An excerpt from Upstart Crows' "An Obliging Associate" by JD Reid

There was a bird which, through no fault of his own, had half lost his mind—a woodpecker, or one other of the irksome species, flying cold and solo in the snow, bobbing up and down in the drifts, and going peet-eet-eet, hoping some other woodpecker or whichever would respond and tell him where they all were supposed to meet up. He flew and let fly his droppings, the final remnants of the last meal he would eat. It’s a shame, really. The snow would fall for another four months, and not but for this small ripple would the bird affect another living thing. That thin, white globule fell doubly faster than the white globules of snow and landed on the gray-coated forearm of one Timofei Borodin Vorstorg, landowner—land of such little worth, by the by, of such unfruitful and solid soil that when his light blue neighbor came, eating his plum, and said, grinning, “Timofei Borodin, perhaps God has a plan for you that doesn’t involve agriculture,” and Timofei Borodin, hearing this from his smug fellow citizen, who had for himself an Eden of plums, potatoes, and radishes, and so Timofei Borodin, hearing this, reminded the fellow citizen where his own property line ended by swinging his shovel all the way to it, the bowl of it whizzing like a hornet by the ears of the panting, running neighbor, who laughed all that much harder because Timofei Borodin’s face was red.
    All that was now past. Vorstorg was called to perform his duty as a National, and  so there he was, tinkling in the snow, while birds pooped on him and his comrade Yegor Yegorovich Vdokhnovenie cursed the folding bayonet on his rifle, a thing that should lock in both action and non-action, but which, due to some malfunction in the steel, swivelled freely like the broken leg of a wasp. “Pancakes!” cried Yegor. “How should I maintain at least the appearance of dignity when my weapon flops like a whirligig?” He pouted at the rifle, folded the bayonet into non-action and closed his gloved fingers around the barrel. He shrugged his shoulders in the cold, shook his head. “No dignity, this.” Yegor clicked his tongue, cupped his free hand around his mouth and breathed hot air into his palm. “We must, eh—Timosha, you listening?”
    Timofei Borodin was buttoning his trousers, had misbuttoned, corrected, and now inspected. “Yes, devil take you! No dignity.” He picked his rifle from where it leaned against a dead shrub and blew snow from the barrel and wiped it at the stock.
    Yegor Yegorovich continued: “We must perform duties with composure. Cool like a fox. And yet, our equipment is crafted with equal to or less than the craftiness of a child’s toy that has no value.” He hoisted his rifle and demonstrated the shoddy quality of his bayonet. “I haven’t shot this rifle in two days, not since the snows began. I don’t even know if it works. What if my life or, grant you, the life of my comrade depends upon the firing of a shot. And instead, my enemy chuckles at the empty click. It would be humiliating. Not to mention, I would be shot. Or my comrade. It is one thing to die in battle. It is another to die following what could be the most humiliating moment of my life.”
    Timofei Borodin said, “You are dead both ways.”
    Yegor Yegorovich said, “Yes, but in the first, I could meet my maker and stand tall before Him, take my deserved punishment with coolness and dignity. In the second, I would stand before Him like an old sausage, red-faced, ‘But-but-but, Sir,’ I’d say, ‘Sir, the stinking bayonet wouldn’t affix.’ I’m certain I’d spend all of eternity on top of a mountain of malfunctioning rifles, eternally trying to affix bayonets that won’t affix.”
    Timofei Borodin had a small cigar in his breast pocket. He took it out and lit it with a book of matches. He coughed and his eyes teared up from the smoke. He wiped his eyes and offered the cigar to Yegor, who took it. He said, “Have you ever even used the bayonet?”
    Yegor too got smoke in his eyes, and he wiped them, and he said, “I quartered an apple with it once.”
    “Then why don’t you take the screw out, throw the bayonet in the dirt, and be done with it?”
    “It’s the principle. Look at my hat.” Yegor pointed to his own head, at the puffy beaverskin hat. He lifted it off his head, set it down, lifted it off, set it down. He was bald for the most part, but what wasn’t bald stuck up in thin strands like the dead trees on their horizon. He said, “This hat fell off my head twice this week. Do you know why?”
    “Because you were drunk.”
    “Because it doesn’t fit. It did fit, but some of the bindings broke, and now it’s too big. I’m saying, Timosha, that if things worked properly, we would not forever be forced to adapt.”
    “If things worked properly, we would not be out here in the snow. We would be indoors like sane people, watching the snow through a window, not being buried by it.”
    “I would drink vodka,” said Yegor, smiling. He took the small cigar from Vorstorg again and puffed it. “My neighbor—a stingy tyrant, by the way—had a daughter, about sixteen or seventeen, when I left. Dragushla. She had long, curly black hair and milky-white skin. I used to sneak over to her house and peek at her while she took her evening bath. She would wash herself very slowly, Timosha. She had blue eyes, and she washed very slowly, and she would smile to herself. I used to pretend that she smiled because of me. If I were home, I would ask Dragushla to marry me, and then I would drink vodka and watch her bathe all day long.”
    “Then you would be married to a raisin,” said Timofei.
    “I wouldn’t force her to bathe all day. She could get out if she wanted. I’m just saying.”
    They stood smoking until poor Osip stuck his head out of the hole in the ground. His old man’s face was red and he had little yellow icicles poking out of his nose like a walrus. His hat was totally white with snow. He had a shovel which he used to lever himself in an uncoordinated fashion out of the hole. His big, bushy eyebrows bobbed up and down as he tried to get his footing. He fell. He clambered and squirmed in the dirt and snow until he was able to crab his way to the soldiers’ feet. “Well, sirs,” he said, trying to catch his breath in huge heaves, “She’s all dug.”
    Yegor offered poor Osip the half-dead cigar. Osip smiled, then he frowned and looked to Timofei for approval. He got it. He took the cigar from Yegor and sniffed it and then dried his lips on his sleeve and finally puffed. He disappeared in smoke. “I have to say, sirs,” said poor Osip, “I dug a little deeper than instructed. No sense in doing a shoddy job.”
    Timofei looked out on the horizon and could see fire smoke. Evening was settling in. “Sure you weren’t buying time?”
    “No, sir,” said Osip. “Matter’s trash.” Poor Osip neither grinned nor frowned. He did shortly screw his face together and said, “What’s this?” He stepped toward Timofei.
    “Easy, Curious Barbara,” said Yegor, tapping his rifle.
    Osip reached out to Timofei’s arm, held it gently, and said, “I believe a bird has taken liberties on your sleeve, sir.” Timofei eyed Yegor, who shrugged. Osip said, “Let me just—” and then he scraped at the dung with his thumbnail. “Happens to the best of us, sir. Birds do not see the rank.”
    “Yes, Timosha,” said Yegor, giggling. “No harm, no fowl.”
    “Straighten up, dummy,” said Timofei, not giggling.
    Poor Osip jutted his tongue from the corner of his mouth, scraping the last remnants of the dropping, brushed his work, and said, “Good as new, sir.”
    Timofei nodded. “It’s time.”
    Yegor straightened himself. Poor Osip raised his eyebrows and said, “Oh, yes, of course. Duty calls.” He walked to the hole. He put his arms on his hips, thinking. “Now, eh, how do you suppose this should be done?” He turned and looked at Timofei and Yegor. “Perhaps I should climb down?” He held out his hands for suggestion. Then he waved them. “No, there is too much opportunity for malfunction.”
    “Kneel at the base,” said Timofei.
    Osip studied the hole, his chin on his fist. Finally he nodded and said, “I think you’re right. Kneeling is a proven method. No sense in straying from what works, sirs.” He brushed his knees and then wet his thumb and forefinger and smoothed his wiry mustache. Coming down to his knees, he took a deep breath.
    Yegor and Timofei stepped up behind him and raised their rifles. Yegor said quietly, “Would you like to say anything?”
    Osip took another deep breath and surveyed the horizon. “In winter, this is beautiful country.”
    Both rifles fired, cracking the cool winter silence. Osip’s body fell into the hole and there was a bouquet painted in the snow. Yegor’s bayonet swung and squeaked from the recoil. The smoke cleared and the men stepped forward and surveyed the hole. Osip’s leg was moving. And then it was not.
    Yegor breathed deeply. “Oddly cooperative fellow.”
    “Yes,” said Timofei. “Yes he was.”
    They commenced to refilling the hole.

[Continued in Upstart Crows.]