Get up, people! Wake up! Come alive! Well?
He pressed one ear against the wall. Was anyone there?
Again: Boom! Boom! Boom!
“Artyom …”
“There must be people there!”
He grabbed the phone again, hung it on the cradle, and took it off again.
“Hello! Hello! This is Artyom! Sukhoi! Open up!”
Something began stirring unwillingly inside there.
“Do you hear me?”
They coughed.
“Open the doors!”
Finally they spoke.
“What the fuck is all this? It’s night.”
“Nikitska? Open up, Nikitska! It’s Artyom! Open up!”
“Open up, Nikitska, and guzzle the rads. Right? What the fuck did you want out there again?”
“Open up! We haven’t got any protection out here.”
“That’ll teach you a fucking lesson, then!”
“Right then, I’ll tell my stepfather … You shit …”
Someone blew his nose inside.
“All right …”
The metal wall crept upwards lazily and indifferently. Light appeared. They walked into the buffer section. A tap in the wall, a hose pipe lying there. Another phone.
“Open the buffer!”
“Rinse yourself off first! Dragging all sorts of crap in here …”
“How? We’re not dressed out here!”
“Get washed, I tell you!
He had to lash himself and Ilya Stepanovich and Anya with cold, chlorinated water. They walked into the station soaking wet and frozen. Instantly they caught a smell of manure and pigs.
“Everyone’s asleep. Sukhoi’s asleep. That’s some outfit you’ve got.”
“But where can we go?”
“Your tent’s free.” Nikitska looked at these shivering little puppy dogs and relented. “We were expecting you. Wait, I’ll get you some cloths to wipe yourselves off. And go and lie down. You can sort things out tomorrow morning.”
Artyom wanted to argue, but Anya took him by the hand and pulled him away.
That’s right, he thought. I came barging in from the street in the middle of the night, without a suit. I don’t want to wake up the whole station as well. They’ll definitely think I’m a half-wit. Never mind; there’s no great hurry. Before the buzz creeps here from Polis …
“Just tell the sentries not to let any strangers into the station. And from up on top …”—he remembered about the patch of darkness. “Don’t let anyone else in from up on top. All right?”
“Trust me,” Nikitska grinned. “I won’t go waking up again for that sort of thing!”
“That’s all, then. Oh yeah, and this comrade here has to be given a place somewhere,” said Artyom, remembering Ilya Stepanovich. “I’ll explain everything to my stepfather in the morning.”
Ilya Stepanovich stayed with Nikitska, looking like an abandoned dog. But that wasn’t Artyom’s misfortune; he hadn’t taken this man as a hanger-on, and he hadn’t abandoned him.
Their tent really was free. hadn’t anyone dared to hanker after it? No doubt people had attempted to take it, but Sukhoi had held them off. Being even the boss’s stepson was pretty useful.
They switched on the torch and stood it so that it shone into the floor, in order not to wake the neighbors. They got changed into the dry clothes that were there. Without looking at each other naked. It felt shameful and awkward. They sat down cross-legged on the mattress.
“Is there anything left to drink?” Artyom asked in a whisper. “You had some.”
“Yes. I bought some,” Anya whispered back.
“Will you give me a swig?”
They drank by turns, gulping from the chipped neck of the bottle. The hooch was lousy, with a vile odor and dregs on the bottom, but it did the trick. It unscrewed the head that had been twisted into his shoulders and relaxed the cramp that had already become habitual in his back, his arms and his soul.
“I realized that I can’t live without you.”
“Come here.”
“Really. I tried.”
Artyom took a big swallow—it wouldn’t go down, it scorched his larynx and he started coughing.
“After we talked … at Polis. Your daddy sent me to Komsomol Station. To give the Reds a present of cartridges. So that the rebellion … The starving people there … They rebelled. And … I ended up there by chance. With the Reds. All of us. I don’t know how many thousands of people. And they fired at them with machine guns. A woman there … Gave me … She asked me to hold her son. About five or six years old. I held him in my arms. She was killed. And I thought then that you and I would have to adopt that boy. And a minute later he was killed as well.”
Anya took the bottle from him. Her eyes were glittering.
“You’ve got cold hands.”
“You’ve got cold lips.”
They drank in silence, by turns.
“Are we going to live here now?”
“I have to tell all of them. Sukhoi. Everyone. Our people. Tomorrow. Calmly. First, before other people tell them everything their own way.”
“Do you think they’ll believe you? They won’t go anywhere, Artyom.”
“We’ll see.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No. No need to be. It’s me … I.”
“You even have a cold tongue.”
“My heart’s hot, though. And you’re covered in goosebumps.”
“Let me have your heart over here. I want to get warm.”
* * *
They woke late—and at the same time.
At last he got dressed in his normal clothes: a sweater and threadbare jeans—instead of that repulsive waiter’s outfit. He stuck his feet in a pair of galoshes. Waited for Anya to get dressed.
They crawled out of the tent—smiling. Their female neighbors looked at them in envious condemnation. The men offered Artyom a smoke. He thanked them and took one.
“But where’s Sukhoi?” he asked Fur-Coat Dashka, who happened to be close by.
“He’s preparing a surprise for you. You’ve gone bald, have you? What did we tell you?”
“Where?”
“In the piggery.”
They went to his stepfather together.
The enclosure was in a dead-end tunnel. They walked to the end of the station, greeting everyone. They all looked at him as if he was a ghost. And at Anya as if she was a hero.
“He’s over there, your man! Sticking a pig!” Aigul gestured towards the far end of the enclosure.
He couldn’t catch his breath.
They walked past wet, pink snouts poking out through the wattle fence. Youngsters jostling at the troughs. Boars roaring. Immense sows with colorless eyelashes, each with a row of about ten tiny, squealing piglets.
Sukhoi, in rubber wading boots, was walking among the yearling boars. The piggery foreman, Pyotr Ilich, was standing beside him, explaining.
“Don’t take this one, Alexanlexeich. That one was ill; he’ll be bitter. That one over there, the frisky one, that’s what I advise, Proshka. Come here, Proshka. You should have told me sooner, Alexander Alexeich. It’s best not to feed them for a day in advance.”
“Well … It came as a surprise to me too …” said Sukhoi, not seeing Artyom. “My son came back. I was afraid it was all over. There hadn’t been a single word. But he’s alive. And with his wife. It seems like they’ve made up. Such a joy. All right, let me have your Proshka.”
“Prosha … Proshenka. Come here. Now how am I going to lure him out of there, the pest? He needed to be left hungry for a while; then he’d come out himself for feed. But now … Nah, don’t drag him. A pig doesn’t like to be forced. Let me; there is a way.”
Artyom stopped short before he reached them. He looked at Sukhoi. His eyes were stinging. From the stink?
SukhoI stepped back and made way for the specialist. The foreman took an empty bucket off a hook and put it over Proshka’s head. The pig froze, r
ooted to the ground at first, grunted inquiringly, and then started backing away. Then Pyotr Ilich took hold of his tail and started guiding him backwards towards the exit from the pen.
“Hold the others; that’s the important thing.”
“But none of them are butting in.”
Looking into the bucket, Proshka became obedient. Guiding him with his tail, they led him out of the pen in a jiffy. Then they took the bucket off. Pyotr Ilich scratched the pig behind the ears and then deftly thrust a loop of rope into the mouth that was half open in pleasure, shoving it as far past the fangs as possible and drawing it tight above the long snout. He tied the rope to a little column supporting the wall of the enclosure. Artyom didn’t watch this: He had seen it a hundred times and done it himself. He looked at Sukhoi.
Eventually SukhoI looked round.
“Oh! You’ve woken up!’
He walked over and they embraced.
“Anechka. Welcome back.”
“How are you, Uncle Sasha?”
“We’re getting by, taking it easy.” SukhoI smiled. “I missed you.”
“Howdy, traveler!” Pyotr Ilich held out his left hand: in the right hand he already had the long knife for the slaughter, looking more like a honed spike. “Right, Alexanlexeich. Hold him for a minute.”
“I wanted to astonish you with fresh meat,” SukhoI said with a smile. “You spoiled my surprise.”
Proshka stretched out the rope as far as he could, but the rope was short. His hind legs shifted as far away from the column as they could manage; but his snout, captured by the rope, couldn’t move even slightly away from it. But Proshka didn’t screech; he wasn’t anticipating death. And then SukhoI stroked him too, and the young boar became calm and thoughtful.
Pyotr Ilich squatted down beside Proshka and scratched him on the side, feeling for the pulse with his fingers. Through the skin and the ribs he found the heart. With his left hand he set the knife at the required spot, without even scratching the skin yet. The other pigs gathered round, curiously thrusting their snouts closer in order to figure out what was going on.
“Okay, bye now.”
He swung his right hand hard onto the handle. Knocked it in like a nail. The knife slipped in immediately right up to the handle. Proshka jerked, but remained standing. He still hadn’t had any time to understand anything at all. Pyotr Ilich pulled the blade out of the wound and plugged the little hole neatly with a little rag.
“That’s it. Move back.”
Proshka carried on standing there, and then he staggered. His hind legs buckled, and he sat on his backside, but immediately got up again. And fell again. He started squealing, realizing he had been betrayed. He tried to get up, but couldn’t manage it any longer.
Some of the pigs looked at him indifferently with their little buttons; some carried on guzzling from the trough. Somehow Proshka’s alarm wasn’t transmitted to any of them. He tumbled over onto his side and started jerking his legs about. He squealed for a while. Passed blackish brown, round balls of dung. And went quiet. All this didn’t concern the others. They didn’t even seem to have noticed the death that had occurred so close.
“All done!” said Pyotr Ilich. “I’ll butcher him and deliver him to the kitchen. What do you say? Roast him? Braise a hock?”
“Roast him or braise him, Tyoma?” SukhoI asked. “Since the surprise didn’t work out anyway.”
“Better roast him.”
SukhoI nodded.
“How are you?”
“How am I? I don’t even know where to begin.”
“Let’s go. No point standing here. Where did you get to?”
“Where?” Artyom looked round at Anya. “I was in Polis. Did anyone come here from Polis? From Miller? Or any strangers in general? Did anyone ask for me?”
“No. It was all quiet. Why, should they have?”
“Did our people come back at night from the center? From Hansa? Didn’t they bring any rumors?”
SukhoI gave him an intent look.
“What happened? Something’s happened, right?”
They walked out of the piggery into the station. The red emergency lighting made it look as if Alexander Alexeevich had slit the pig’s throat. Or Artyom had.
“Let’s go and have a smoke.”
Artyom’s stepfather didn’t approve of smoking. But this time he didn’t grumble. He took a handmade roll-up out of a cigarette case and held it out. Anya helped herself too. They walked well away from the living area. And lit up sweetly.
“I found survivors,” Artyom said simply. “Other survivors.”
“You? Where?” SukhoI squinted at Anya.
Artyom parted his lips to carry on, and suddenly started thinking. An independent station—the Exhibition. And SukhoI was its boss. But were there any independent stations here?
“He’s telling the truth,” Anya confirmed.
“Didn’t you know?”
“Me? I didn’t.” SukhoI answered carefully, in order not to offend Artyom, who had become even thinner and had a shaved head now.
“Middle-level,” Artyom stated to himself. “All right.”
“What?”
“Uncle Sash. The whole thing’s a long story. Let me just give you the essence. We’re not the only ones who survived. The whole world did. Various cities in Russia. The West.”
“And that’s true too,” said Anya.
“The West? And what about the war?” SukhoI frowned. “Is it still going on, then? And why are the airwaves empty? Why hasn’t any one here seen these survivors?”
“They jam the radio. Like in Soviet times,” Artyom tried to explain. “Because the war is allegedly still going on.”
SukhoI understood that.
“That’s familiar.”
Artyom narrowed his eyes dubiously.
“Familiar?”
“We’ve been through that before. Who is it? The Reds?”
“Do you know Bessolov?” Artyom asked.
“Bessolov?” SukhoI echoed. “The one from Hansa?”
“There isn’t any Hansa, Uncle Sash. And there isn’t any Red Line. And soon they won’t exist at all. Soon they’ll combine everything together to stand against the common enemy. So they never climb up out of the Metro. That’s the new scenario now.”
SukhoI seemed to believe it, but he checked with Anya just to make sure.
“Does anyone else know this? That people survived in other cities?”
“They made a public announcement about it yesterday at Polis,” she replied. “It’s true, Alexander Alexeevich.”
“The whole world survived? And how do they live? Better than us?”
“I don’t know. They don’t say,” Artyom explained. “But if it was worse, they’d be sure to say so.”
SukhoI lit a second roll-up straight from the first one that had burnt through too fast.
“Bastard—fucking—hell.”
He looked at the red lamp for a while.
“Do you owe this Bessolov anything?” Artyom asked.
“No. What could I? I’ve only ever seen him once, in Hansa.”
“That’s good. Uncle Sash … You have to close off the station. Close it, so that no one from there gets through to us. And get the people ready. You have to tell them everything. They’ll believe you.”
“Get them ready for what?”
“They have to be led out of here. Led out of the Metro. While it’s still possible. At least our people.”
“Led out to where?
“Up on top.”
“Where to exactly? There are two hundred people in the station. There are women and children. Where do you want to lead them to?”
“We’ll send out scouts. Find a place where the background radiation is low. Some people came from Murom. They just live up on the surface there.”
SukhoI started his third roll-up in a row.
“What for?”
“How do you mean, what for?”
“What would we go to Murom for? Wh
y would all these people leave the Metro and go off somewhere else? They live here, Artyom. This is their home, here. They won’t follow you.”
“Because they were born up on the surface! In the fresh air! Under the open sky! In freedom!”
Alexander Alexeevich nodded to Artyom: not mockingly, but sympathetically, precisely like a children’s doctor.
“They don’t remember that any longer, Tyomochka. They’ve got used to being here.”
“They’re like Morlocks here. Like moles!”
“Ah, but at least life follows a well-worn path. Everything’s clear. They won’t want to change anything.”
“But the moment they sit down by a campfire, all they ever do is remember—who had what, the way each of them used to live!”
“You can’t take them back to the things they miss. And they don’t want to go back, just to remember. You’re still young; someday you’ll understand.”
“I don’t understand!”
“Well …”
“I’m simply asking you to close off the station. If you don’t want to tell them—let me do it. Otherwise that plague will ooze its way in here … They’ll fill people’s head full of shit, like everywhere else … I’ve already seen it happen …”
“I can’t close off the station, Artyom. We trade with Hansa. We get the all-mash—you know, the combo-fodder—for our pigs from them. And we have to sell off the manure to Riga Station.”
“What all-mash? There are mushrooms!”
“The mushrooms are screwed. Almost the entire harvest died off.”
“You see?” Artyom gave Anya a crooked smile. “And you were concerned about the mushrooms. It turns out we can get by without them. But we can’t manage without their shitty all-mash!”
“Don’t judge me. I’m the station master, Artyom.” SukhoI shook his head. “I’ve got two hundred souls looking to me for everything. I have to feed them.”
“Well at least let me tell them! They’ll find out anyway!”
“Do you think it’s worth it?” SukhoI sighed. “Coming from you?”
“Yes, it is!”
* * *
They agreed: The people would be gathered together after supper, when the shifts on the farms ended. Until then—Artyom had to keep quiet. And he did keep quiet, trying on for size his old life at Exhibition. The bicycles. Watch duty in the tunnel. The tent. This life had shrunk, and he couldn’t fit into it any more.
Metro 2035 Page 54
