METRO 2033 (58 page)

Fear ruled completely here, and this was apparent at first glance. Was this that ‘sunny Kievskaya,’ about which the man from the Caucasus who was staying with him in a cell in fascist captivity had spoken? Or did he have in mind a station with the same name located at Filevskaya branch?

You couldn’t say say that the station was neglected and that all its inhabitants had fled. It turned out there were many people here, but Kievskaya gave the impression that it did not belong to its residents. They all were trying to stay close together. Tents were stuck to the walls and to each other in the centre of the hall. The distance between them required by the fire safety regulations was not observed anywhere: clearly, these people were frightened of something more dangerous than fire. Those passing by, immediately and wearily looked away when Artyom looked them in the eyes, and, avoiding the strangers, tore from their path, as beetles scurrying along cracks.

The platform, squeezed between two rows of low, round arches, went downward at one side with several of the escalators and, at the other, was raised at the short staircase where the side passage to the other station had been opened. Coals smouldered in several places, and there was a tantalizing aroma of roast meat. Somewhere a child was crying. Though Kievskaya was located on the edge of the city of the dead that the frightened peddlers had spoken of, it was fully alive.

Quickly saying goodbye, the peddlers disappeared into the passage to the other line. Melnik, prudently having looked along the sides, resolutely began to walk to the side of one of the passages. It was immediately apparent he had been here regularly. Artyom was unable to fathom why the stalker had questioned the peddlers in such detail about the station.

Had he been hoping that a hint of the true state of affairs be revealed accidentally? Was he trying to flush out possible spies?

They stopped after a second at an entrance to some office facilities. The door here had been knocked off, but a guard stood on the outside. The authorities, Artyom guessed.

A smoothly shaven elderly man with well combed hair came out to meet the stalker. He wore the old, blue uniform of a subway worker, aged and faded by washing, but surprisingly clean. It was clear how he managed to look after himself at this station. The man saluted Melnik, for some reason placing only two fingers to his forehead, and not sincerely, as the patrols had done in the tunnel, but ludicrously. He squinted derisively.

‘Good day,’ he said in a pleasant deep voice.

‘Good day, sir,’ the stalker replied and he smiled.

In ten minutes they were seated in a warm room and drinking the best of mushroom tea. This time they didn’t leave Artyom out as he had expected, but they allowed him to take part in a discussion of serious matters. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand anything of the conversation between the stalker and the station chief, who Melnik called Arkadiy Semyonovich. At first Melnik asked about a certain Tretyak, then he set about inquiring whether there were any changes in the tunnels. The chief reported that Tretyak had left on personal business, but was supposed to return quite soon, and he proposed they wait for him. Then they both got deeper into the details of some kind of agreements, in such a way that Artyom soon completely lost the thread of the conversation. He just sat there, sipped the hot tea, the mushroom smell of which reminded him of his home station, and looked around. Kievskaya clearly had known better times: the walls of the room were hung with moth-eaten carpets with the design preserved. In several places, immediately above the carpets, were fastened pencil sketches of tunnel junctions in wide gilded frames, and the table at which they sat looked like an antique, and Artyom couldn’t imagine how many stalkers had been needed to drag it down from someone’s empty apartment and how much the station proprietor had agreed to pay for it. On one of the walls hung a sabre that had grown dark with age, and alongside was a pistol of a prehistoric type, clearly unsuitable for firing. At the far end of the room, on a wardrobe, lay a huge white skull that had belonged to an unknown being.

‘There is absolutely nothing in these tunnels.’ Arkadiy Semyonovich shook his head. ‘We keep watch so the people remain calm. You have been there yourself and you know well that both lines have been blocked about three hundred metres from the station. There is no chance that anyone could show up. It’s superstition.’

‘But people are disappearing?’ Melnik frowned.

‘They are disappearing,’ the chief agreed, ‘but it’s unknown to where. I think they run off. We don’t have any cordons at the passages, and there,’ he waved his hand towards the stairs, ‘is a whole city. They can go where they like. Both to the Ring and to Filevskaya. Hansa, they say, is letting people out of our station now.’

‘But what are they afraid of?’ asked the stalker.

‘Of what? Of the fact that people are disappearing. You go around in circles.’ Arkadiy Semyonovich gestured helplessly.

‘It’s strange,’ Melnik said suspiciously. ‘You know, while we are waiting for Tretyak, let’s go down to the guard again. Just to get acquainted. Or they will worry the Smolenskie.’

‘I understand,’ the chief nodded. ‘Well, you go to the third tent now, Anton lives there. He is commander of the next shift. Tell him you were sent by me.’

It was noisy in the tent with the painted number ‘3.’ Two little lads about ten years of age, played on the floor with the cartridge cases of automatic weapons. Alongside them sat a young girl, who was looking at her brothers with eyes wide with curiosity, but who had not decided to participate in the game. A neat middle-aged, woman in an apron was slicing some kind of food for dinner. It was comfortable here, a delicious domestic smell hung in the air.

‘Anton has gone out, have a seat and wait,’ the woman offered, smiling cordially.

The boys had begun to gaze at them watchfully, then one of them approached Artyom.

‘Do you have any cartridge cases?’ he asked, looking at him sullenly.

‘Oleg, stop your begging at once!’ the woman said sternly, not stopping what she was preparing.

To Artyom’s surprise, Melnik put his hand into the pocket of his trousers, fumbled about and withdrew several unusual oblong cartridge cases, clearly not from a Kalashnikov. Jamming them into his fist and jingling them like a rattle, the stalker extended the treasure to the child. His eyes immediately lit up, but he didn’t have the courage to take the gift.

‘Take them, take them!’ The stalker winked at him and dumped the cartridge cases into the child’s outstretched palm.

‘Now I’ll win! Look, how big! It’ll be Spetsnaz!’ the boy yelled happily.

Watching, Artyom had seen that the cartridge cases with which they played had been laid out in equal rows and, apparently, represented tin soldiers. Even he himself had played like that once, only he had been lucky: he still had real little tin soldiers, though from various collections.

As a battle unfolded on the floor, the father of the children entered the tent. He was a short, thin man with wet dark-blond hair. Seeing the strangers, he nodded at them in silence and, not uttering a word, stared intently at Melnik.

‘Papa, Papa, did you bring us some more cartridge cases? Oleg now has more, they gave him some long ones!’ the second boy nagged, plucking at the father’s trouser leg.

‘From the authorities,’ the stalker explained. ‘We are going on duty with you into the tunnels. Like reinforcements.’

‘More reinforcements are out of the question,’ muttered the boss of the tent, but the lines of his face had become smooth. ‘My name is Anton. We’ll just have a bite to eat and go. Have a seat.’ He pointed at the stuffed sacks that served as chairs in this home.

Despite the guests’ resistance, both partook of a smoking bowl with tubers unfamiliar to Artyom. He looked at the stalker questioningly, but the stalker confidently stabbed a piece on his fork, put it into his mouth and began to chew. Something resembling satisfaction was reflected in his poker face, and this imparted bravery to Artyom. The tubers were totally unlike mushrooms to the taste, they were sweet and a little fatty, and he ate his fill of them in only a few minutes. At first Artyom wanted to ask what they were eating, but then he thought that it would be better for him not to know. They were tasty and OK. Some places they consider rats’ brains a delicacy . . .

‘Pop, can I go with you, on duty?’ having eaten half his portion and spreading the rest along the edges of his plate, the child to whom the stalker had given the cartridge case asked.

‘No, Oleg,’ the host answered, frowning.

‘Olezhenka! What’s this about duty? Just what are you thinking? They don’t take little boys there!’ wailed the woman, taking her son by the hand.

‘Mom, what do you mean, little boy?’ Oleg said, examining the guests uncomfortably and trying to speak with a deep voice.

‘Don’t even think about it! Do you want to drive me to hysterics?’ The mother had raised her voice.

‘Well, fine, fine,’ the child mumbled.

But as soon as the woman had gone to the other end of the tent to fetch something else for the table, he tugged his father by the sleeve and loudly whispered:

‘But you took me the last time . . .’

‘The conversation is finished!’ the host said sternly.

‘It doesn’t matter . . .’ Oleg muttered his final words to himself under his breath so that they couldn’t be heard clearly.

Having finished eating, Anton stood up from the table, unlocked a metal box standing on the floor, and took an old army AK-47 out of it and said:

‘Shall we go? It’s a short shift today, I’ll be back in six hours,’ he reported to his wife.

Both Melnik and Artyom stood immediately. Little Oleg looked in desperation at his father and fidgeted uneasily in his seat, but decided to say nothing.

At the dark tunnel orifice sat a pair of guards on the edge of the platform, legs hanging downward and a third blocked the passages and peered into the darkness. There was stencilling on the wall. ‘The Arbatskaya Confederation. Welcome!’ The letters were half-erased, and it was immediately clear that it hadn’t been repainted for a very long time. The guards conversed in a whisper and even hushed one another if one of them suddenly raised his voice.

Besides the stalker and Artyom, two more local men accompanied Anton. Both of them were sombre and not talkative, they looked at the guests malevolently, and Artyom never caught what their names were.

Having exchanged some short phrases with the people protecting the entrance to the tunnel, they stepped down to the paths and slowly moved forward. The tunnel’s round arches were perfectly conventional here, the floor and walls appeared untouched by time.

And yet the unpleasant feeling about which the peddlers had spoken had begun to envelop Artyom as soon as he took his first steps.

A dark, inexplicable fear crept out from the depths to greet him. It was quiet on the line. Some human voices were heard in the distance: mostly likely there was a patrol located there, too.

It was one of the strangest posts that Artyom had seen.

Several men sat around on bags filled with sand. In the middle stood a cast-iron stove and, some distance further away, a pail of fuel oil. Only the tongues of flame penetrating the slits in the stove and the light of the flickering wick of an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling illuminated the faces of the patrol members. The lamp swung a little from the stale tunnel air, and therefore, it seemed that the shadows of the people sitting motionless were living their own private lives. The lookout members were sitting with their backs to the tunnel. The air was irritating their eyes.

Protecting their eyes from the blinding rays of the flashlights of the replacements with their hands, the lookouts gathered themselves up to go home.

‘Well, how was it?’ Anton asked of them, ladling out a scoop of fuel oil.

‘How can it be here?’ the senior shift member grinned gloomily. ‘Like always. Empty. Quiet. Quiet . . .’ He snuffed and, having hunched up, began walking towards the station.

While those remaining moved their bags closer to the stove and planted themselves, Melnik turned to Anton: ‘Well, shall we continue on and take a look at what’s there?’

‘There’s nothing to see there, it’s just blocked, I’ve already seen it a hundred times. Look, if you want, it’s about fifteen metres from here.’ Anton pointed over his shoulder in the direction of Park Pobedy.

The tunnel was half destroyed before the blockage. The floor was covered with rock and dirt fragments, the ceiling had sagged in some places and the walls were crumbling and had converged. The warped opening of an entrance to unknown office facilities at the side had grown black, and at the very end of this appendix the rusty rails had been thrust into a pile covered with concrete blocks, mixed with cobblestones and soil. The metal utility line pipes that also stretched along the walls were immersed in this earthen layer.

Lighting the collapsed tunnel with the flashlight and not finding any secret trap doors, Melnik shrugged his shoulders and turned toward the lopsided door. He aimed the beam inside and glanced there, but didn’t cross the threshold.

‘Are there no changes on the second line either?’ he asked of Anton, turning towards the stove.

‘It was all like that both ten years ago and now,’ the latter replied.

They were silent for some time. With flashlights extinguished, the light once more came only from the loosely covered stove and from the tiny flame behind the sooty glass of the oil lamp, and the darkness around became dense. All the lookouts had bunched around the stove as close as was possible: the yellow beams blocked out the darkness and cold, and one could breathe more freely here. Artyom had endured as much as he could, but the need to hear at least some kind of a sound forced him to overcome his shyness: ‘I have never been to your station before,’ coughing, he told Anton, ‘I don’t understand, just why do you have duty here if there’s nothing there? You don’t even watch in that direction!’