Nothing happened.
He had run out of ammunition.
It was difficult to drag the reserve machine gun hanging on his back forward while running. Diving into one of the nearest alleys, Artyom leaned against the wall and changed weapons. Now he didn’t have to let the beasts come close while he emptied the magazine in the second machine gun.
The first of them already had appeared from around the corner and sat on its hindquarters with the customary movement, extending itself to all its huge height. It had grown bolder and had approached so close that now Artyom was able to see its eyes for the first time: small, concealed beneath massive brows, burning with an evil green fire similar to the gleam of that mysterious flame in the park.
There was no laser sight on Daniel’s Kalashnikov, but one normally couldn’t miss from such a distance. He framed the figure of the beast standing stock in his sight. Artyom squeezed the machine gun more tightly to his shoulder and pulled the trigger.
Moving slowly to the centre, the bolt stopped. What had happened? Could he really have confused the machine guns in his haste? Absolutely not, for his weapon had a laser sight . . . Artyom tried to wrench the bolt. It was stuck.
A whirlwind of thoughts swirled in his head. Daniel, the librarians . . . That was why his comrade had not resisted when that grey monster attacked him in the labyrinth of books! His machine gun simply had not worked. He, most likely, had pulled the bolt just as spasmodically while the librarian dragged him into the depths of the corridors . . .
There was silence as two more beasts appeared, like spectres. They were studying Artyom intently. He was looking in despair at Daniel’s machine gun. It seemed that they were drawing their own conclusions. The closest of the creatures, most likely the leader, jumped and now was only five metres from Artyom.
At this moment a gigantic shadow swept over their heads. The beasts pressed themselves to the ground and lifted their heads. Taking advantage of their confusion, Artyom dashed to one of the arches, no longer hoping to come out of this mess alive, but just trying instinctively to postpone the moment of his death. He had not the slightest chance against them in the alleys, but the way back, to Sadovoye Koltso, already had been cut off.
He ended up in the middle of an empty square, bounded along the edges by the walls of houses, in which arches and passages could be seen. That same gloomy castle that had impressed him at Sadovoye Koltso rose into the sky behind the building he was facing. Finally tearing his gaze away from it, Artyom saw writing on the building opposite: ‘The Moscow V.I. Lenin Underground Railroad’ and a bit lower, ‘Smolenskaya Station.’ The high oak doors were ajar.
It was hard to say how he managed to evade them. He felt a premonition of danger and the sensation of a light air current, was aware of a predator dashing towards its prey. The beast landed only a half metre from him. Easing sideways, he broke into a run and dashed with all his might towards the entrance to the metro. His home was there, his world, there beneath the ground he again would become master of the situation.
The Smolenskaya vestibule looked exactly as Artyom had expected: dark, grey, empty. It at once became clear that the people at this station often came to the surface: the ticket booths and office facilities were open and ransacked and everything of use had been moved underground many years ago. Neither the turnstiles nor the booths for the staff remained - their concrete foundations a mere reflection of what once had been. The arch of the tunnel was visible, and several escalators reached down to incredible depths. The flashlight’s beam was lost somewhere in the middle of the descent and Artyom was unable to ascertain that there really was an entrance there. But it was impossible to stay where he was: the beasts had already penetrated into the vestibule. He knew because he heard the creaking of the door. In a few seconds they would reach the escalators, and that tiny head start he still had would disappear.
Awkwardly stepping along the shaking grooved steps, Artyom began his descent. He tried to hop across several steps, but his foot slipped on the damp covering and he crashed downward, striking the back of his head on a corner. He managed to stop only when he had hit about ten steps with his helmet and the small of his back. Searching the section of the way behind him with his light, Artyom discovered exactly what he was looking for and was afraid to find: the stationary dark figures. As was their custom, before they attacked, they stood stock still, studying the situation or conferring inaudibly. Artyom turned round and again tried to jump over two steps. This time it turned out better for him, and, sliding his right hand along the rubber of the handrail, while grasping his flashlight in his left, he ran for about another twenty seconds before he fell again.
He heard heavy stomping from behind. The creatures were determined. Artyom hoped with his whole being that the old stairs woefully creaking beneath his lighter weight would just collapse, not sustaining the weight of his pursuers. But the clatter approaching from the shadows was evidence that the escalator was handling the load well. A brick wall with a large door in the middle appeared in the beam of his flashlight. Only about twenty metres remained to it, no more. Rising to his feet with difficulty, Artyom covered the final stretch in fifteen seconds. It seemed like an eternity.
The door was made of steel plates and echoed resonantly, like a bell, at the blows of his fists. Artyom pounded at it with all his might. The approaching shadows, which he saw dimly in the semi-darkness, were spurring him on. Only after several seconds did he understand, a sudden chill overcoming him, what a terrible mistake he had just made: instead of knocking at the door with the prearranged code, he had only alarmed the guards. Now it was most probable that there was no way it would be unlocked under any circumstances. It didn’t matter who was trying to enter. And the fact that the sun was rising already made it even less likely that the door would be opened.
Just how did the prearranged signal sound? Three quick, three slow, three quick? Absolutely not, that’s an SOS. It was exactly three at the beginning and three at the end, but he was no longer able to recall quick or slow. And if he were to begin to experiment now, he could forget about any hope of getting inside. Better the SOS . . . At least then the guards would understand that a man was on the other side of the door.
Having banged on the steel once more, Artyom pulled the submachine gun from his shoulder and, with hands shaking, replaced the clip in it. Then he pressed the light to the weapon’s barrel and nervously outlined the upward stretching arches with it. Long shadows from the surviving lamps covered each other in the wandering beam of his light, and it was impossible to guarantee that a dark silhouette didn’t lurk in one of them . . .
As before, it remained completely quiet on the other side of the iron door. Lord, it’s really not Smolenskaya, Artyom thought. Maybe this entrance was blocked up decades ago and no one has used it since then? He had got here completely by accident, not following the instructions of the stalker at all. And he may have been wrong!
The stairs creaked very near to him, about fifteen metres away. Not able to bear it, Artyom let loose a burst of machine-gun fire in the direction from which the sound had been heard. The echo pained Artyom’s ears.
But nothing like the howl of a wounded beast was heard. The shots were wasted. Not having the courage to look away, Artyom pressed his back against the door and again began to pound with his fist on the iron: three quick, three slow, three quick. He thought he heard a heavy metallic grinding sound from the door. But just at that moment the figure of a predator flew from the shadows with a startling speed.
Artyom held the submachine gun suspended in his right hand, and pressed the trigger almost by accident when he instinctively recoiled backwards. The bullets swept the body of the creature in the air, and instead of seizing Artyom by the throat, it collapsed on the last steps of the escalator, having flown not two metres. But only a moment later it raised itself and, ignoring the blood gushing from its wound, moved forward.
Then, staggering, it leapt again and pressed Artyom to the cold steel o
f the door. It was no longer able to attack: the last bullets had struck its head, and the beast was dead already by the end of its lunge. But the inertia of its body would have been enough to crack Artyom’s skull, had he not been wearing a helmet.
The door opened, and a bright, white light burst out. A frightened roar was heard from the escalators: judging by the sound, there were no fewer than five of these beasts there now. Someone’s strong hands grasped him by the collar and pulled him inside and the metal clanged once more. They shut the door and bolted it.
‘Are you injured?’ someone’s voice next to him asked.
‘Damned if he knows,’ another answered. ‘Did you see who he brought with him? We barely scared them away the last time, and even then only by using gas.’
‘Leave him. He’s with me. Artyom! Hey, Artyom! Come to your senses!’ someone familiar called, and Artyom opened his eyes with difficulty.
Three men were leaning over him. Two of them, most likely the gate guards, were dressed in dark grey jackets and knitted caps and both wore bullet-proof vests. With a sigh of relief, Artyom recognized Melnik as the third.
‘So is this him or what?’ one of the guards asked with some disappointment.
‘Then take him, only don’t forget about the quarantine and the decontamination.’
‘Any more lectures?’ the stalker grinned. ‘Stand up, Artyom. It’s been a long time,’ he said, extending his hand to him.
Artyom tried to stand up, but his legs refused to work. He swayed and began to feel sick, and he was groggy.
‘We have to get him to the infirmary. You help me, and you close the pressure doors,’ Melnik commanded.
While the doctor examined him, Artyom studied the white tiles of the operating room. It was sparkling clean, there was the sharp smell of bleach in the air, and several fluorescent lamps were fastened just beneath the ceiling. There were also a few operating tables there, and a box with instruments ready for use hung next to each one.
The condition of the little hospital here was impressive, but why peaceful Smolenskaya needed it was unclear to Artyom.
‘No fractures, only bruises. Several scratches. We have disinfected them,’ the doctor said, wiping his hands with a clean towel.
‘Can you leave us for a bit?’ Melnik asked the doctor. ‘I would like to discuss something in private.’
Nodding knowingly, the medic left.
The stalker, having sat down on the edge of the couch on which Artyom was lying, demanded the details of what had happened.
By his estimate, Artyom was supposed to show up at Smolenskaya two hours earlier, and Melnik had already started planning to go up to the surface to try to find him. He listened to the end to the story about the pursuit, but with no special interest, and he called the flying monsters by a dictionary word, ‘pterodactyl,’ but only the story about how Artyom had concealed himself at the front door really impressed him. Learning that while he was sitting snugly in his apartment someone was creeping along the staircase, the stalker frowned.
‘Are you certain that you didn’t step in the slime on the stairs?’ He shook his head. ‘God forbid you bring that crap into the station. I’ve been telling you not to go near the houses! Consider yourself really lucky that it didn’t decide to drop in on you when you were making your visit . . .’
Melnik stood up, went to the entrance where Artyom’s boots had been left and meticulously examined the soles of each of them. Not having found anything suspicious, he put them back.
‘As I’ve also said, the road to Polis is prohibited to you for the time being. I have not been able to tell the Brahmins the truth; therefore, they think that you both disappeared during the trip to the Library, and I was sent out to search for you. So what happened there to your partner?’
Artyom told him the whole story once more from beginning to end, this time honestly explaining just exactly how Daniel had died. The stalker winced.
‘It’s better you keep this to yourself. To be honest, I liked the first version a lot more. The second will cause too many questions from the Brahmins. Their man was killed by you, you didn’t find the books, so the reward remained yours. And, by the way,’ he added, looking sullenly at Artyom, ‘what was in that envelope?’
Raising himself on his elbow, Artyom took from his pocket a bag covered with dried blood, looked at Melnik attentively and opened it.
CHAPTER 15
The Map
There was a sheet of paper, taken from a school notebook and folded four times, and a leaf of thick drafting paper with rough pencilled drawings of the tunnels. This was exactly what Artyom had expected to see inside the envelope - a map and the keys to it. While he was running toward Smolenskaya across Kalininskiy Prospect, he hadn’t had time to think about what may have been inside the bag that Daniel had passed to him. The miraculous resolution of a seemingly insoluble problem, something capable of taking from the VDNKh and the whole of the metro an incomprehensible and inexorable threat.
A reddish-brown spot had spread in the middle of the sheet of explanations. The paper, glued fast with the Brahmin’s blood, would have to be dampened a bit to reveal its message and great care would have to be taken not to damage the finely written instructions on it.
‘Part Number . . . tunnel . . . D6 . . . intact installations . . . up to 400,000 square metres . . . a water fountain . . . not in good working order . . . unforeseen . . .’ The words sprang at Artyom. Trying to jump from the horizontal lines, they merged into one whole, and their sense remained absolutely incomprehensible to him. Having despaired of shaping them into something sensible, he handed the message to Melnik. The latter took the sheet into his hand with care and fastened his covetous eyes onto the letters. For some time he didn’t say anything, and then Artyom saw how his eyebrows crept upwards with suspicion.
‘This can’t be,’ the stalker whispered. ‘It’s just all nonsense! They couldn’t have overlooked something like this . . .’
He turned the sheet over, looked at it from the other side, and then began to read it again from the very beginning.
‘They kept it for themselves . . . They didn’t tell the military. Not a surprise, really . . . Show them something like this and they’ll immediately take it as something old,’ Melnik mumbled indistinctly while Artyom patiently awaited some explanations. ‘But did they really overlook it? It’s faulty . . . Well, let’s assume it is OK . . . That means they must have checked it!’
‘Can it really help?’: Artyom finally couldn’t stand it.
‘If everything written here is true, then there’s hope,’ the stalker nodded.
‘What’s it about? I didn’t understand a thing.’
Melnik didn’t answer right away. Once more he read the message to the end, then thought for several seconds and only after that did he begin his tale:
‘I had heard about such a thing before. Legends were always flying about, but there are thousands of them in the metro, you see. And we live by legends, and not by bread alone. About University, about the Kremlin and about Polis you can’t make out what is the truth and what was contrived around a bonfire at Ploshchad Ilicha. And so you see . . . Generally, there were rumours that somewhere in Moscow or outside of Moscow a missile unit had survived. Of course, there is no way that could have happened. Military facilities are always the number one target. But the rumours said they were unsuccessful, or they didn’t see it through, or they forgot it - and one missile unit wasn’t damaged at all. They said that someone had even walked there, had seen something there, and, allegedly, the installations were beneath a tarpaulin, brand new in the hangars . . . True, there’s no need for them in the metro - you can’t reach your enemies at such a depth. They stand - well, let them remain standing.’
‘What have missile installations got to do with it?’ Artyom looked at the stalker in amazement and lowered his feet from the couch.
‘The dark ones come to VDNKh from the Botanical Garden. Hunter suspected that they come down into the metr
o from the surface right in that area. It’s logical to assume that they live right up there. As a matter of fact, there are two versions. The first says that they come from a place that is like a beehive, figuratively speaking, not far from the metro entrance. The second says that in truth, there is no beehive, and the dark ones come from outside the city. Then there’s the question: why haven’t we noticed more of them anywhere else? It is illogical.
‘Although, perhaps, it’s a matter of time. Generally, this is the situation: if they arrive from somewhere far away, we won’t be able to do anything with them anyhow. We blow up the tunnels beyond the VDNKh or even beyond Prospect Mir - sooner or later they’ll find new entrances.
‘Barricading ourselves in the metro will be our only option, closing ourselves in tight, and forgetting about returning to the surface and forever subsisting on pigs and mushrooms. As a stalker, I can say with certainty that we won’t last so long. But! If they have a beehive, and it is somewhere close by as Hunter thought . . .’
‘Missiles?’ Artyom said at last.
‘A salvo of twelve rockets with high explosive fragmentation warheads covers an area of 400,000 square metres,’ Melnik read, finding the necessary place in the message. ‘Several such salvos from the Botanical Garden will turn them to dust.’
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