Artyom thought right there and then that fate itself was giving him an opportunity to fulfil his mission - if it came to that. He nodded silently.
‘Great!’ Zhenya was glad. ‘I’ll also go. Kirill! Sign us up, OK? What time are they going to set off tomorrow - at nine?’
Until the end of the shift, Artyom didn’t say a word, he wasn’t in the mood to extract himself from his distracting, gloomy thoughts. Zhenya was left to deal with the dishevelled Kirill by himself and he obviously felt hurt. Artyom continued to chop mushrooms with mechanical movements, and to crumble them into dust, taking the little caps down from the wire, and again chopping them, and so on, indefinitely.
Hunter’s face hovered in front of his eyes - frozen at the moment when he was saying that he might not make it back - the calm face of a person who is used to risking his life. And an ink stain marred his heart with the presentiment of trouble.
After work, Artyom went back to his tent. His stepfather wasn’t there anymore - he had clearly gone out to take care of business. Artyom fell onto the bed, and buried his face in the pillow, and went to sleep straight away, even though he had planned to think over his situation again in the peace and quiet.
His sleep was delirious after all the conversations, thoughts and worries of the preceding day, and it enveloped him and carried him away into an abyss. Artyom saw himself sitting next to the fire at Sukharevskaya station, next to Zhenya and the wandering magician with the unusual Spanish name of Carlos. Carlos is teaching Zhenya how to make weed out of mushrooms and he is explaining that you have to use it just like they use it at VDNKh - a clean crime, because these mushrooms aren’t mushrooms at all but a new type of rational life on earth, which may with time replace humans. That these mushrooms aren’t independent beings, but just elements connected by neurons to the whole unit, spread across a whole metro of a gigantic fungus. And that, in reality, the person who consumes the weed isn’t just using a psychotropic material, but is making contact with this new form of rational life. And if you do it right, then you can make friends with it, and then it will help the person that makes contact with it through the weed. But then Sukhoi appears and, threatening Artyom with his forefinger, he says that you absolutely mustn’t take weed because if you use it for an extended amount of time then your brain becomes worm-eaten. But Artyom decides to test it and see if it’s really true: and he tells everyone that he’s going out to get some air but he carefully goes behind the back of the magician with the Spanish name, and he sees that the magician doesn’t have a back to his head but his brains are visible, full of wormholes. Long whitish worms curling in circles are chewing into the fabric of his brains and are making new tunnels, and the magician just carries on talking as though nothing is happening . . . Then Artyom gets scared and decides to run away from him, he begins to tug at Zhenya’s sleeve, so that he would come with him but Zhenya just waves him away and asks Carlos to go on, and Artyom sees that the worms are crawling down from the magician’s head and towards Zhenya, and crawling up Zhenya’s back. They are trying to get into his ears . . .
Then Artyom jumps up and takes to his heels and runs from the station with all his might, but then remembers that this was the tunnel you’re not supposed to go through alone, and only in groups, so he turns around and runs back to the station but for some reason he can’t get to it.
Behind him, suddenly there is a light, and with a clarity and logic that is unusual for dreams, Artyom sees his own shadow on the floor of the tunnel. He turns around and from the bowels of the metro, a train is heading towards him without stopping, gnashing and rattling its wheels with deafening sound and blinding him with its headlights . . .
And his legs refuse to budge, they’ve lost all power, and they aren’t even legs anymore but empty trousers stuffed with rags. And when the train has almost reached Artyom, the visions suddenly lose their colour and disappear.
Instead, something new appears, something totally different: Artyom sees Hunter, dressed in snow-white, in an unfurnished room with blindingly white walls. He stands there, his head hanging down, his gaze drilling into the floor. Then he raises his eyes and looks straight at Artyom. The feeling is very strange, because in this dream Artyom can’t feel his own body, but it is as if he is looking at what is going on from all angles at once. When Artyom looks into Hunter’s eyes, he is filled with an incomprehensible uneasiness, an expectation of something very significant, something that might happen any second . . .
Hunter starts talking to him, and Artyom has the feeling that what has just happened was real. When he’d had nightmares before, he had told himself simply that he was sleeping, and that everything that was happening was only the fruit of an excited imagination. But in this vision, the knowledge that he could wake up at any moment if he wanted, was totally absent.
Trying to meet Artyom’s gaze - even though he had the impression that Hunter couldn’t actually see him and was blindly undertaking his task, the hunter slowly and gravely says, ‘The time has come. You have to do what you promised me. You have to do it. Remember - this is not a dream! This is not a dream!’
Artyom opened his eyes wide. And again in his head, he heard with horrifying clarity the gruff voice saying, ‘This is not a dream!’
‘This is not a dream,’ Artyom repeated. The details of the nightmare about the worms and the train were quickly wiped from his memory, but Artyom could remember the second vision perfectly in all its detail. Hunter’s strange clothes, the mysterious empty white room and the words: ‘You have to do what you promised me!’ He couldn’t get them out of his mind.
His stepfather came in and worriedly asked Artyom, ‘Tell me, did you see Hunter after our meeting together? It’s becoming evening already and he has gone missing, and his tent is empty. Did he leave? Did he tell you anything yesterday about his plans?’
‘No, Uncle Sasha, he was just asking about the conditions at the station and about what was going on,’ Artyom lied conscientiously.
‘I’m afraid for him. That he’s done something silly at his own expense and to our general harm.’ Sukhoi was clearly upset. ‘He doesn’t know who he’s been dealing with . . . Eh! What, you’re not working today?
‘Me and Zhenya signed up to join the caravan to Rizhskaya today, to help them get across, and we’ll start unwinding the cable from there,’ Artyom replied, suddenly realizing that he’d just decided to go. At that thought something broke inside him, he felt a strange lightening and also some kind of inner emptiness, like someone had taken a tumour out of his chest, which had been burdening his heart and interfering with his breathing.
‘The caravan? You’d do better to sit at home instead of wading through tunnels. I need to go there anyway, to Rizhskaya, but I’m not feeling all that great today. Another time, maybe . . . Are you going out now? At nine? Well, then we’ll get to say goodbye then. Get your things together in the meantime!’ And he left Artyom alone.
Artyom started to throw things into a rucksack, things which might be useful on the road: a small lamp, batteries, mushrooms, a package of tea, and liver and pork sausage, a full machine-gun clip which he once filched from someone, a map of the metro and more batteries . . . He needed to remember to bring his passport - it would be of no use at Rizhskaya of course, but beyond that station he’d be detained or put against a wall by the very first patrol of another sovereign station - depending on their politics. And there was the capsule given to him by Hunter. And that was all he needed.
He threw the rucksack on his back and Artyom looked back for the last time at his home, and walked out of the tent with resolve.
The group that was going with the caravan had gathered on the platform, at the entrance to the southern tunnel. On the rails, there was a cart loaded with boxes of meat, mushrooms and packages of tea. On top of them, there was some kind of clever device, put together by local experts - probably some kind of telegraph apparatus.
In the caravan, apart from Kirill, there was another pair: a volunteer,
and a commander from the administration who would establish relations and come to an agreement with the administration at Rizhskaya. They had already packed and were playing dominoes while waiting for a departure signal. The machine guns that were assigned to them for the journey were piled beside them. They formed a pyramid with the barrels directed upwards and their spare clips attached to their bases with blue insulation tape.
Finally Zhenya appeared - he’d had to feed his sister and send her to the neighbours before he left since his parents were still at work.
At the very last second, Artyom suddenly remembered that he hadn’t said goodbye to his stepfather. Excusing himself and promising that he would be right back, he threw off his rucksack and ran home. There was no one in the tent and Artyom ran to the quarters where service personnel often hung around, but it now belonged to the station’s administration. Sukhoi was there, he was sitting opposite the duty officer of the station, the elected head of VDNKh, and they were talking about something animatedly. Artyom knocked on the door jamb and quietly coughed.
‘Greetings, Alexander Nikolaevich. Could I speak to Uncle Sasha for a minute?’
‘Of course, Artyom, come in. Want some tea?’ the duty officer said hospitably.
‘You off already? When are you coming back?’ Sukhoi asked while pushing his chair back from the table.
‘I don’t know exactly . . .’ Artyom mumbled. ‘We’ll see how it goes . . .’
And he understood that he might never see his stepfather again, and he really didn’t want to lie to him, the one man who truly loved Artyom, and say that he would be back tomorrow or the day after and everything would continue as it was.
Artyom suddenly felt a sting in his eyes and to his shame, he found that they were wet. He stepped forward and hugged his stepfather.
‘Now, now, Artyom, what’s the matter . . . You’ll be back tomorrow after all . . . Well?’ his surprised stepfather said reassuringly.
‘Tomorrow night if everything goes to plan,’ Alexander Nikolaevich confirmed.
‘Take care of yourself, Uncle Sasha! Good luck!’ Artyom uttered hoarsely, shaking his stepfather’s hand, and he quickly left.
Sukhoi watched him leave in surprise.
‘Why’s he come unglued? It’s not the first time he’s been to Rizhskaya . . .’
‘Nothing, Sasha, nothing, there will be a time when your boy will grow up. Then you’ll be nostalgic for the days when he said goodbye to you with tears in his eyes when he was just going two stations away! So what were you saying about the opinion at Alexeevskaya about the patrolling of tunnels? It would be very handy for us . . .’
When Artyom ran back to the group, the commander had given each person a machine gun and said:
‘So then, men? Shall we sit down for a moment before we go?’ And he sat down on the old wooden bench. The rest of them followed his example silently. ‘OK, God be with us!’ The commander stood up and jumped down onto the path, taking his place at the front of the group.
Artyom and Zhenya, as the youngest members of the group, climbed up onto the cart and prepared themselves for hard work. Kirill and the second volunteer took their places behind, completing the chain.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted the commander.
Artyom and Zhenya leaned on the levers, and Kirill pushed the cart from behind - and it squeaked, shunting forward and then started gliding ahead. The last two guys walked behind it and the group disappeared into the muzzle of the southern tunnel.
CHAPTER 4
The Voice of the Tunnels
The unreliable light of the lantern in the hands of the commander wandered like a pale yellow stain on the tunnel walls, licking the damp floor and disappearing completely when the lantern was pointed into the distance. There was deep darkness ahead, which was greedily devouring the weak beams of their pocket flashlights from just ten paces away. The wheels of the cart squeaked with a whining and melancholic sound, gliding into nowhere, and the breathing and the rhythmic footfalls of the booted people walking behind it punctuated the silence.
The southern cordons were behind them now, the flickering light of their fires had died away long ago. They were beyond the territory of VDNKh. And even though the journey from VDNKh to Rizhskaya was considered safe, given the good relations between the stations and the fact that there was a sufficient amount of movement between the two, the caravan needed to stay on alert.
Danger was not something that just came from the north or the south - the two directions of the tunnel. It could hide above them, in the airshafts or at the sides in the multiple tunnel branches behind the sealed doors of former utility rooms or secret exits. There were dangers waiting below too in mysterious manholes left behind by the metro-builders, forgotten and neglected by maintenance crews back when the metro was still just a means of transportation, where terrible things now lurked in their depths, things which could squeeze the mind of the most reckless of daredevils in a vice of irrational horror.
That was why the commander’s lantern was wandering along the walls, and the fingers of the people at the back of the caravan stroked the safety locks of their machine guns, ready to fix them into firing mode at any moment and to lunge at their triggers. That’s why they said little as they walked: chatting weakened and interfered with their capacity to hear in the breathing space of the tunnel.
Artyom was starting to get tired already; he laboured and laboured but the handle, descending and then returning to its former place, gnashed monotonously, turning the wheels again and again. He was looking ahead without success, but his head was spinning to the beat of the wheels, heavily and hysterically, just like the phrases he heard from Hunter before he left - his words about the power of darkness, the most widespread form of government in the territory of the Moscow metro-system.
He tried to think about how he was going to get to Polis, he tried to make a plan, but slowly a burning pain and fatigue was spreading in his muscles, rising from his bent legs through the small of his back, into his arms and pushing any complicated thoughts right out of his head.
Hot, salty sweat dripped onto his forehead, at first slowly, in tiny droplets, and then the drops had grown and became heavier, flowing down his face, getting into his eyes, and there was no chance of wiping them away because Zhenya was on the other side of the mechanism, and if Artyom released the handle then it would land all the effort on Zhenya. Blood was pounding louder and louder in his ears, and Artyom remembered that when he was little he liked to adopt an uncomfortable pose in order to hear the blood pounding in his ears because the sound reminded him of the steps of soldiers on parade. And if he closed his eyes, he could imagine he was a marshal leading the parade and faithful divisions were passing him, measuring their paces, and saluting him. That’s how it was described in books about the army.
Finally, the commander said, without turning around:
‘OK, guys, come down and change places. We’ve reached half way.’
Artyom exchanged glances with Zhenya and he jumped off the cart, and they both, without speaking, sat on the rails, even though they were supposed to be going to the rear of the cart.
The commander looked at them attentively and said sympathetically:
‘Milksops . . .’
‘Milksops,’ Zhenya admitted readily.
‘Get up, get up, there’ll be no sitting here. It’s time to go. I’ll tell you a good little story.’
‘We can also tell you a few stories!’ Zhenya confidently declared, not wanting to get up.
‘Yes, I know all your stories. About the dark ones, about the mutants . . . About your little mushrooms, of course. But there are a few tales you’ve never heard. Yes, indeed, and they might not even be tales - it’s just that no one is able to confirm them . . . That is, there have been people who have tried to confirm the stories, but they couldn’t tell us for sure.’
For Artyom, this short speech had been enough to give him a second wind. Now any information about what happened beyond the Prospe
ct Mir station had great meaning for him. He hurried to get up from the rails and, transferring his machine gun from his back to his chest, he took up his place behind the cart.
With a little shove, the wheels started singing their plaintive song again. The group moved forward. The commander was looking ahead, peering watchfully into the darkness because not everything was audible.
‘I’m interested, what does your generation know about the metro anyway?’ the commander was saying. ‘You tell each other such tales. Someone went somewhere, someone made it all up. One tells the wrong thing to the next who whispers it to a third, who, in turn, stretches the story over a cup of tea with a fourth person, who pretends that it was his own adventure. That’s the main problem with the metro: there aren’t any reliable communication lines. It isn’t possible to get from one end to the other quickly. You can’t get through in some places, it’s partitioned in others where some crap is going on, and the conditions change every day. Do you think that this metro system is all that big? Well, you can get from one end to the other in an hour by train. And it takes people weeks to do that now, and that’s if they make it. And you never know what is waiting for you at every turn. So, we’ve set off for Rizhskaya with humanitarian aid . . . But the problem is that no one - me and the duty officer included - no one is prepared to guarantee that when we get there, we won’t be met with heavy fire. Or that we won’t find a burnt-out station without a living soul in it. Or that it won’t suddenly become clear that Rizhskaya has joined forces with the Hansa and therefore there’s no passage to the rest of the metro left to us anymore, ever again. There’s no exact information . . . We received some data yesterday - but everything is out of date by evening and you can’t rely on it the next day. It’s just like going through quicksand using a hundred-year-old map. It takes so long for messengers to get through with the messages they carry that it often happens that the information’s not needed anymore or it’s already unreliable. The truth is distorted. People have never lived under these conditions . . . And it’s scary to think of what will happen when there isn’t any fuel for the generators, and there isn’t electricity anymore. Have you read Wells’ The Time Machine? Well, there they had these Morlocks . . .’
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