

Enclosed by wooden boards, the exterior walls are painted with the words: "Work is a glorious responsibility."

Vorokin walked on in silence as the sky began to lighten.

But just then, a faint commotion suddenly drifted in from afar.

It wasn't a command, it wasn't a formation, but rather some kind of inappropriate clamor.

He instinctively stopped, thinking someone was trying to break through the post or cause trouble.

Then, Vorokin noticed that the workers who had been traveling with him had all stopped, looked at each other blankly.

A few seconds later, another commotion was heard.

This time it's much clearer.

People were shouting, "Get out here," "We've had enough," and "He's dead."

Vorokin's heart jumped.

He involuntarily took two steps back and gripped the lunchbox tightly.

This is not good news.

Nobody would do that.

Unless they've gone mad, unless something truly extraordinary has happened.

Vorokin instinctively wanted to walk away, but his body felt as if it were nailed to the ground.

Perhaps, there was something in that roar that could not be hidden.

Hope? No, too optimistic.

Anger? Not really.

Joy? He dared not even think about it.

Then, someone moved and resolutely headed in that direction.

It's Artyom from next door.

Vorokin opened his mouth, wanting to call out to him, but didn't know what to say, and finally silently followed.

After walking for half a minute, more people started looking around.

One by one, they walked out of the room, stood in front of the door, nervously took off their hats, and held them in their palms.

"Germania has been destroyed! Just yesterday!"

"That bastard Hitler is dead!"

"They tried to suppress the news, but it was too late, and they were forced to admit it."

"The photos were sent to the front lines and to every radio station."

"He died like a dog. People saw his body burning in the fire."

"Workers, soldiers, farm youth—are you ready?"

"We have already started an uprising in Varna."

"Odessa deliberately cut off the railway."

“We have lost two entire generations in the past decade.”

"Should we continue to remain silent and wait for the executioner's blade to fall?"

"Stand up! Stand up with us!"

"Reclaim the land and future that belong to the people!"

The crowd grew larger and larger, drawing ever closer together.

The sound was originally distant, echoing in the air until it formed a kind of resonance.

No longer were there doubts and hesitations, but an indescribable restlessness surging within me.

Anger, hope, confusion, and the desire for revenge—all these emotions intertwined.

When Vorokin finally came to his senses, he realized he was running, swept up in the surging waves.

He didn't think it was any great decision. He didn't think of his mother's face, nor of his sister's death.

He couldn't even think; he only knew that he was getting faster and faster.

Soon, they blended into the larger crowd.

Hundreds of people, men, women, and children, dressed in tattered clothes, looked as if they had just woken up from a long nightmare.

The street ahead was blocked by overturned vehicles, sandbags, and iron fences.

Several unfamiliar young men stood on top, waving flags and sewing on axes and sickles.

"Yesterday, the leader of the fascists was consumed by the flames of justice!"

"Today is the moment when our motherland calls upon its sons and daughters to rebuild freedom and dignity!"

Volodin stood on the edge, his breathing quickening uncontrollably.

He glanced down unintentionally and noticed a flyer lying at his feet.

The rough transfer paper was covered in mud, and the black text at the top stood out.

A morning press release from the Daily News.

—The leader died for his country.

—Imperial Mourning.

Just as Vorokin was about to bend down for a closer look, he heard a series of hurried footsteps coming from the side.

Fully armed soldiers crossed the street corner, their guns pointed at the crowd.

The next second—

They opened fire.

Both sides opened fire simultaneously.

There was no hesitation, no negotiation, no orders.

The bullet whistled through the air, instantly igniting the entire block.

Before Vorokin could react, he was pushed and knocked to the ground.

He clutched his head and fell into a ditch filled with sewage, which splashed into his mouth, tasting bitter and foul.

Some people were crying, shouting, or getting hurt.

Some fell, but many more continued to run.

The incessant gunfire was both close at hand and far away.

Vorokin couldn't see anything clearly.

There's a fire.

Thick smoke billowed, carrying the smell of burning rubber.

He lay stiffly on the ground, the cold wind blowing, his limbs feeling as if they were detached from him.

Just then, a muffled sound came from a few meters away.

A young woman was hit and fell backward, with a large pool of blood flowing beneath her.

She had something slung across her back, which looked like an ammunition pouch.

Nobody went to check. No time.

The battle continues, bullets whizzing through the air.

The woman turned her head weakly, her gaze wandering before finally settling on Volokin.

At that moment, he almost wanted to close his eyes and pretend to be dead.

But the woman moved.

She raised her blood-stained hand and gestured slightly, indicating that he should pick up his gun.

Volodin felt as if something was blocking his throat; he could only hear his own heartbeat.

Thump, thump, thump, my whole chest cavity was vibrating.

Bang, bang, bang, without stopping.

As if possessed, he inexplicably found strength and struggled to crawl over.

His knee grazed the glass shards, instantly turning into a bloody mess.

But Vorokin seemed oblivious to the pain, and grabbed the rifle tightly.

The handle is made of wood.

Cracked, rough, covered with oil stains and scratches.

The woman's lips moved, as if she were speaking.

"What's your name?" Vorokin asked through gritted teeth in a low voice.

too late.

The woman's chest remained still.

My name is Ekaterina Petrova.

They call me Katya.

Vorokin lay prone in the blood and mud, clutching his gun.

He noticed he was trembling uncontrollably—but this time, he didn't let go.

A shout, like a bugle call, came from afar.

More people rushed out from the street corner to join the fight.

The cloth hat, scarf, and tattered cotton-padded coat were all familiar, but the head was no longer bowed.

Volodin also got up and followed them.

　My injury from June had just healed, and today I started running a high fever again. I really can't hold on any longer.
　　
　
(End of this chapter)