He remembered: He puked.
And he remembered something else too: Someone following him, pursuing him, keeping up with him—sober, contemptuous, adult—while Artyom fled from his disgrace on sprawling hands and knees like a one-year-old child. And that man wanted something from Artyom.
As clammy as a nightmare, but was it a nightmare?
And then, it occurred to him: There weren’t many locals in Gomorrah, were there? All visitors. The fascists were visible—they were in uniform, the fools. But who else was here, in civilian clothes? From Trubnaya you could get to Hansa too, and to the Red Line, and to the outlaw settlements at Kitai-Gorod, and from there to anywhere at all. And anyone at all could sail here: any ravenous vermin.
Maybe he had gotten off lightly. If only he knew how he’d done it.
By hit and miss they extricated themselves from the tangle and arrived at the passage to Trubnaya Station. Artyom with his bundles, Homer with the chicken: The old man had turned stubborn and refused to kill it and hand it over to the broker volunteer. As Olezhek had prophesied, the chicken wasn’t laying anymore.
Here there was a surprise: passport control. How Trubnaya made its living, Artyom couldn’t recall, but obviously not the same way as TsvetnoI Boulevard did, if it was so choosy. Visas weren’t required, but no one was let in without documents. Homer took out a green booklet with an eagle and a crown: NikolaI Ivanovich Nikolaev, born 1973, Arkhangelsk Region, Sebastopol Station, married (struck out). In the laminated photo he has no beard, he isn’t gray and he’s not forty yet. But recognizable, recognizable. Artyom put down his load and started rifling through his pockets.
It wasn’t in his trousers. He turned cold.
Not in the jacket was it, eh? Not in the jacket that had disappeared, along with the mushroom that was supposed to keep Artyom safe and keep his feet planted on the ground. He opened his bundle, suddenly covered in sticky gunk—his fear set the poison he had drunk yesterday flowing out of his pores—and rummaged and rummaged, thrusting his hand in here and then there. Then he freaked out, tugged out the suit, flattened out his second skin on the floor in front of everyone, rifled through the pockets of the bundle, stuck the automatic under himself, tipped out everything at last and glanced into all the corners. Not there! It’s not there!
“Didn’t leave it behind, did I?” he asked Homer in a numb voice.” Did it fall behind the table?”
Homer shrugged.
No passport.
He couldn’t live in the Metro without a passport. He couldn’t get into Hansa, or Polis, or the Red Line. Not into Alekseevskaya and not into any other station where people at least tried to think about tomorrow. What he could do was starve to death at some barbaric way station or be devoured in a tunnel.
People gathered. They gaped with an equal mixture of suspicion and sympathy. Damn the gawkers. There was no time to hide; he had to know the truth. He reached into the knapsack in front of everyone. Exposed the green side of the radio set. The border guards noticed it and frowned. He pulled it out—the radio and the dynamo. People started cackling.
Not there. It’s not there, fuck it!
Homer was farther off already: He gave a wave of his hand, sidled up to the border guards and started trying to tempt them. But what was there to tempt them with? There were only one and a half magazines of cartridges left at the most. God forbid that they should have to shoot.
“Refused!” growled the lard-bucket border-post commander.” We let you through and then the Reds will skin us alive. You won’t get any farther than Sretensky Boulevard anyway.”
“How come?”
“The Red Line cut us off yesterday. They entered Sretensky and they’re checking everyone’s documents. There’s no way into the Red Line and no way out either. They’ve had some kind of a dustup over there, but nobody knows what. So … They’ve entered Sretensky. And from Sretensky to us here … Better not to provoke them.”
“They say the Reds are going to take Teatralnaya.”
“Who says?”
“People say. So it doesn’t go to the Reich. They’re afraid the fascists will grab it first. They’re getting ready. They’ll cut off all the stations bordering on the Reich.”
“And when?” Artyom froze motionless over his savaged rucksack.
“Whenever. Go and ask them. They can do it any moment, if the story’s already leaked out.”
“We’ve got to …” Artyom started angrily and nervously stuffing back the dynamo, the radio set, and all his damned junk.” We’ve got to … Come here, granddad. You go on alone through Sretensky. You’ve got a passport; you’ve got kind eyes and a beard like Father Christmas; you’ve got an idiotic chicken; they won’t touch you. I’ll go over the top … Across the surface. We’ll meet there. At Teatralnaya. If the Reds don’t take it first. But if they do …”
Homer watched, perplexed, as Artyom spoke. He nodded—what else was there left to do?
“But if only … If only I hadn’t decided back then … For Olezhek … For the good of his health …” Artyom muttered, glancing in loathing at the chicken as he packed the final things into the bundle.” And it was all a fucking waste of time anyway! A goner, fuck it!”
He mounted his rider on his shoulders and went back to the border guards—red-faced and heated, his condition actually seeming improved by his anger.
“Where’s their way up here? Where can I get up on top? What is there? A stairway, an escalator?”
The border-post commander shook his head almost regretfully.
“A stalker, right? There isn’t any way up here. It was demolished ages ago. Who needs to go wandering up there? Those floozies of theirs.”
“What about you? On Trubnaya. Is there a way?”
“It’s sealed off.”
“Just what kind of people are you!” Artyom bellowed in fury.” Haven’t you got any use for the surface at all?”
The border-post commander didn’t even bother to reply. He turned his well-fed backside towards Artyom; his trousers were splitting: To hell with you, don’t you come the wise guy with me.
Artyom inflated his chest, tried to calm down.
He ran and ran through the labyrinth, and the way out seemed to be just up ahead already, but suddenly—all the corridors ended in dead-ends. And behind him the little bridges he had bounded across had all gone crashing down into the abyss: Where could he go now? They’d cornered him.
“Artyom.” The old man touched him. “What if we go through the Reich after all? Eh? To Chekhov … Then we only have to get to Tverskaya … And there it is already, Teatralnaya. We can even reach it today, if everything goes smoothly … There’s nowhere else you can go.”
Artyom didn’t say anything; he clammed up like an oyster. And just kept on and on rubbing his neck: His throat felt rough and scratchy.
* * *
“Not too late, are we?”
The Unteroffizier with the mole—he smiled genially.
“We were expecting you!”
Artyom hesitated, looking over the column: Should he tack himself onto the tail end of it now?
“I, er …” He lowered his voice.” Don’t have any documents. Do you take people into this legion of yours without documents? And I’ll tell you right away—this is a stalker’s gear. Plus a radio. So there won’t be any questions afterwards.”
“We accept men without documents just fine,” the Unter assured him.” You get to rewrite your biography from scratch anyway. Who’s bothered about who the heroes of the Reich were before?”
CHAPTER 8
— HEIL —
They left TsvetnoI Boulevard on the last bottle raft: Homer and Artyom; Lyokha, who was delighted that they’d met up again so soon; and the Unteroffizier with the mole, who told Artyom he was called Dietmar. Two other nameless men in black uniforms laid into the oars, and soon all that was left of TsvetnoI Boulevard was a copper coin at the end of the tunnel. And then the coin drowned.
There was a smell of mold. The o
ars splashed in the water, dispersing the rainbow-colored film of petrol, scattering the floating garbage. Down below, under the scum and the rainbow film, vague, sinuous shadows moved about, and Artyom fancied he saw vile, restless creatures stirring, as thick as a man’s arm. There hadn’t been anything like them here before; there couldn’t have been. The radiation had rolled and warped together some creatures of its own, grotesque and hideous.
“Do you know who the Reds have in their advance guard?” the Unter said.” They take freaks into the advance guard. They put freaks into breakthrough units. They arm them. Train them. Freaks with three arms. With two heads. With cancer, who have nothing to lose. And move them towards our borders. Closer … And closer. They know how those animals hate us. They recruit them throughout the whole Metro. Our reconnaissance says they’ve set up a checkpoint at Sretenka and cut the line off from Trubnaya. And the commander of the checkpoint is completely covered in scales. You can’t even tell anymore if the Reds are in command of the freaks, or the freaks are in command of the Reds. I think it’s the second. That’s why they want to finish us off. There’s something in the works … In the works …”
Artyom listened without hearing. He was thinking about something else. The most important thing was that no one there in the Reich must recognize him. No one must recognize the young boy who they had promised the ecstatic crowd at Pushkin would be hanged from the scaffold. The jailers from the cells at Tverskaya mustn’t recognize him. A prisoner escaping from the gallows was a rare event. Would they forget something like that?
“Eh, stalker?” Dietmar touched him on the arm and caught him through the sleeve directly on the burn.
“What?”
“What districts do you cover, I said. Where do you work? On the surface?”
“Me … The Library. Arbat. I used to bring books down for the Brahmins.”
Homer looked past them, absentmindedly scratching the chicken’s shoulder: They didn’t have time to give it to anyone in the den of vice and they didn’t have time to eat it, so the chicken was still alive.
“A good district.” The Unter looked at Artyom: Fractured glimmers of light from torches clung to his face.” Do you know everything round there? Okhotny Ryad and farther up towards the BolshoI Theater?”
“I’ve been there,” Artyom said cautiously.
“And why did you work for the Brahmins?”
“I like to read.”
“Good for you!” Dietmar exclaimed approvingly.” Good for you. The Reich needs men like you.”
“And men like me?” Lyokha asked.
“The Reich needs all sorts of men.” The Unter winked at him.” Especially now.”
* * *
They arrived.
The underground river ran up against a dam. The banks were heaped up with sacks of what was probably soil, and the bottle raft nudged against them. Behind the sacks was a genuine wall, halfway up the tunnel. An electric pump was humming, bailing out the puddle that collected on the other side of the dam. Standards were hung around: red field, white circle, three-legged swastika. The triumvirate of Chekhov, Tver, and Pushkin. Of course, they had all been renamed a long time ago. Chekhov was Wagner; Pushkin was Schiller; Tver was something else as well. The Reich had its own idols.
They jumped out onto the bank, and the Unter exchanged “Sieg Heil” with the watch. They were all spruce, spick-and-span. They had discovered the central railroad office up on the surface; they didn’t say so, but their uniforms were the same, black and silver.
They examined the luggage and, of course, they found everything: There was the radio set, there was the automatic rifle. The Unter saved the situation: He whispered something, smiled to Artyom from behind a black shoulder, and the border guards relaxed.
But they weren’t allowed into the station itself.
They found a side passage in the tunnel, blocked off with a grating and with guards on duty.
“First the medical inspection,” Dietmar announced cheerfully.” They don’t take weaklings into the Iron Legion. You’ll have to hand in your equipment, and the chicken, temporarily.”
They left everything with the guards.
A room. White tiles all around. A smell of carbolic. A couch, a doctor standing there in an antimicrobial mask, in a cap, just his eyebrows drooping down. Some kind of doors farther on. The Unter went in with them, sat down on a stool in the corner. The doctor smiled with his salt-and-pepper eyebrows and gave them an oily glance from his olive eyes. He spoke in a singsong voice, with an undefeated accent.
“Right, who’s first?”
“Well, why not me then!” The broker squirmed.
“Undress to your underpants. Have you been through an army medical board?”
The doctor looked, tapped, felt with rubber gloves, glanced into this throat, asked him to bare his teeth. Put on a stethoscope and asked him to breathe.
“And now we lower the underpants. Lower them, lower them. Right. If you don’t mind. Aha. And what’s this you have here?”
“What?” Lyokha tensed up.
“Why here, the left testicle, I think … Don’t you feel it?”
“Like that … Like that, of course … I feel it.”
“Rather advanced already. Ne-glec-ted.”
“Well, but … Doctor … I’m a good dancer!” The broker grinned.” So I’m okay. It doesn’t bother me.”
“If it doesn’t bother you, that’s just fine. Get dressed, dear fellow. You’re free to go. There, the door on the right.”
Lyokha pulled on his clothes and buttoned them, and meanwhile the doctor wrote something on a piece of paper. The Unter read it and nodded.
“Welcome.”
The broker winked at Homer and Artyom—good health to you too—and ducked through the prescribed door. Some kind of steps ran downwards there.
“Well then, now you, dear fellow.”
That was to Homer.
The old man stepped forward. He glanced back round at Artyom: Who knew what their medical boards were like here? Artyom didn’t take his eyes off him, didn’t abandon the old man. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by déjà vu and bewildered, as if he’d just woken up. He coughed from a sudden tickle in his throat. The doctor looked at him intently.
Homer folded his greasy dressing gown into four and put it on the couch, on the edge, at his feet. He pulled his sweater over his head—there was a dirty vest under it, with stains under the arms. He stood up, naked, sunken-chested, pale-bellied, sparse clumps of curly hair on his shoulders.
“Right … ? Let’s take a look at the neck … The thyroid gland … And under the chin …” The doctor lowered his hands into Homer’s sour silver.” Well now … No goiter. Now we’ll feel out all the rest …”
He kneaded tense, sullen Homer’s belly, made the old man drop his underpants too, and checked him there as well.
“I don’t see any tumors at all. You take care of yourself, right? You don’t go up on the surface, buy filtered water, yes?” the doctor said with respect, even surprise.” Congratulations. I myself wouldn’t mind being in that kind of shape at your age … Get dressed.”
He scribbled something on a piece of paper and stuck it in the old man’s hand.
“The left door.”
Homer suddenly felt doubtful. He didn’t hurry putting on his light coat, drew it out. Looked round searchingly at the Unter, the man in authority.
“But why the left door for the old man?” Artyom asked for him.
“Because, my dear fellow, your old man is perfectly all right,” the doctor replied.” Take a look at the note.”
“Normal. Fit for service and immigration,” Homer read, gingerly holding the note farther off.
“Fit for immigration. They’re looking for tumors. And what if they find them?”
“And where does the door on the right lead to?”
Dietmar, the one who had been asked, only smiled.
“Ah! The young man has been sent for further examination. Things aren
’t completely clear there. The specialists have to take a look. Go on through, old man; don’t loiter. It’s time for me to get on with your grandson,” the doctor explained rather impatiently, but not rudely.
Homer reached out his hand timidly, still not detaching himself from Artyom. And Artyom cringed, thinking, What now? Will I be able to do it now? Can I stand up for the old man, the way I did back then?
He could hear some kind of buzzing through the widening crack.
Beyond the door on the left there was a stone passage, painted green; the passage was crammed with volunteers, naked to the waist. A man in a uniform, with a mustache, was running a stuttering device over each of them one by one, removing their hair.
“No cause for alarm!” the Unter declared.
Homer breathed out his agitation. He walked in there, to the normal men. Shut himself in. And Artyom’s tension eased a little.
“Well, and now we’ll deal with you, young man. A stalker, I see?”
“Yes.” Artyom ran his hand over the back of his head, balding prematurely: traitor.
“You’re taking a risk, taking a risk, my dear fellow! Right. The cough is worrisome; I heard it. Let me see your back. You don’t feel cold? Do you not have tuberculosis? Breathe. Deeper.”
“Do you think I’ll get enough air?” Artyom twisted his mouth into a smile.
“Now, now. There’s nothing so terrible. A bit of wheezing. Now let’s take a look for neoplasms.” He stuck his head out into the corridor.
“Will you join us?”
Both of the bruisers squeezed inside.
“What’s this for?”
“Well … A stalker. The background radiation isn’t falling; you know that. Quite often your colleagues, even before they reach forty … Now don’t you worry; don’t be so anxious. Boys, hold him. That’s fine. Lie back like that. A stalker. The neck. Right. The throat. A-a-a-ah …”
The neck: Some get cancer of the thyroid, the most common from radiation; sometimes first they grow a goiter on the neck. But sometimes a man burns out in a month even without a goiter, and others potter on to old age with a goiter somehow.
And what if he feels something now? If he says: six months left. The doctor’s right. That sort of thing happens only too often with stalkers.
METRO 2035. English language edition.: The finale of the Metro 2033 trilogy. (METRO by Dmitry Glukhovsky) Page 15
