Metro 2035

by Dmitry Glukhovsky

“FOR-WARD!”

  A minute later everyone was running forward, roaring, shrieking, or weeping. And the shepherds with the automatics should have run too, to keep up with their excited flock, but they were too lazy and too squeamish. The torchlight from behind paled slightly: The cattle-drivers fell back, reluctant to mingle with the cannon fodder. The gloom ahead was dank and murky where the shadows of the running people merged into the darkness that was flooding towards them.

  Artyom still didn’t have anything in his hands, but he couldn’t stop any longer: Anyone who even thought he could stop in the middle of this avalanche would immediately be swept away and trampled down. Artyom drew level with Lyokha: The broker gave Artyom a wild, insane look; he didn’t recognize him. Then Artyom overtook him.

  “HOORAAAAH!”

  The Reds burst upon them suddenly.

  They broke through the pall of haze and suddenly there they were, face to face, eye to eye with the beast-people. They emerged straight out of the tunnel into hand-to-hand, forehead-to-forehead combat.

  “AAAAAH!”

  Like the herd from Schiller, they didn’t have any torches: They were dashing through the darkness in a frenzy, at random. The beast-people at the front of the herd just had time to swing back their picks …

  And from behind them came a massive roar … BOO-OOM!

  The whole earth seemed to shake!

  The heavy breath of the blast swept the back rows of the running herd off their feet, and the tunnel resounded with it, like the sound of a trumpet at Jericho; all the torches were extinguished in a single instant, all the automatics fell silent, and suddenly there was nothing—nothing but blackness upon blackness, impenetrable blackness on all sides, as if the world had disappeared completely: Darkness total, absolute and hopeless had exploded and drowned everything.

  Artyom went blind and deaf, and the people running behind him went deaf, and the people running in front of him too. Some fell, tossed and tumbled and concussed, but immediately started getting to their feet, fumbling in the darkness for their picks or hammers.

  Because although they didn’t hear it with their ears, they could feel it with their skin and the down on their skin, the way that blind death was working at the front of the herd, feeling its way along, swinging its sickle, mowing people down. And they had to get up; they had to fend it off with their picks or, better still, take a swing and shatter its empty skull, jab the sharp point into its dry eye sockets, wrench them out, swing again from the shoulder and strike again.

  No one was driving them forward any longer, but everyone strained in that direction themselves, because death was calling, because it was more terrifying to hide and wait until death found you, because they wanted to strike the first blow, before they were struck.

  Not a single shot was fired: The Reds didn’t have rifles or automatics either; they all charged into hand-to-hand combat with whatever they had managed to find, and in the pitch darkness it was impossible to tell what that was.

  Artyom flung his arms out wide, grabbed hold of a handle, took someone else’s pick, and waded in too, drunk on the fear and the passion, straight ahead through the naked bodies, to stick his own head into the maelstrom, to make sure that in this battle he wouldn’t be a blind beast, but at least a blind butcher, since there were no other choices.

  It was close now, the spot where they were slashing, hacking, and chopping brutally, inhumanly, not knowing who they were killing and for what, no longer crying out either “Death!” or “Hoorah!” because they had forgotten Russian and any other language but whooping and cackling and simply growling or howling something incoherent and meaningless.

  The air whistled and hummed, sliced through and through.

  Picks jangled when they shot past the target of flesh and struck concrete. Or champed when they guessed right and sank home.

  A breath of rusty air wafted into Artyom’s face as sharp-pointed iron hurtled past only a hand’s width away. He recoiled and struck back—but at his own side or the others? And were there any of his own side here anyway? Blood smelled of rust; and the people smelled of shit.

  The beast-people and people-beasts from both sides charged towards each other, hurrying to use every last ounce of their strength to kill each other and at least put an end to everything that way, to stop being afraid.

  Artyom swung once, twice, again and again—and several times he found someone. A squelching sound and a spurt of something hot; the pick got stuck and pulled him downwards, saving him: Something instantly whizzed past above him—something heavy enough to split his head open—but it missed.

  Then something exploded in his knee, and he was flung down onto the rails; he couldn’t stand any longer, and he crawled and tried to hide in something soft, but the softness lashed out and shoved him away for as long as it could, snarling unintelligibly, polluting him with something sticky and hot.

  An infinity of time passed, but it didn’t get any lighter; and the people were still hammering at each other—wherever they heard crying or groaning, they lashed out wildly, sounding the alarm on the rails when they missed. Artyom listened to the chiming, crossed himself quietly, and didn’t let a single sound out of his throat. He lay down with the back of his head on someone dead, pretending that Sasha had put his head on her knees. He pulled another body over himself and hid in it.

  A lot more time passed before everything went quiet.

  They only stopped killing when no one could stand any longer.

  And then the ones who weren’t dead yet started moving and learning to speak again. Clutching his mutilated knee, Artyom lifted his head off Sasha’s knees and sat up. He whispered.

  “No more … No more. No more. I don’t want any more. I’m not going to kill anybody else. Who are you?” He reached out around himself with his fingers. “Who’s here? Are you from Schiller?”

  “I’m from Schiller,” someone said somewhere.

  “We’re from the Lubyanka,” someone close by answered.

  “The Lubyanka?”

  “Are you fascists? The Iron Legion? Cannibals?”

  “We’re from Schiller Station,” said Artyom. “We’re freaks, prisoners. They drove us on ahead of them. With a blocking detachment.”

  “We’re from the Lubyanka,” the voice repeated. “We’re prisoners. Political. They moved us to the front. At Pushkin. Like cannon fodder … Ahead of the real units … Against the gun emplacements … So we could …”

  “They threw us forward as cannon fodder … so we could …” Artyom echoed. “We’re freaks …”

  “Everyone here’s from the Lubyanka, from the cells, all prisoners,” someone told him. “The blocking detachment fired at our backs … The Chekists fired at our backs … To make us …”

  “Us too … They fired at us … The guards.”

  “They didn’t come after us … The blocking detachment stayed behind …”

  “They blew up the tunnel behind us. There’s no way back there … We’ve got nowhere to go … They didn’t come after us. They abandoned us …”

  “Why did you do it? Why did you do this to us?”

  “Why did you do this to us? What for? Eh?”

  Someone struggled painfully towards Artyom’s voice, crawling like a worm on their broken legs. He heard it, but he couldn’t strike another blow. It was difficult for the man to move towards Artyom, and Artyom moved towards him too. He reached out his hand, entwined his fingers with the other man’s, and dragged the man towards himself.

  “Oh God, why did you do this to us?”

  “Forgive us … Forgive us … Oh God, forgive us.”

  And they huddled up against each other. Artyom hugged him—he thought it was a grown man—and their foreheads touched; the man sobbed and shuddered, and Artyom was convulsed by a sudden spasm too—when it shook him, the tears started flowing. When the man had cried his heart out, he heaved a sigh and died. And then Artyom released him too.

  He lay there for a while.

  A s
pring in his mind clicked, and he remembered something.

  “From the Lubyanka … Who else is from the Lubyanka?”

  Here and there bodies came to life, trying to move their broken arms and think with their dented foreheads, grunting and raving.

  “Natashenka … Put the kettle on, my love … I’ve brought a cake.”

  “When I get back from Turkey, I’ll call you straightaway!”

  “I built the Moscow City! I built it!”

  “Why is it so dark? I’m afraid of the dark! Turn the light on! Seryozhka!”

  “Good grief, granny, what are you doing here? What have you come for?”

  “We’re going to expand the living space! So there’ll be enough room for everyone!”

  “Give me some water … Give me some water …”

  “Alyonka, Alyonka, you naughty girl!”

  “I’m from the Lubyanka. I am.”

  Artyom crawled on one knee and two elbows towards the spot where the confession had come from.

  “Who? Who? Tell me, don’t be afraid! You! Where are you?”

  “Who are you?” It was a woman.

  “Zuev. Was Zuev there with you?”

  “What Zuev? There wasn’t any …”

  “Zuev!” Artyom roared. “Igor Zuev! Zuev, are you alive? Zuev!”

  He stood up on one leg, leaned against the wall, and started skipping along blindly, holding on to the tunnel linings.

  “Zuev! Igor Zuev! Which person here is Igor Zuev from Okhotny Ryad? From Marx Prospect? Who?”

  “Stop that! Stop shouting! Or they’ll come! They’ll come!”

  “Why don’t we go to the cinema this evening? Eh? Such lovely weather, it’s a shame to stay in.”

  Igor didn’t reply.

  Maybe that was him, lying right here, but with half his head missing it was hard for him to talk. Or maybe the cunning devil was just keeping his head down and not saying anything, didn’t want to be found.

  “Igor! Zuev! Who was in a cell with Zuev? The one who knows about the survivors in other cities … in Polar Dawns … The ones who came to Moscow … Who was with him? Zuev!”

  “What?”

  “He told tall stories! About people who had survived in some other city! He said they came to Moscow!”

  “You’ve no idea how much shit just goes to waste at Schiller, guys, if only you knew!”

  “He’s not here. Aaaagh-agh. Zuev’s not here.”

  “What? Where are you? Who said that?”

  “Zuev’s not here. They handed him over to Hansa.”

  “Wait. Stop. Say that again. Where are you? Where are you, fuck it? Come on, tell me; don’t hide!”

  “Why are you looking for him? A friend of yours, is he?”

  “I have to know. I have to know what he said! Who were these men? Where did they show up? Where from? Why Hansa?”

  “Those men, aaaagh. They’re not from Polar Dawns. Polar Dawns, fuck that. It’s the stooges who spread lies about Polar Dawns. Stooges … Spreading rumors … They’re our men … Come back from Rokossovsky. Aaagh. Our shock workers … Aaagh-agh. Who were sent to the construction project of the century … To Balashikha … That’s where they’ve come back from. From Balashikha.”

  “Wait. Come on, where are you?”

  He skipped forward, and his hand disappeared into the wall—was this a doorway? He fell, got up, and started moving toward the voice and the straining cough.

  “Kazan is a beautiful city. They’ve got a remarkable mosque there.”

  “I could get rich on that shit, if I could get the contract.”

  “I’m from Kazan. And my granny’s from the country. My grandad’s name is Khairullin. My granny can’t even speak Russian!”

  “Where are you? You, the one who was talking about the outsiders, you? Did Balashikha survive? And what about Polar Dawns? Were they all killed? I don’t understand!”

  “How about some milk in your tea?”

  “Who knows what survived out there? It’s the stooges that talk about Polar Dawns. Agh-aaagh. A beautiful story, that. The idiots go for it. Aaagh-agh. At Balashikha … There’s an outpost. On the surface. With a radio … Radio center … They can contact other cities … In case … Zuev said …”

  “What? What did Zuev say?”

  “Who’s collecting Tanyusha from the kindergarten today, me or you?”

  “Get away from me, Satan; don’t touch me. Go away, please go away. I’m not yours. They’re waiting for me up in heaven.”

  “An outpost? On the surface? Who’s building it, I don’t understand! What radio?”

  “Agh-aaagh.”

  “Where are you? Tell me. Why a radio center?”

  “They’re real bastards altogether, those fascists. Torturing people for nothing. And they don’t even take the shit into account.”

  “The Reds … The Red Line’s building … Aagh-agh-agh … up on the surface … In Balashikha … A secret base … A station … And an outpost … So that … Instead of the Metro … Radio … A station … They herded men out there …”

  “There’s a station at Balashikha? What sort of station?”

  “They sent men … from Rokossovsky Station … And they … came back … themselves. Aaaagh-agh. Aaaagh-agh.”

  “Do they pick up signals? They can pick up signals from there, right?”

  “Aaagh-agh … agh-aaaagh.”

  And the man disappeared, as if he’d never even existed. He came out of the darkness and went back into it. Artyom went round, shaking the men who were alive, and tried to persuade the dead to talk, but it was all pointless.

  “In Balashikha!” he kept repeating to himself, so that he wouldn’t forget and wouldn’t decide that he had imagined the entire conversation. “In Balashikha. In Balashikha. In Balashikha. In Balashikha!”

  Now there was absolutely no way that Artyom could die. Now he had to crawl out from under these people, find the way out of this concrete womb and be reborn, patch up all the holes in himself and walk or crawl to this fucking promised land of Balashikha, no matter who or what be there.

  He got up again and grabbed hold of a tunnel liner as if it was his mother’s hand. Schiller Station had been cut off. The Reds were at Kuznetsky Most. They probably weren’t on their way here yet, because they’d heard the tunnel get blown up, but he couldn’t go to them.

  He remembered that opening in the wall. Maybe it was some kind of foot passage between the lines. He hopped along, feeling his way … Skipped inside … Rats scattered, squealing … If only he was a rat. A rat wouldn’t get lost, even with its eyes put out.

  A breath of air. His shaggy hair stirred on his head.

  As if Sasha’s fingers had combed it.

  He looked up with his sightless wall eyes.

  Another breath of air—gentle and playful, like a mother blowing into a baby’s face.

  He grabbed at the darkness with his fingers, broke his nails on concrete … and felt metal.

  A rung. And another rung. A ladder in a shaft. A ventilation shaft running upwards. The draught came from up there. From the surface.

  “He-ey!” he shouted. “He-e-e-ey! Hey! You over there! All of you! This way! There’s a way out here! A way up to the surface! A ventilation shaft! We can climb out! Do you hear me, you freaks? We can get to the surface here!”

  “The surface! Are you out of your fucking mind?” the invisible beast-people groaned.

  “Up!” Artyom shouted to them. “Follow me! Follow me, you freaks!”

  They were afraid; they didn’t believe him. They didn’t know that there was wind and rain up there, and you wouldn’t die the first time you went up. He had to set them an example.

  He grasped a rusty metal rung with his curved fingers: The rung fitted into his fingers perfectly. He hopped and pulled up his shattered leg. Shifted his grip and pulled himself up. Again. Again. Again.

  His head was spinning.

  He kept slipping, losing his grip, but he immediately grabbed the run
g again. He didn’t feel his shattered leg, his lashed and shredded back, his skinned hands. He scrabbled. Hopped. Climbed.

  He glanced down—there was someone following him.

  So he hadn’t wasted his time.

  Occasionally he stopped for a second—and then went on. If he didn’t get out now, he’d never get out.

  How long it had taken didn’t matter when he tumbled into a tiny little room, a booth covered with a grating. A door bolted on the inside. A rusty bolt. He finally skinned his hands completely, turned them into a bloody mush, rust mingled with rust; but he defeated it. He opened the door, crawled out on all fours, and turned over onto his back. It was early morning in the world; a copper-red sun was rising.

  He simply lay on the ground. On the ground, not under the ground. And it wasn’t his head that was spinning—it was the whole fucking globe of the Earth: Artyom had set it spinning like a top.

  Someone fell beside him and lay there. Just one person; no one else had climbed up.

  “Who are you?” Artyom asked him without turning his head, even for his only follower, but smiling blissfully at the pink morning sky through his lowered eyelids. “Who the fuck are you, you monster of a man?”

  “Lyokha, that’s who,” was the answer. “The broker. What other … stupid fucking prick would it be?”

  “You used to be a broker,” said Artyom, happy to have lived as far as this. “But now you’ll be the first apostle.”

  And then he switched off.

  CHAPTER 14

  — STRANGERS —

  “I thought it was Polar Dawns; I thought it was a thousand kilometers away, but it’s right here beside us, in Balashikha! Can you imagine that, Zhen? Here in Balashikha, right beside us. As good as in Moscow. They’re building it here! An outpost! That means there is clean land … If they’re building. Real bastards, aren’t they, eh? The Reds? Without telling anyone! No one knows. They’re building a base on the surface. We can stay down in the Metro, right , Zhen, but they’ll breathe fresh air!”

  “Bastards, Tyomich, bastards. Sit quiet there now.”

  “And did you hear the most important thing? The radio! That guy says they’re building it round a radio center. But what for? That’s obvious. Because they—they!—have managed to establish contact somehow after all. With someone. Maybe the Urals? Eh? Maybe the bases in the Urals! Eh, Zhen? If it’s not Polar Dawns.”