METRO 2035. English language edition.: The finale of the Metro 2033 trilogy. (METRO by Dmitry Glukhovsky)

by Dmitry Glukhovsky

  “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.

  Disoriented Ilya Stepanovich trailed around after him. Artyom had agreed with SukhoI for Ilya Stepanovich to be allowed to stay at the station. So Artyom was showing him what was what and how things were arranged here.

  Although the teacher was shabby and wretched, Fur-Coat Dashka took an instant liking to him. They filled him up with weak tea—the mushrooms were running out. People asked about his life. He replied evasively, and Artyom didn’t give him away.

  But Ilya Stepanovich was a good listener. As Artyom told him about the station, he put in bits about himself now and then. It just came out that way. As they wandered between the tents, things came to him. This is where Zhenka used to live. My childhood friend. We opened the doors at the Botanical Gardens together. He died later: Someone in the watch cracked up when the Dark Ones were advancing on Exhibition and killed him. And this was the spot where I saw Hunter for the first time and was totally bowled over by him. Look, we walked round the empty hall at night, and he took my fate in his massive great hands and tied it in a knot in a moment, like a metal bar. Well, and so on. About the Dark Ones. It was ridiculous to keep quiet about them at this stage. The tragedy of his entire life, and it had turned out to be a damp squib. Ilya Stepanovich nodded rapidly, as if all this concerned him. But who could tell what he was thinking about?

  Artyom held out like that until the evening.

  Of course, a royal supper like that wasn’t restricted just to close friends. All-comers were invited. The tables were laid in the dead end—“in the club,” on a dais—where the truncated corridor began, leading over the rails to the new exit.

  The hooters sounded to end the day shifts; people came from the shower rooms clean and dressed as festively as they could manage.

  The starters were a bit sparse, but Proshka atoned for everything. They had cooked him superbly. He was served roasted, with the head separate. The head squinted through narrowed eyes, the ears were oily, transparent parchment. The meat was tender, just lightly veined with fat: He had been slaughtered at just the right time. The meat melted in their mouths. They poured mushroom moonshine, from the old reserves. The toasts proposed became more and more heartfelt.

  “Welcome back!”

  “Good health to you, Artyom!”

  “Anechka! And here’s to you!”

  “And little kiddies to you at last!”

  “And, don’t take this for bootlicking, now—to the parents. To you, that is, Alexanlexeich!”

  Pyotr Ilich got worked up and really stood out at this Great Supper, with his red hair standing up like a crown round his crimson bald spot.

  “And then, let’s drink straightaway to our Exhibition Station, an island of peace and stability in the raging ocean of the Metro! Thanks to the efforts of a certain person, and you know who!”

  Artyom had thought he wouldn’t be able to get a single morsel down, but he’d gotten so hungry that he wolfed down two portions. It was a fine young boar. Really. Although it was best not to remember that he’d been grunting just this morning. But then they all grunted some time; were we just supposed to stop eating them?

  Artyom just couldn’t drink. But SukhoI didn’t miss a round. They were each preparing in their own way for the talk with the people.

  “I wanted to talk things over with you; I was waiting for you to show up. Of course, you’re free to talk to people. I don’t take back my word. But I just want you to understand that you don’t have to, you know—the mushrooms and the pigs … You can do something else. Reconnaissance, for instance …”

  “Thanks, Uncle Sash.”

  Little Kirill sneaked over, the cougher. “Boo!” He tried to frighten Artyom, then climbed up on his knees. He’d run away from his mother: It was past his bedtime already, and he ought to be sleeping. Then she came herself, Natalya. She scolded her son, but agreed to stay for a while—there was still some of the young boar left.

  “A-anya! Give me a piece!”

  “Come over to us. I’ll put a bit more on your plate; you need it to grow.”

  Kiriukha was given his own plate, and he sat down between Artyom and Anya and started chewing on his meat for dear life.

  Before the third serving Artyom’s stepfather was approached by a watchman, the Georgian Ubilava, who whispered something to him. SukhoI wiped his greasy lips and, without looking at Artyom, got up from the table. Artyom watched over his shoulder: Sukhoi had been called to the southern tunnel. The one leading to Alekseevskaya Station and on into the Metro. What was going on there? Artyom couldn’t see. SukhoI walked behind the columns, onto the tracks.

  He didn’t come back for ten minutes.

  “And did you find Polar Dawns?” Kiriukha bleated.

  “What?” Artyom asked absentmindedly.

  “Polar Dawns! You said you’d picked it up! Did you find it? That’s what you went for, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. I found it.”

  “Ma, do you hear? Artyom found Polar Dawns!”

  Natalya pursed her lips.

  “That’s not true, Kiriushenka.”

  “Artyom! It is true, isn’t it?”

  “Stop it,” Natalya told Artyom.

  “What’s it like there, Tyom? What’s there, in Polar Dawns? How are things with the microbes there?”

  “Just a moment,” said Artyom. “Wait a bit, kiddo.”

  SukhoI was standing with some men at the south end of the platform, looking round at the feast: signaling in semaphore with his crimson face in the crimson light. Artyom wanted to go over to him. He started getting out and moved Kiriukha over, but his stepfather noticed and waved to him: Stay there; I’m coming.

  “What’s happening?” Anya asked.

  “Well, tell her that it’s true!”

  “Right! Now you’re going off to bed!”

  SukhoI same back to the feast. He sat beside Artyom and smiled as if his lips were cracked and it was painful to stretch them out.

  In his annoyance with his mother, Kiriukha picked at Proshka’s screwed-up eye with his fork. Dashka served Ilya Stepanovich a good portion of fatty top leg. Artyom took hold of Sukhoi’s elbow.

  “What’s happening, Uncle Sash?”

  “They came to get you. We gave them their marching orders, of course.”

  “The Order’s men? From Miller?”

  Anya held her knife in her hand as if she was about to strike out with it. Artyom laid his fingers on his pocket. The Nagant was still there, in its place.

  “No. From Hansa.”

  “Are there many of them? Did they spend special forces?”

  “Two men. Civilians.”

  “Only two? And what? What do they say?”

  “They say they’ll give us time to think until the morning. They understand that you’re my son and all the rest of it.” SukhoI looked down into his plate. “They say they don’t want to take things to the extreme.”

  Artyom didn’t argue about the word “son.”

  “And what happens in the morning?”

  “They’ll start a total blockade of the station. They won’t buy anything from us anymore, and they won’t sell anything to us either. All-mash for the pigs and so forth. Plus a ban on all travel. They say they’ve already settled that with Alekseevskaya.”

  Andrei, the senior scout, stood up. He raised his glass.

  “A toast! Your father and I have already discussed this, Artyom. Comrades, I am a victim of force majeure. I’ve fallen in love. And my love lives at Krasnopresnenskaya Station. I realized it was time. I’m thirty-eight. So I’m leaving my beloved home stat
ion, Exhibition, and moving to join my bride in Hansa. So what do I want to drink to, basically? I want to drink, Artyom, to every one of us finding his own place. And now my place is free—for you!”

  Artyom nodded, stood up, clinked glasses, and sat down again. He whispered to Sukhoi.

  “How long can we hold out?”

  “I don’t know. The mushrooms, well, you can see … For a while on the pork. Only there won’t be anything to feed them with. All the feed comes from Hansa …”

  “Since when does Hansa deal in animal feed? Where do they get it from? Didn’t the plague affect them, then?”

  “It’s combined fodder, I told you. Not made from mushrooms—a mixture of something or other. But the pigs eat it. They don’t turn up their snouts and they put on weight well.”

  “But haven’t the pig farmers asked what it is they’re feeding them? Where they get it from? Maybe we could do something like it ourselves …”

  “I don’t know. We don’t ask. Supposedly Hansa gets it from the Reds. According to the rumors. We tried it—the pigs eat it, so why quibble. We—”

  “Where would the Reds get it from? The Reds have—”

  “Pyotr Ilich! Where do they bring the all-mash from, do you remember?”

  “Why, from Komsomolskaya, I reckon. I recall them saying it’s close by. Fresh. Although not so very fresh these last few times.”

  “From Komsomolskaya?”

  Salty, bitter spittle flowed into Artyom’s mouth. His throat cramped up, and he couldn’t swallow or get any air down.

  “From Komsomolskaya? From the Reds?”

  “From Hansa …”

  “What’s the difference.”

  “But what’s wrong with it?”

  “You don’t ask any unnecessary questions, right? A blockade, shit?”

  “I have to feed people, Artyom. Two hundred souls. If we have it, that’s good. One day when you’re a station master, you’ll understand …”

  Artyom stood up.

  “Can I?”

  “Oh, the star of the occasion! Let’s have a toast from you, Artyom!”

  And he pulled himself up to attention, as if he really was going to propose a toast to them. Only his fingers clutched air instead of a glass.

  “Some men just came to get me. Supposedly from Hansa. They want to catch me and take me away, so that I won’t have time to tell you all of this. If you don’t hand me over, they say they’ll set up a blockade.”

  People at the table started shushing each other; the song that was just starting up about evenings near Moscow faltered and stopped. Some carried on chewing, but without making any noise.

  “Moscow isn’t the only city where people survived. Yesterday at Polis they announced to everyone that there are others. Soon they’ll tell you here about that too. So think of me as the first. The whole world is still alive! Petersburg, Ekaterinburg, Vladivostok. America. But we didn’t hear about it because they were suppressing radio contact with jammers.”

  The silence was deathly. People listened, transfixed.

  “We don’t have to live here any longer. We can pack up and leave. At any moment. Right now. Go anywhere we like. At Murom, only three hundred kilometers from Moscow, the radiation level is already normal. People live on the surface. It’s Moscow that is dead and poisoned, because the warheads were intercepted above it. We shouldn’t stay here. We mustn’t stay here. What I’m suggesting, what I’m asking you is: Let’s leave.”

  “What for?” someone asked him.

  “Trudge three hundred kilometers, and then what’s there?”

  “What are you listening to him for? He’s nuts on this subject.”

  “What for? Because man’s place isn’t under the ground. Because you live in tunnels—they keep you in tunnels. Like worms. Do you at least remember about it? These idiotic wars we fight against each other … We have no tomorrow here. This is a graveyard, the Metro. We’ll never be anyone here. We won’t be human here. We won’t do anything new. We won’t grow. We get sick here. We’re degenerating. There’s no air. There’s no room here. It’s cramped in here.”

  “There’s just enough for us,” someone told him.

  “Did Dushanbe survive?” someone enquired timidly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “So you compare us with worms, then?”

  “But what if America’s still all there, is the war still going on?” someone at the table asked, thinking out loud.

  “In the city of Murom there’s a monastery. Painted all white. And the domes above it are bright blue. The color of the sky. It stands on the bank of a river. Surrounded by forest. Why don’t we go there? First scouts, and then everyone would go. We’d find some kind of transport and fix it up. Women and children in the cars and trucks.”

  “And what is there to eat up there?

  “Well what do you eat here? Here you … Damn you. And there’s obviously no other way here! That’s the whole problem. With this place! It isn’t a refuge! It’s a crypt! We have to clear out of here!”

  “So you bloody clear out, then,” someone told him in a low, sullen voice. “Why can’t you clear out on your own? Why drag other folks with you? Like some bloody Moses.”

  “And what if Hansa wants us to hand him over for something he’s done? Has he killed someone?” a woman asked inquisitively.

  Artyom looked round at Sukhoi. He was running his eyes round the table, as if searching for support for Artyom. But he didn’t interfere.

  Artyom wiped his forehead.

  “All right. Okay. I’m getting together an expedition. Purely exploratory—for now. We’ll go to the east and explore. We’ll try to find a place there fit for habitation. And when we find it, we’ll come back for the others. Who’s with me?”

  No one answered. They chewed, gaped, and drank. No one answered.

  Anya moved her knife aside. She got up.

  “Me. I’m with you.”

  The two of them stood there for a moment. Then everything started buzzing.

  Consumptive Kiriukha clambered up on the bench so he could be seen. He squeaked determinedly.

  “Me too! I’ll go with you! Out of the Metro! To Polar Dawns!”

  He stood up exactly where he had been sitting—between Anya and Artyom. They glanced at each other.

  Natalya, his mother, recoiled from the table. Glasses went flying and smashed on the floor.

  “Come here right now! That’s it, we’re going to bed!”

  “Aw, ma! Let’s go to Polar Dawns!”

  “We’re not going anywhere! This is our home!”

  “Aw, just let me go and see …”

  “No!”

  “It’s the surface, Natal …” said Artyom. “There’s air up there. Different. Fresh. And the tuber …”

  “If there’s no tuber, there’s something else. Some kind of plague! People say there are Americans out there! Do you want to hand us over to the Americans?”

  “If you don’t want to—let him go. Here he … You told me yourself. How long has he got?”

  “You want to take him from me!” She started choking. “You want to take my son! Agh, you filthy rat … I won’t let you have him! I won’t allow it! My little Kiriushka! Did you hear that? He wants to take my son from me! Give him to the Americans! Like a toy! And go himself … And hand us over to them!”

  “You fool,” Artyom told her. “You bitch.”

  “You push off up onto your surface! Comparing us with worms! I won’t let him go! Don’t you dare! Don’t let them take him!”

  “Don’t give him the child! He’s fucked in the head; everybody knows that! Where would he drag the kid off to?”

  “We won’t give him to you. This is way over the top!”

  “I want to go with you!” Kiriukha started crying. “I want to take a look at the surface!”

  “Ah, just hand him over to Hansa, and that’s that,” someone said. “Let them sort it all out.”

  “So you push off! If you’re so mi
serable here with us! Push off, you traitor!”

  They started moving back from the table, jumping to their feet.

  “Well stay here, then! Eat! Carry on devouring each other! Let them herd you around! Like sheep! If you want to croak, then croak. If you want to shuffle through shit, then shuffle. If you want to dig over your lousy fucking past—go on! But what are the children guilty of? Why do you want to bury the children alive?”

  “You’re the sheep! You’ve sold out! No one will go anywhere with you! Where do you want to lead us, into a trap? How much did they pay you? Just hand him over! Are we supposed to break off relations with Hansa because of this shit?”

  “Right, that’s enough!” SukhoI shouted, getting up.

  “And you ought to keep an eye on that kid of yours! Now he’s gone and sold out to someone or other! Poisoning us all that time wasn’t enough for him! Maybe we wouldn’t be sick if that bastard hadn’t kept opening the seals! You keep your nose out; don’t meddle in our business! We’ll manage, all right! This—is—our—home!”

  “Tyo-om, I’m with you, I want to go, plea-ease!”

  “Push off! Get lost! Before we hand you over! Why should we suffer for him?”

  Kiriukha’s hand found Artyom’s index finger and clutched in a tight hug, but Natalya jerked him—and dragged him away.

  Artyom’s eyes started running with tears.

  “Dad …” He looked round at Sukhoi. “Dad. And you—will you?”

  “I can’t, Artyom,” SukhoI murmured in a dead voice. “I can’t go with you. How can I abandon the people?”

  Artyom blinked.

  His head was spinning. What he had guzzled was stuck like a cobblestone in his throat.

  “Ah, fuck everything in this damned Metro with a barge pole! I was ready to croak for all of you, but there’s nobody here worth croaking for!”

  He swept the plates of human pork off the table with a crash and a clatter and kicked over the bench.

  Striding behind him came Anya; and plodding after them for some reason was Ilya Stepanovich.

  “Have you decided to go up on top, then?” Artyom asked him.

  “No. Not me. I’ll stay here. I’ll write about you … Artyom … About all this … Give me your permission, eh? Will you let me write a book? I’ll put everything in it, just like it is … Word of honor!”