Leaving the little girl choking in her tears, Artyom carefully passed through the arch and glanced at the path. The first thing that caught his glance was the three bronze letters screwed to the marble facing: ‘V. .NKh.’ Where the ‘D’ should have been only a dark trace was visible. A deep crack went across the whole inscription along the marble.
He had to check what was happening in the tunnels. If someone had captured the stations, then, before going back for assistance, he had to explore the situation in order to explain exactly to his allies from the south what danger threatened them.
Immediately after the entrance to the line, there was such an impenetrable darkness that Artyom could see no further than the elbow of his own arm. Something was uttering strange, chomping sounds in the depth of the tunnel, and it was insane to go there unarmed. When the sounds stopped for a short while, he began to hear the water babbling along the floor, flowing round his boots and rushing back, towards
VDNKh.
His legs shook and refused to step forward. The voice in his head warned over and over again that it was dangerous to go on, that the risk was too great and he would not be able to discern anything in such darkness anyhow. But another part of him, not paying any attention to all those sensible arguments, was pulling him deeper, into the darkness. And, having surrendered himself, he, like a wind-up toy, made one more step ahead.
The darkness surrounding him became total and nothing was visible. A strange sensation arose in Artyom, as if his body had disappeared. Only the rumour of his former self remained and he depended wholly on his mind.
Artyom moved forward for some time more, but the sounds from the direction he was heading did not get nearer. Then others were heard. The rustle of steps, the exact duplicate of those he had been hearing earlier, in the same darkness, but he was unable to recall where exactly and under what circumstances. And with every new step reaching him from the unseen depth of the tunnel, Artyom felt as if a black, cold horror was seeping, drop by drop, into his heart.
In several moments he, not being able to endure it, turned and broke headlong for the station, but, not seeing the cross-ties in the darkness, tripped over one of them and fell, knowing that now the inevitable end had come.
He broke out in a sweat and didn’t even consider immediately that he had fallen out the cot during a dream. His head was unusually heavy, a dull pain pulsed in his temples, and Artyom spent another few minutes on the floor, until he finally came to, but even then he was unable to lift himself to his feet.
But at that moment, when his head had cleared a little, the remnants of the nightmare completely vanished, and he was no longer able even to recall approximately just what he had dreamed. Lifting the curtain, he glanced outside. Besides some sentries, there was no one - evidently, it was now night. Deeply inhaling and exhaling the customary damp air several times, Artyom returned to the tent, stretched out on the cot and slept like a log without any dreams.
Melnik woke him. Dressed in a dark insulated jacket with turned-up collar and military trousers with pockets, he looked as if he intended to leave the station any minute now. He had on his head that very same old black field cap, and two large bags, which seemed familiar to Artyom, stood at his feet.
Melnik moved one of them toward Artyom with his boot and said:
‘Here. Shoes, a suit, a backpack and weapons. Change your shoes and get ready. You don’t have to put on any armour, we don’t intend to go to the surface, just bring it along. We leave in half an hour.’
‘Where are we going?’ Artyom asked, half awake, eyes fluttering and trying to restrain a yawn.
‘Kievskaya. If you are OK, then along the Ring to Byelorusskaya and to Mayakovskaya. And there we’ll see. Get ready.’
The stalker took a seat on a stool standing in the corner and, pulling a scrap of newspaper from his pocket, began to roll himself a cigarette, looking at Artyom from time to time. Under this watchful eye Artyom was nervous and fumbled everything.
However, after about twenty minutes, he was ready. Not saying a word, Melnik rose from the stool, grabbed his bag and walked to the platform. Artyom looked round the room and followed him.
They passed through an arch and exited toward the paths. Climbing along the wooden staircase added to the path, Melnik nodded to the sentry and began to walk towards the tunnel. Only now did Artyom notice how strangely the entrances to the lines were arranged. On the side of the platform that led to Kievskaya, half the path was blocked by a concrete weapon emplacement with narrow gun slots. A metal grate obstructed the passage as well. And there were two sentries on duty. Melnik gabbed with them in short, unintelligible phrases, after which one of the guards opened the hinged lock and pushed the grate.
Along one side of the tunnel stretched spooled black insulation wire, from which weak lamps hung every ten or fifteen metres. But even such poor lighting seemed a real luxury to Artyom. However, after three hundred steps, the wire had become detached, and in this place one more sentry awaited them. There were no uniforms on the patrol members, but they looked much more serious than the military at Polis. Knowing Melnik by sight, one of them nodded at him, letting him pass ahead. Stopping at the edge of the lighted space, the stalker took a flashlight from his bag and switched it on.
After another several hundred metres voices were heard ahead and the glows of flashlights appeared. Melnik’s submachine gun slid down from his shoulder and ended up in his hands in an imperceptible movement. Artyom followed his example.
Most likely it was another, long-range patrol from Smolenskaya. Two strong, armed men in warm jackets with fake fur collars were arguing with three peddlers. The patrol had round knitted caps on their heads, and on the chest of each hung night-vision instruments on leather straps. The two peddlers had weapons with them, but Artyom was ready to bet anything that they were just traders. Huge bales of rags, a map of the tunnels in their hands, the special roguish look, the animatedly shining eyes in the beams of the flashlights, he had seen all of this repeatedly. They let peddlers into all the stations usually without any problems. But, it seemed, no one expected them at Smolenskaya.
‘Well it’s OK, pal, we are going by,’ one of the traders was trying to convince a patrol member, a lanky moustached man in a quilted jacket that fit too tightly.
‘We have our belongings here, take a look for yourself, we will be trading at Polis,’ echoed the other peddler, a chunky guy with hair down his eyes.
‘What harm is there from us for you? There’s only good; here, take a look, jeans just like new, your size for certain, brand name, I’ll give them to you for free.’ The third had taken the initiative.
The sentry shook his head in silence, blocking their passage. He answered next to nothing, but as soon as one of the peddlers, taking his silence for agreement, tried to step ahead, both sentries nearly simultaneously clacked the bolts of their submachine guns. Melnik and Artyom stood five paces behind them, and though the stalker lowered his weapon, the tension was felt in his attitude.
‘Stop! I am giving you five seconds to turn around and leave. It’s a secure station, they don’t allow anyone here. Five . . . four . . .’ One of the sentries began to count.
‘Well, how are we supposed to get there, through the Ring again?’ One of the peddlers was about to get perturbed, but another, shaking his head resignedly, tugged him by the sleeve and the traders picked up their bales from the ground and dragged themselves back.
Waiting for a minute, the stalker gave Artyom a sign, and they began to walk to Kievskaya right behind the peddlers. When they were passing the sentries, one of them silently nodded to Melnik and put two fingers to his head, as if giving a salute.
‘A security station?’ Artyom was curious, when they themselves had passed the cordon. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Go back and ask,’ the latter snapped, stopping Artyom from asking any more questions.
Although Artyom and Melnik were trying to hold a bit further back from the peddlers walking ahead, the sound of their voices came ever closer, and then suddenly stopped short. But they hadn’t passed even twenty paces, when the beam of a light struck them in the face.
‘Hey! Who’s there? What do you need?’ someone cried nervously, and Artyom recognized the voice of one of the traders.
‘Calm down. Let us pass, we won’t bother you. We’re going to Kievskaya,’ the stalker answered quietly, but clearly.
‘Pass, we’ll let you go ahead. No use breathing down our necks,’ they declared from the darkness after conferring briefly.
Melnik shrugged his shoulders with displeasure and leisurely moved ahead. After about thirty metres that very same trio of peddlers was waiting for them. Upon Artyom and Melnik’s approach, the traders politely lowered their wares to the floor, parted and allowed them to pass. The stalker, as if nothing had happened, began walking further on, but Artyom noted that his pace had changed. Now he walked silently, as if hoping to muffle the sounds. Although the peddlers immediately followed them, Melnik didn’t look at them once. Artyom himself had been trying to overcome the desire to turn round for a rather long time, about three minutes, but then he looked back anyhow. ‘Hey!’ a tense voice was heard from behind. ‘Wait up there!’ The stalker stopped. Artyom began to feel perplexed. Why was Melnik so obediently responding to some petty traders?
‘Are they so bitter because of Kievskaya or because they are protecting Polis?’ one of the peddlers asked on catching up with them.
‘Naturally because of Kievskaya,’ Melnik replied, and Artyom felt a pang of jealousy: the stalker hadn’t wanted to tell him anything.
‘Yeah, I can understand that. It’s getting scary at Kievskaya now. Well, it’s all right. Soon these neatniks from your guard will have to be hot. Everyone will be running to you from Kievskaya. Do you understand just who will remain living at the station? It’d be better to be shot,’ the lanky peddler mumbled.
‘Have you rushed the guns yourself?’ the other spitefully harrumphed. ‘Pshaw! Don’t pretend you’re a hero!’
‘Well, you haven’t been too hot yourself, either,’ the lanky one responded.
‘And just what’s going on?’ Artyom couldn’t contain himself.
The two peddlers immediately looked at him as if he had asked a question so stupid that even a child knows the answer. The stalker kept quiet. And the peddlers grew silent and they walked for some time in complete silence. Whether because of this or, perhaps, because the prolonged silence was growing spooky, Artyom suddenly no longer wanted to hear any explanation. And when he had decided he was about to give up on them, the lanky one finally and reluctantly pronounced:
‘The tunnels to Park Pobedy are there, right ahead . . .’
Hearing the name of the station, his two fellow travellers pressed closer to each other and Artyom imagined for a second there was the rush of dank tunnel air and the tunnel walls were collapsing. Even Melnik shrugged, as if trying to warm himself. Artyom had never heard anything bad about Park Pobedy and was not able to recall one tale associated with this station. So just why, suddenly, had he become so uneasy at the sound of its name?
‘What? Is it getting worse?’ the stalker asked gravely.
‘What do we know? We are just ordinary folks. We pass it sometimes. Stay there, you’ll understand,’ the bearded one mumbled vaguely.
‘People disappear,’ the thickset peddler stated under his breath. ‘Many are frightened, so they run. One can never make out who has disappeared or who ran away on their own, and it’s even more awful for the rest.’
‘All these tunnels are damned,’ said the lanky one, and he spat at the ground.
‘But the tunnels are blocked.’ Melnik was stating a fact.
‘They’ve been blocked for a hundred years, but what about since then? Well, if you’re a stranger, then it’s better you should understand us! Everyone knows there that there is a fear of the tunnels, even though they have been blown up and blocked three times. And anyone can feel it in their skin as soon as they show up here, even Sergeich over there.’ The lanky one pointed at his bearded companion.
‘Exactly,’ the shaggy Sergeich confirmed and he crossed himself for some reason or other.
‘But they’re guarding the tunnels, aren’t they?’ Melnik asked.
‘The patrols are here every day,’ the bearded one nodded.
‘And have they ever caught anyone? Or seen someone?’ the stalker prodded.
‘How would we know?’ the peddler gestured helplessly. ‘I haven’t heard. But they try to catch someone.’
‘And what do the locals say about it?’ Melnik wasn’t backing off.
The lanky one said nothing, he only gestured sombrely but Sergeich glanced back and said in a loud whisper:
‘It’s the city of the dead,’ and thereupon he crossed himself again.
Artyom wanted to burst out laughing: he had already heard too many stories, fables, legends and theories about just where in the dead are found in the metro. And of souls in the pipes along the tunnel walls and the gates to hell, which they are digging at one of the stations . . . now there’s a city of the dead at Park Pobedy. But the ghostly draught had caused him to suppress his laughter, and, despite the warm clothing, it had chilled him. Worst of all was the fact that Melnik fell silent and ceased all inquiries. Artyom hoped that his companion was just scornfully waving aside such an absurd idea.
They passed the rest of the way in silence, each of them immersed in his own thoughts. The way proved to be completely quiet, empty, dry and clear but, despite everything, the heavy sensation that something bad awaited them intensified with every step.
As soon as they stepped into the station, this feeling rushed over them, like subterranean waters, just as uncontrollable and just as turbid and chilling.