“Write the damn shit. You won’t get a fucking thing written anyway. And nobody will read it. Homer’s right, the old bastard. Everyone wants fairytales!”
* * *
In the west the sunset sky was scarlet, but in the east it rang as crystal clear as a freshly washed bottle. All the clouds had been swept off it, and now, one by one, little silver nails were being hammered into the cerulean vault.
They tossed food, cartridges, guns, and filters into the back of the station wagon. There were still three full canisters of diesel oil in there. Enough to drive halfway round the earth.
The Yaroslavl Highway, massively wide, ran straight from the Exhibition of Economic Achievements to the far edge of the continent. It was crammed with cars and trucks that never reached their destinations, but visible between the vehicles that had got stuck in the past was a narrow furrow, through which it was possible to drive in that direction—to somewhere. The dead buildings glowed gold around their edges, and in this moment of farewell Moscow seemed warm and real to Artyom.
He was sick of the rubber on his skin and sick of the preparations for the journey. He wanted to ditch the rubber already. He wanted to race along as soon as possible with the windows down, catching the oncoming stream of air with his open hand and breathing it, warm and fresh. But never mind: In about three, maybe four, hours they’d take these gas masks off once and for all and fling them out of the window, as far away as possible.
They embraced anyway.
“Where are you going to go?” asked Sukhoi.
“Anywhere at all. Where are we going, An?”
“To Vladivostok. I want to go to the ocean.”
“Vladivostok it is, then.”
Artyom moved Savelii’s white animal skin to Anya’s seat: They needed to be careful; she still had to have children. He put the Nagant in the glove compartment. Started the engine. They slammed the doors.
SukhoI leaned down to him. And asked him to lower the window. He droned through his trunk.
“Artyom, don’t judge the people. It’s not the people’s fault.”
Artyom blew him a kiss.
“See you, Uncle Sash. Ciao for now.”
SukhoI nodded and moved back. Ilya Stepanovich, huddling up, waved his hand. There wasn’t anyone else seeing them off.
Artyom put his hand on Anya’s knee. She covered his glove with both of hers.
The Japanese car sneezed blue fumes, struck up a marching song, and shot off immediately that way—to the magical, fabulous city of Vladivostok, standing on a warm, gamboling ocean—across an immense and beautiful, unknown country, inhabited by real, live people.
And a luminous, sunlit fair wind saw them on their way.
— THE END —
AFTERWORD
They were good binoculars—German, really high quality. Easily good enough to see for a kilometer or even farther. The off-roader trailed the Japanese car at a cautious distance as far as the Moscow Orbital Ring Road and halted there.
“He’s scrammed, AlexeI Felixovich,” Lyokha said to the walkie-talkie. “Shall we stay on his tail?”
“What’s he going to do out there? Let him bugger off. Good riddance,” said the walkie-talkie. “That’s it; come on back.”
Recorded by I. Shkurkin
Table of Contents
Title Page
Colophon
Epigraph
Map
Chapter 1. Moscow Here
Chapter 2. The Metro
Chapter 3. The Pipe
Chapter 4. Payment
Chapter 5. Enemies
Chapter 6. Eight Meters
Chapter 7. Tsvetnoi Boulevard
Chapter 8. Heil
Chapter 9. Theater
Chapter 10. Red
Chapter 11. Debris
Chapter 12. The Order
Chapter 13. Living Space
Chapter 14. Strangers
Chapter 15. Enthusiasts' Highway
Chapter 16. The Final Broadcast
Chapter 17. All Correct
Chapter 18. Active Service
Chapter 19. What to Write
Chapter 20. Miracles
Chapter 21. Comrades
Chapter 22. The Truth
Chapter 23. His Own People
Afterword
Metro 2033
Metro 2034
Futu.re
The Outpost
METRO 2035. English language edition.: The finale of the Metro 2033 trilogy. (METRO by Dmitry Glukhovsky) Page 56