Metro 2033

by Dmitry A Glukhovsky

  ‘But what happened with them later?’ Artyom was curious.

  ‘Well, we just don’t know, by then we had already arrived here…’ Anton was on the verge of beginning, but the talking lookout interrupted him:

  ‘And what could happen? Everyone died. You have to understand, when a station is cut off from the metro, you can’t survive there for long. The filters pack up, or the generators, or it begins to flood. And you can’t afford to be on the surface even now. I heard, at first they supposedly tried to dig, but later they gave up. Those who served here in the beginning say they heard screams through the pipes… But soon even that stopped.’

  He gave a cough and stretched out his hands toward the stove. Having warmed his hands, the lookout looked at Artyom and added, ‘It wasn’t even the war. Just who fights like that? They had women with them, you know, and there were children. Old folks… A whole city. And for what? Simple, they didn’t divide up any money. It seems they didn’t kill anyone themselves, but oh well. So you were asking, “What’s there, on that side of the blockage?” Death is there.’

  Anton shook his head, but didn’t say anything. Melnik looked at Artyom with attention, and nearly opened his mouth, as if intending to add something to the story he had heard, but had second thoughts. Artyom had got really cold, and he also stretched toward the stove. He tried to imagine what it meant to live at this station, the inhabitants of which believe that the rails leaving their home lead directly to a kingdom of death.

  Artyom gradually began to understand that the strange duty in this broken-up tunnel was not so much necessary, but more of a ritual. Who were they trying to scare away while sitting here? Who were they able to stop coming to the station, and into the rest of the metro? It became even colder, and neither the cast-iron stove nor the warm jacket given him by Melnik spared him any longer from the chill.

  Unexpectedly the stalker turned towards the tunnel leading to Kievskaya and got up from his seat, listening and watching. Even Artyom understood the reason for his concern in several seconds. Quick, soft steps were heard from there, and in the distance the glow of a weak flashlight was being thrown about, as if someone was hurrying, jumping over the ties, hurrying with all his might to get to them.

  The stalker jumped from his seat, pressed against the wall and aimed his submachine gun at the spot of light.

  Anton calmly stood up, peering into the darkness, and by his easy posture it was clear that he couldn’t imagine any serious danger which would come from that side of the tunnel.

  Melnik clicked the switch of his flashlight, and the dark crawled away unwillingly. At about thirty feet from them, in the middle of the track bed, a fragile little figure stood still with his arms lifted.

  ‘Pop, Pop, it’s me, don’t shoot!’ The voice was a child’s.

  The stalker brought his beam to bear in that direction and, shaking himself, lifted himself from the ground. The child was standing by the stove in only a minute, examining his boots with embarrassment. It was Anton’s son, the one who had asked to go on duty with him.

  ‘Has something happened?’ his father asked worriedly.

  ‘No… I just wanted to be with you very much. I’m no longer a little boy to be sitting in the tent with Mom.’

  ‘How did you get here? There’s a guard there!’

  ‘I lied. I said that Mom sent me to see you. It was Uncle Petya, he knows me. He only said that I mustn’t look into any of the side paths and get here quickly, and he allowed me to pass.’

  ‘We’ll be talking to Uncle Petya again,’ Anton promised solemnly. ‘And you think for a while how you will explain this to your mother. I won’t let you go back alone.’

  ‘Can I stay with you?’ The child wasn’t able to contain his delight and began to hop about.

  Anton moved to the side, sitting his son on the warm bags. He took off his jacket and was on the verge of wrapping him up, but the child immediately scrambled down to the floor and, taking the stuff brought with him from his pocket, spread it out on a cloth: a handful of cartridge casings and several more objects. He sat beside Artyom, and the latter had time to study all these things.

  A small metal box with a handle that turned was the most interesting. When Oleg held it in one hand and turned the handle with the fingers of the other, the little box, emitting ringing metallic sounds, began to play a simple mechanical melody. And it was amusing that it was worth leaning it against another object, because that one began to resonate, amplifying the sound by many times. It came from the iron stove best of all, but it wasn’t possible to leave the device there long, because it got hot too quickly. It had become so interesting to Artyom that he decided to try it himself.

  ‘What on earth!’ the boy said, giving him the hot box and blowing on his burnt fingers. ‘I’ll show you such a trick later!’ he promised conspiratorially.

  The next half hour slipped by slowly. Artyom, not noticing the angry glances of the lookouts, endlessly turned the handle and listened to the music, Melnik whispered something to Anton, and the child played on the floor with his cartridge cases. The melody from the tiny music box was rather dreary, but charming in its own way. It was just impossible to stop.

  ‘No, I don’t understand,’ the stalker said and stood up from his seat. ‘If both tunnels have been brought down and are being protected, just where, in your opinion, do the people disappear to?’

  ‘And who said that it’s all in these tunnels?’ Anton looked him up and down. ‘And there are passages to other lines, two altogether, and lines to Smolenskaya… I think someone simply is making use of our superstitious beliefs.’

  ‘Just what superstitions!’ interrupted the lookout who had told them about the blowing up of the tunnel and the people who were left on the other side. ‘The curse of our station is that it stopped with Park Pobedy. And we all are damned that we live at it…’

  ‘And you, Sanych, are muddying the waters,’ Anton cut him short with displeasure. ‘Here the people are asking about serious things and you are spreading your tales about!’

  ‘Let’s take a walk. I saw some doors along the way and a side exit. I want to take a look,’ Melnik said to him. ‘The people are frightened at Smolenskaya, too. Kolpakov was personally interested.’

  ‘Well, now he has got interested, right?’ Anton smiled sadly.

  ‘They are even throwing questions at Polis already.’ The stalker pulled a folded sheet of newspaper from his pocket.

  Artyom had seen such papers at Polis. At one of the passages stood a tray where it was possible to buy them, but they cost ten cartridges and paying so much for a sheet of wrapping paper with poorly printed gossip on it was not worth it. Melnik, it seemed, didn’t regret the cartridges.

  Several short articles huddled under the proud name ‘Metro News’ on the roughly cut yellowish sheet. One of the pieces was even accompanied by a black and white photograph. The banner ran: ‘Mysterious Disappearances at Kievskaya Continue.’

  ‘The smokers are still alive, they say.’ Anton carefully took the newspaper in his hands and smoothed it out. ‘OK, let’s go, I’ll show you your side branches. Will you stop reading?’

  The stalker nodded. Anton stood, looked at his son and said to him:

  ‘I’ll be right back. Look, don’t be naughty here without me,’ and, turning toward Artyom, asked, ‘Look after him, be a pal.’

  There was nothing left for Artyom to do but nod.

  As soon as his father and the stalker had gone a bit further away, Oleg jumped up, took the box away from Artyom with a naughty look, yelled at him, ‘Catch me!’ and broke into a run towards the dead end. Recalling that the boy was now his responsibility, Artyom guiltily looked at the rest of the lookouts, lit his flashlight and went after Oleg.

  He didn’t investigate the half-destroyed office facility, as Artyom feared he might. He was waiting right next to the blockage.

  ‘See what happens now!’ the lad said.

  Oleg scrambled onto the stones, reached the le
vel of the pipes and disappeared into the blockage. Then he took out his box, placed it against the pipe and turned the handle. ‘Listen!’ he said.

  The pipe began to hum, resonating, and it was as if it all had been filled from within by the simple, doleful melody the music box was playing. The boy pressed his ear to the pipe and, as if bewitched, continued to turn the handle, drawing the sounds from the metallic box.

  He stopped for a second, listening, smiled happily and then jumped down from the pile of stones and extended the music box to Artyom:

  ‘Here, try it yourself!’

  Artyom was able to imagine how the sound of the melody would change as it passed through the hollow metal pipe. But the child’s eyes were so bright, that he decided not to behave like the ultimate pain in the neck. Leaning the box against the pipe, he pressed his ear to the cold metal and began to turn the handle. The music began to resound so loudly that he nearly jerked his head away. The laws of acoustics were not familiar to Artyom, and he was unable to understand by what miracle this piece of metal could so amplify the melody inside such a feebly tinkling box.

  Turning the handle for several more seconds and playing the short tune a good three times, he nodded to Oleg:

  ‘It’s splendid.’

  ‘Listen again!’ he began to laugh. ‘Don’t play, just listen!’ Artyom shrugged and looked at the post to see if Melnik and Anton had returned, and once more placed his ear to the pipe. What could one possibly hear now? The wind? The echo of a scary noise that flooded the tunnels between Alekseeva and Prospect Mir?

  From an unimaginable distance, making their way through the earth’s stratum with difficulty, came muffled sounds. They came from the direction of the dead Park Pobedy. There could be no doubt about it. Artyom stood stock still, listening, and, gradually becoming chilled, understood: he was listening to something impossible – music.

  Someone or something several kilometres away from him was duplicating that melancholy melody from the music box one note after another. But this was not an echo: the unknown performer had erred in several places, shortened a note somewhere, but the motif remained completely recognizable. And, mainly, it was not at all a ringing chime, the sound resembled more of a hum… Or singing? The indistinct chorus of a multitude of voices? No, a hum all the same…

  ‘What, is it playing?’ Oleg asked of him with a smile.

  ‘Hush! I’m still listening! What is it?’ Barely parting his lips, Artyom mumbled hoarsely.

  ‘Music! The pipe is playing!’ the boy explained simply.

  The melancholy, oppressive impression that this eerie singing produced in Artyom, it seemed, was not passed on to the lad. For him, it was simply a happy game, and he could never ask how he could hear a melody from a station cut off from the whole world, where all the living had vanished into thin air more than a decade ago.

  Oleg again climbed up onto the stones, on the verge of preparing to start his little machine again, but Artyom suddenly felt inexplicably fearful for him and for himself. He grabbed the lad by the hand and, not paying any attention to his protests, dragged him back to the stove.

  ‘Coward! Coward!’ Oleg screamed. ‘Only children believe in these tales!’

  ‘What tales?’ Artyom stopped and looked him in the eyes.

  ‘That they take the children who go into the tunnels to listen to the pipes!’

  ‘Who takes them?’ Artyom dragged him closer to the stove.

  ‘The dead!’

  The conversation stopped: a lookout speaking about damnation roused himself and gave them such a once over that the words stuck in their throats.

  Their adventure had ended right on time: Anton and the stalker were returning to the post, and someone else was walking with them. Artyom quickly planted the boy in his seat. The child’s father had asked him to look after Oleg, and not to indulge in his whims… And who knew what superstitions Anton himself believed?

  ‘Excuse me, we’ve been delayed.’ Anton sank onto the sacks beside Artyom. ‘He wasn’t naughty, was he?’

  Artyom shook his head, hoping that the lad had enough sense not to brag about their adventure. But he, it seemed, understood everything himself just fine. Oleg again laid out his cartridge cases with an enthralled look.

  The third man who had arrived with Anton and the stalker, a balding, skinny man with sunken cheeks and bags under his eyes, was unfamiliar to Artyom.

  He approached the stove only for a minute and nodded at the lookouts, and Artyom examined him closely, but he didn’t say anything to him. Melnik introduced him.

  ‘This is Tretyak,’ he told Artyom. ‘He’ll be going on ahead with us. He’s a specialist. A missile man.’

  CHAPTER 16. The Songs of the Dead

  ‘There are no secret entrances there, and there never were. Really, don’t you know that yourself?’ Tretyak had raised his voice with displeasure, and his words flew at Artyom.

  They were returning from duty – back to Kievskaya. The stalker and Tretyak walked a little behind the others and animatedly discussed something. When Artyom also fell back to take part in their conversation, they began to whisper, and he was left to join the main group again. The young Oleg, who was skipping along, trying not to drop behind the adults, and refusing to climb onto his father’s shoulders, immediately and happily grabbed him by the hand.

  ‘I’m a missile man, too!’ he announced.

  Artyom looked at the boy with surprise. He had been alongside when Melnik introduced Tretyak to him and most likely had heard this word by chance. Did he understand what it meant?

  ‘Only don’t tell anybody!’ added Oleg hurriedly. ‘The others aren’t allowed to know it. It’s a secret.’

  ‘OK, I won’t tell anyone.’ Artyom played up to him.

  ‘It’s no shame, quite the opposite. You should be proud of it, but others might say bad things about you out of envy,’ the boy explained, although Artyom hadn’t even intended to ask anything.

  Anton was walking about ten paces ahead, lighting the path. Nodding at his frail figure, the child loudly whispered:

  ‘Papa said not to show anyone, but you know how to keep secrets. Here!’ He took a small fragment of cloth from an inside pocket.

  Artyom shined his flashlight on it. It was a torn tab – a circle of a thick, rubberized substance, about seven centimetres in diameter.

  On one side it was completely black, on the other was portrayed the intersection of three incomprehensible oblong objects on a dark background, not unlike one of the six-pointed paper snowflakes with which they decorated VDNKh for the New Year.

  One of the objects was standing upright and Artyom recognized it as a cartridge from a machine gun or a sniper’s rifle, but with wings attached to the bottom. But he did not recognize the other two identical, yellow ones, with rings on both sides. The mysterious snowflake was enclosed in a stylized wreath, such as on old cockades, and there were letters around the circle of the tab. But the colour on them was faded so that Artyom was able to read only, ‘… troops and ar…’, and also the word ‘.. ussia’, which was written below, beneath the figure. If he had had a little more time, he might have been able to understand what the boy showed him, but he didn’t.

  ‘Hey, Olezhek! Come here, there’s something for you!’ Anton called to his son.

  ‘What is it?’ Artyom asked the boy, before he grabbed the tab from him and concealed it in his pocket.

  ‘RVA!’ Oleg carefully articulated, beaming with pride, then he winked at him and ran to his father.

  Having climbed to the platform by stepladder, the outlook members began to disperse and go home. Anton’s wife was waiting for him right at the exit. With tears in her eyes, she flung herself to meet young Oleg, caught him by his arm, and then bawled at her husband:

  ‘Are you trying to upset me? What am I supposed to think? The child left home several hours ago! Why am I supposed to think about everyone? You’re like a child yourself, you couldn’t bring him home!’ she cried.

 
; ‘Len, please, not in front of people,’ Anton muttered, looking round in embarrassment. ‘I just couldn’t leave the watch. Think about what you are saying, an outpost commander and suddenly he leaves his post…’

  ‘A commander! Go ahead and command! As if you don’t know what is going on here! Over there, a neighbour’s youngster disappeared a week ago…’

  Melnik and Tretyak quickened the pace and didn’t even stop to say goodbye to Anton, leaving him and his wife in private. Artyom hurried after them. For a long time after, although one could no longer make out the words, the weeping and reproaches of Anton’s wife reached them.

  All three were heading to the office facilities, where the station’s chief of staff was located. After several minutes they already were seated in the room with the hanging threadbare carpets. The chief himself, having nodded knowingly, left when the stalker asked to leave them alone.

  ‘It seems you don’t have a passport?’ Melnik remarked, turning towards Artyom.

  He shook his head. The document had been confiscated by the fascists and, without it, he had been turned into a social outcast.

  Hansa, the Red Line and Polis would not accept him. While the stalker was beside him, no one asked personal questions of Artyom, but, having found himself alone, he would have to wander between the cast-off flag stations and the uncivilized stations, such as Kievskaya. And he couldn’t even dream of returning to VDNKh.

  ‘I won’t be able to take you to Hansa without a passport. I’ll have to find the necessary people for it first,’ Melnik said, as if confirming his thoughts. ‘It may be possible to obtain a new one, but of course this will take time. The shortest route to Mayakovskaya is along the Ring, like it or not. What do we do?’

  Artyom shrugged his shoulders. He was inclined to agree with the stalker. It was impossible to wait, and he also wasn’t able to get around Hansa to Mayakovskaya himself. The tunnel that adjoined it from the other side came straight from Tverskaya. To return to the lair of the fascists, let alone to the station that had been transformed into a dungeon, would be folly. A dead end.