Chapter 7: The Train

January 1, 1945

The wind bit at Bucky's nose and earlobes. Morita and Gabe hovered over the Enigma decryption machine as they waited for the train.

"Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?" Bucky inquired as he stared over the precipice. Soon, they'd be careening across it with nothing but their hands and a wire between them and certain death.

"Yeah," Steve answered, his gaze on the train tracks, "and I threw up?"

"This isn't payback, is it?"

With a smile, Steve eyed the zipline, checking its connection point. "Now, why would I do that?"

"We were right," Gabe said. "Dr. Zola's on the train. Hydra dispatcher gave him permission to open up the throttle. Wherever he's going, they must need him bad."

Time's up.

Steve glanced at him, then put his helmet on and headed to the zip line.

"Let's get going because they're moving like the devil," Farnsworth said.

Steve was ready, hooking his handle to the line. "We only got about a ten-second window. You miss that window, we're bugs on a windshield."

Farnsworth smiled. "Mind the gap!"

"Better get moving bugs!" Dum Dum yelled.

These guys were enjoying this far too much. Idiots.

Steve was off, rocking along the line across the chasm. Bucky's hands were ice as he grabbed the metal handle. He instantly regretted opting out of the gloves even though they interfered with his dexterity. In the field, a second delay in pulling his gun could mean the difference between life and death.

But as his numb hands tried to keep their grip while he careened toward the speeding train, and his heart went wild in his chest, he hoped he hadn't made a fatal mistake.

He touched down a moment after Steve, crouching low to avoid getting knocked off by the wind. The run across the slippery metal was treacherous, but they all managed to keep their footing.

When he and Steve dropped inside the car, he tensed, hand at his hip, ready for a firefight. Luck was on their side. The car was empty. Quickly, he slammed the exterior door closed and grabbed his rifle. He and Steve took opposite sides of the center cargo rack, guns at ready, as they approached the open doorway leading to the next car. Steve went first. Instantly, a door slid between them. Bucky caught a glimpse of Steve's panicked face in the glass before he heard the cock of a rifle behind him.

He spun and fired. Soldiers were coming through a far doorway. He took out one after another with his rifle, pinning himself behind a storage container, his back to the wall, until he ran out of ammo.

Going for his sidearm, he waited until the guard was closer, then aimed and fired as he lurched to the other side of the car. The guard fired, and bullets ricocheted around Bucky as he pressed himself against the wall, his only cover a stack of crates, and squeezed the trigger until his gun was empty.

Shit! He made himself as small as possible behind the crates, tracking the clank of the guard's boots against the metal deck, tensing with each fire of the enemy's gun. Bucky had nowhere to go. His back was literally to the wall. In a matter of seconds, he'd be swiss cheese.

The door to his right opened. Steve was there with a nod, tossing a gun his way, and if they got out of this alive, he'd be buying Steve's beer on their next pass.

Buck caught the gun, knowingly instantly as Steve rushed forward what he planned. When the shield slammed into a crate and sent it flying toward the Hydra soldier, Bucky was ready. The moment the guard dodged the crate and came into view, Bucky fired, dropping him.

His heart was still doing somersaults as he walked up to Steve and eyed the dead guard. "I had him on the ropes."

"I know you did," Steve huffed.

The sound of an energy cannon charging filled the small car, and Steve turned, hand on Bucky's shoulder, shield in front of him. "Get down!"

The blast knocked Steve off his feet, ricocheted off the shield, and opened a hole in the side of the train.

"Fire again!" Zola's voice echoed through the car.

The shield lay face-down on the floor as the guard readied another blast.

"Kill him now!" Zola ordered over the speaker.

Bucky grabbed the shield, stood, aimed his gun, and fired at the guard. The canon sent out a blue bolt of electricity that slammed into the shield. It felt like getting hit by an elephant, and Bucky was sailing through the air. He crashed into warped metal, grabbing onto the first thing his hands could find—a wobbly metal rail.

His feet dangled as he clutched the rail with both hands, the wind blasting his face, bringing tears to his eyes. The icy rail felt like razor blades against his bare palms, but he kept his grip, not daring to glance at the dizzying drop below.

"Bucky!" Steve was there, peering at him, then slowly making his way along the twisted metal toward him.

Don't look down! Don't look down! Steve was too far away. There wasn't a good handhold for him to get close enough.

"Hang on!" Steve yelled.

Thanks for the tip, Steve! The torn metal creaked. Just fucking hurry.

Bucky adjusted his grip, reaching out, trying to get close enough so Steve could reach him, but as he moved closer to the end of the rail, it shifted, hanging loose from that end. If he slid an inch further, it would give way.

Steve reached out. "Grab my hand!"

Steve was too damn far. The metal creaked, the rail came loose.

"NO!" Steve yelled.

There was a moment when Bucky felt like he was floating, and he locked eyes with Steve. Then his stomach was in his chest, and he was falling, tumbling, the metal rail cartwheeling through the air with him. He screamed as Steve and the train careened away from him, knowing death was coming, but not exactly when it would hit.

His left shoulder connected with rock and exploded with pain as his body spiraled. He slammed into another hard surface. Then, oblivion.

-0- -0- -0-

There was white all around and silence, without sensation of flesh. There was no pain. No pleasure. No feeling.

This was death. But was it heaven or something else?

A devilish face with eyes of fire and a hooked beak loomed over him. Its head tilted, then disappeared. Something crunched. The thing came into view again, swallowing a mass of white and red trailed by spaghetti-thin ribbons that dripped crimson.

No heaven then. Hell. A Demon. He'd killed too many people. He'd taken lives from hundreds of feet away, with the squeeze of a trigger. He'd killed because he was ordered to, because they were the enemy, and because it was war.

Thou shalt not kill.

God didn't fuck around, and now this was his punishment.

Another crunch, and the start of sensation. Something… in his left side.

Pain.

God, pain. Suddenly bright and fiery. He groaned. The demon expanded, bringing feathered wings out and flapping angrily. As its head vanished again, he looked down, saw its beak break into a messy pile of red, blue, and white. It came up with a short red and white piece of something, raised its head, and swallowed the thing.

He gazed back down at the mess…the red, the blue…and thought of the pain. He still felt it, but it was distant, like it didn't belong to him. It belonged to someone else.

What the hell was that wet, glistening mess? It looked like a butcher had pounded parts of a cow and set it haphazardly on ice for display.

The demon took another chunk of the white from the mess, and with that, the pain was his again, close, intimate. Something wailed. Another tortured soul in whatever part of hell he'd found himself.

He watched the demon consume its prize again, and his sluggish brain suddenly identified the creature's meal. Bone, he realized. That's what it looked like. Jagged pieces of bone jutting out of flesh. The demon feasted on bone.

It was then that something slid into place in his brain, and he realized the mess of red and white to his left belonged to him, and the demon was a vulture. Large, aggressive, hungry.

And it was eating him.

That sound…that god-awful sound…that was also him. It tore from his throat, and he could feel it in his chest. He did have a body. It was cold, mostly numb, except for the left side, which was on fire.

The bird was undeterred. It continued to pick at the stump of what was once his arm.

Oh god, his arm. It was just…gone.

He tried to move, but the demon…bird…was on his chest. His body refused to work. Except…

Was that his other arm? He peered down at his right side and saw it. It was there. His right arm. Still attached. He saw his fingers, pale and white, laying in the snow, a few inches away from the pocket on his pantleg.

Where he kept a knife, if it had survived the fall.

How the hell was he alive? He shouldn't be alive. No one could survive the fall he just took.

He watched his fingers move, but he couldn't feel them. Clumsily, they fished in his pocket. He wasn't sure the knife was there until he saw the handle.

His fingertips tingled, sensation and pain slowly returning. It was all pain, he realized. Pain below the surface. Pain numbed by cold, but still there, waiting to surface.

He felt the hardness of the hilt, wrapped his hand around it, and pulled it out.

He sank the blade into the side of the bird. It gave a surprised squawk, flapped its massive wings, and toppled off him. He watched it waddle like a drunkard, spewing blood in its wake, then take off into an unsteady, chaotic flight. He lost sight of it but doubted it would survive the wound. He regretted that it would suffer. If his aim had been truer, it would have died quickly. Eventually, something else in these mountains would feast on the bird's carcass…and his own.

The pain receded, forced into submission by the ice. He was surrounded by it. His jacket was covered with thick flecks of snow. He knew the loss of pain and sensation was a bad sign, but it was also a blessing. He was dying slowly. There was nothing he could do about that, but maybe God decided he deserved a little mercy.

He closed his eyes. Dear Lord in heaven, I know it's bad form to ask forgiveness now, when I'm dying, so I won't. I tried my best. I'll take whatever's coming to me. If you're willing to grant me anything, though, will you watch out for my family and Steve? He's my family, too, and now he'll have no family left. He's a better human being than I ever was. We both know that.

My mom will be heartbroken when she gets the news. Would you ease her pain, please? I won't be there to make sure my folks and my sisters are okay. I hope my failings don't reflect on them. My sins are my own.

Amen.

He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but the sun was high in the sky. It had been morning when they infiltrated the train. Tilting his head, he surveyed his surroundings. The mountains towered high above, with jagged pieces of brown rock visible beneath the snow.

He looked down and realized his legs were in water that must be near freezing, but he couldn't feel them.

Hypothermia. He'd read about it. Somewhere. Or maybe he'd heard about it. Maybe it was something Sarah had mentioned.

The body shuts down, its temperature drops, and death soon follows. Ironically, the extreme cold was also the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.

"Just promise me you'll come back to us." He could almost hear his mother's voice in the eerie silence of the ravine. "Fight hard, and come back to us."

He sucked in a deep breath of the icy air. Okay, mom.

It was hopeless. He'd bleed out if he started moving too much, and if he didn't, he'd freeze to death, but he'd made a promise, so he'd try. At least then, when he died, he'd have one less sin on his conscience.

He tucked the knife back into his pocket and used his right arm to pull himself out of the water. It was slow and agonizing, inch by inch. The movement caused the pain to awaken, making each bit of progress torture, and he couldn't entirely stifle his screams. His left side was pure agony. As he forced his body to move, he realized there was something wrong with his right leg and ribs.

The smell of blood filled his nostrils, and he looked down to see fresh blood spurting from his stump. Bile rose in his throat. He gagged. The ravine spun away from him. His stomach revolted, spewing the meager rations from that morning onto the snow, and he plunged into the nirvana of unconsciousness.

-0- -0- -0-

"Hey, Bucky, you gonna lay there all day?" Steve asked, shaking him.

Steve?

He came to and realized he was moving, being dragged, lifted, jostled.

Blinking against the gunk in his eyes, the remnants of his twilight dream faded, and he saw a large figure with a fur cap. Not Steve. Russians.

Thank you, God. Not German. Allies. Not exactly eager allies, but allies nonetheless.

One man barked words in Russian to another, harsh, clipped, his expression tight and cold. His eyes were steel as he peered down at Bucky, calculating, assessing. Then Bucky heard a word he understood—a name that sent his insides colder than the surrounding ice.

"…Zola…".

Had the mission failed and Zola escaped?

Please, God, not again.

The soldiers plopped him on a stretcher. As they carried him through the snow and trees, he looked over at the trail of blood left by his stump before passing out again.

-0- -0- -0-

He woke to darkness and a groan that he realized was coming from his throat. The pain pulled him further awake, and as his eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in a tent. It was night. A shadowy figure was on a cot a few feet away, snoring lightly.

His shoulder ached, spiking pain into his chest and back. He was cold. So cold. And wet. His clothes. His hair. Everything hurt all over. Breathing in and out was agony. His ribs ached on the right, and he could barely feel his right leg, except it was the only part of him that felt hot.

Burning hot.

The figure on the cot shifted, sat up, grabbed a rifle from nearby, and rose. It walked toward him. The man's face came into view, as if glowing with its own light. A round face with round glasses. A smug smile.

Zola…no…

Zola's face vanished, replaced by a shadowy figure holding a rifle on him, as though taking aim. Where was he? What was going on? Where was Zola…?

Bucky looked around, dream blurring into reality, and it took his foggy mind a few seconds to make sense of his surroundings. He was in a tent. It was dark. He tried to move his right hand but encountered resistance.

Memory returned in flashes. The train. The snow. The vulture.

The Russians.

He eyed the armed shadow man. Why capture him if they were just going to execute him?

Then the muzzle of the rifle jabbed into his damaged ribs, and he cried out. Fuck, that hurt.

The tent's flap opened. Another man entered, carrying a lantern. Bucky recognized the officer insignia on the graying man's uniform. Lieutenant. The light also gave him a look at the man with a rifle. Younger. Blue eyes. He studied Bucky curiously.

It took every bit of strength he had, but he lifted his head to look down at himself. He was strapped to a table, which seemed like overkill considering his present condition. He couldn't put up a fight. His body was broken. He'd lost more blood than should've been possible for someone to survive.

Yet, here he was, alive, and apparently a prisoner. His brain felt like cotton candy, but he remembered being carried out of the ravine. One of the Russian soldiers who found him had mentioned Zola.

What happened with the mission? Had it succeeded? Was Steve alive? The other Howlies?

He opened his mouth and managed a sound. "Hey." Shit. Even speaking hurt.

The edges of his vision went black, and he wasn't sure whether he actually passed out, but suddenly the gray-haired officer was closer and the younger soldier was standing guard near the flap.

"We did not expect you to survive this long, Sergeant Barnes," the lieutenant said, his Russian accent so thick, it took Bucky a moment to decipher the words as English.

That makes two of us.

"Did you forget…" Bucky forced the words out, and had to stop to catch his breath as the room spun, "…that we're supposed to be on the same side?"

The officer smiled. "There are many sides, Yankee. The future belongs to those who pick the right one. Hitler is a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, but the Nazi research division, on the other hand, is something that we would be foolish to dismiss."

Hydra. Bucky clung to consciousness with everything he had. Hydra had infiltrated the Russians?

"You are a most wanted commodity, Sergeant. In fact, so valued that Dr. Zola made sure to radio the position of your fall to his comrades before your friends and Captain America captured him. You, apparently, hold the key to bring humanity into the next stage of evolution."

He made note of the ambiguity in the officer's words. The lieutenant wasn't giving any confirmation about whether the Russians were actually working with Hydra, but the tone gave hints. The words echoed Schmidt's deranged ramblings to Steve, and that scared the hell out of him. Schmidt wasn't even human anymore. What the hell did they have planned? The only sliver of good news from the officer's ramblings was the confirmation that Zola had been captured.

The mission succeeded, and it sounded like Steve and the others were alive. Ultimately, that was all that mattered.

The lieutenant set the lamp on a table Bucky hadn't even realized was there.

"Since it looks like you might survive, we'll do our best to keep you that way. You're broken all over. There's black tissue on your stump that we'll have to take care of, I suppose. Dr. Zola must be right. No one else would still be alive. You are special, indeed." The officer barked orders at the young guard, who gave a nod and ducked out of the tent.

Bucky had the confirmation he needed, not that it would do him any good. The Russians had information about Zola's experiments. Either they had spies inside Hydra, or Hydra had infiltrated the Russians.

A moment later, the guard returned with another man who wore a medical insignia and carried a black satchel. The guard removed the straps around Bucky's legs, and Bucky lifted his head once again as the doctor set to work at the foot of the exam table.

Scissors cut through Bucky's pants. He lifted his head to get a look at his leg and instantly regretted it when he saw the piece of bone sticking out of his calf.

Shit, he was a mess.

The two men exchanged clipped words in Russian while the guard remained at the flap. Bucky didn't know what they were arguing about, but it apparently had to do with his injuries. Maybe they were trying to figure out how much effort to put into saving him. Drugs and medicines were a scarce commodity on the battlefield. Using it on him would probably be a waste. If his injuries didn't kill him soon, an infection almost certainly would.

He didn't realize he'd passed out until he came to with hands gripping his leg and tendrils of fiery agony slithering into his back. His eyes shot open just as the hands pushed down hard on the broken bone, forcing it into place, and his entire body convulsed, going rigid with an agony his brain could barely process, shoving a scream from his throat and sending him back into the void.

-0- -0- -0-

He opened his eyes to early morning light streaming through the flap in the tent. His mouth was dry, his body a mass of pain. Shivers ran deep within him, but he was sweating. He managed to lift his head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of himself before letting his skull drop back to the table.

Still strapped down, but at least there was an IV in his right hand, now. He was covered with a blanket, but he could feel bindings on his broken leg and ribs. They really were trying to keep him alive for some reason. With Zola captured, he had no idea what use they had for him. They hadn't asked him any questions, so if interrogation was on their agenda, he guessed they were waiting for him to be more coherent before starting.

He heard voices outside, and the flap opened. Another armed guard stepped in, followed by the lieutenant, who took great care in securing the flap closed. The lieutenant's face was stern, almost angry. He withdrew a black army knife with a six-inch blade.

Bucky sucked in a breath as the man marched up to him and shoved the blade against his throat. "One sound, and I slit your throat, no matter how valuable Zola thinks you are."

The blade dug painfully into the tender skin of his neck, so he didn't dare nod. The lieutenant sneered and whispered. "Good."

"If you find his…body…"

Bucky's heart raced. Was that…Steve? Knife or not, he had to…

A hand pressed hard over his mouth as the blade's pressure on his neck deepened. Bucky felt the warm dribble of blood on his skin. The lieutenant held his mouth to Bucky's ear and whispered, "You've heard of Lady Death?"

The breath froze in Bucky's lungs. He had. A notorious female sniper with 309 credited kills, but she wasn't on the front lines, anymore. She couldn't be. Last he heard, she was training other Russian snipers.

"She's got your Captain in her sights. If things go south, she'll take him and his companions out."

Bucky eyed the guard at the tent flap. Out there, just a few feet away, was Steve and maybe the Howling Commandos standing in the crosshairs of one of the best snipers in the world.

"Of course, Captain!" A man's booming, accented voice filtered into the tent. "If our scouts run across the body of your fallen comrade, I will instruct my men to return his body to you. Every soldier deserves to be buried in his homeland."

"Thank you, Colonel," Steve said.

Bucky closed his eyes, picturing Steve's head snapping back, blood spraying, his body crumpling.

No…

But God, he wanted so badly for Steve to pull a trick out of his sleeve. It was Steve Rogers, after all, the man who single-handedly rescued nearly 400 men from a heavily-armed Hydra facility. The guy who'd helped turn the tide of the war. Anyone who underestimated Steve Rogers generally regretted it.

Steve, don't leave. Figure it out, man. Keep your head on a swivel. Look up.

"Good luck, Captain!" The Colonel's voice yelled.

Bucky squeezed his eyelids closed. Steve was leaving. Relief and despair washed over him. Hot tears slipped from his eyes, and the blade's pressure vanished as the hand released him.

"Your friend must not care for you very much," the lieutenant taunted. "He left you for dead again." The officer barked words in Russian, then added in English, "We've got a nice place set up where no one will find you. Much better than this cold tent. Your transport is on the way." A palm patted his cheek, and the lieutenant's footsteps retreated.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Canon note: The Smithsonian exhibit lists Bucky's death as 1944 (of course, it also lists two different years for his birthdate, so take it with a grain of salt). However, there are other references to Zola being captured in 1945, etc. So, to reconcile that canon discrepancy, I've put Bucky's death on New Year's Day 1945, in the morning, so it was technically 1944 in the United States). Or someone was still writing 1944 automatically when filling out the death cert. We'll never know, but I'm going with New Year's day. It fits the weather, and the discrepancy. V-Day came just a few months after, so Bucky had to fall off that train in the winter between the end of 1944 and the beginning of 1945. I adore reading whatever comments you're inclined to give me this weekend! Thanks for reading, and I hope you're enjoying the story. Buckle up. We're heading into a dark stretch. Hydra is full of sadistic jerks.