He woke up from a headaches serious enough to serve as some form of torture. There was no way he could remember what happened in the last evening or the evening before this. For all he knew, he was in this place due to work assignment- his task was to research local self-sustainable farmer communities in the depths of Russian federation. Although he longed for much more challenging task, the last month has been plenty of fun and full of interesting discoveries. People were friendly, however language barrier was still a challenging enough. But back to the story.
Head was still pulsating with pain even after couple doses of aspirine, which was odd, considering he wasn't really a drinker. Of course, for the sake of the obligations from home, taking a couple of glasses of vodka with hosts seemed almost like the unavoidable task, but, then again, it happened almost half a month ago and shouldn't had any consequences by now. Thankfully, his aspirine supplies almost untouched were still there- in his backpack, together with two days' worth of food supplies, camera, some sweaters and other useful trinkets.
Even more strange seemed the place, where he woke up. Fact that it was some very run-down, almost dilapitated train carriage he spotted almost at the moment he woke up from the slumber as more than month such carriages were one of the main means of transport for him here in Russia. Behind the window, view changed rapidly, however, no matter how hard he seeked he didn't spot any traces of human out there in a forest, apart from the railroad infrastructure. No stations, no litter, not even the traces of glade which would imply woodworks in even a distant past, nothing. Behind the window there was only a forest- deep and primeval. Only the numbered supports of the power line flashed by. Numbers went way over 20000, which obviously meant, he was very far from the start of the line, hell knows how far, he wasn't able to calculate anyways so he settled to some thousand miles or so. Did he even started from the start? Where he was supposed to go? Why did he even was on the train? Where was the end of the line? He didn't know and the situation didn't get any clearer as he looked over his notes. He wasn't supposed to move for next two weeks and even then it was back to Moscow, Vnukovo airport and back to San Francisco, CA with a batch of valuable materials and notes. Or so he though. He lost his watch already a week ago in small and picturesque village, named Sofievka, where people lived off the river, hunting and their private gardens, full of long-forgotten breeds of apples and potatoes and his phone was simply charged out empty.
As he contemplated the situation, the train was gradually, yet definately reducing its speed. Could it be the station? Sure it was. There they were- at first some rusty transformator boxes flashed by, then barely visible, almost overgrown public toilets, then gloomy looking, long deserted railroad station. Then, the train stopped completely. He waited for the usual announcement with the name of the station, however nothing happened. Doors between carriages opened. Now or never. Doors don't stay open for long on russian trains. Station didn't look promising, but, on the flipside, he had been in worse and this time he wasn't convinced, he had any ticket ready. Despite the already distant headaches he grabbed his backpack and left the train. Strangely, doors didn't close right before his eyes or anytime later.