Metro 2033 Part 12

They went on in silence, each thinking their private thoughts. Artyom was listening to his sensations about the tunnel. It was a strange business but this tunnel and also the one that led from Kitai Gorod to Kuznetsky Most were both empty and you didn't feel anything inside them. They weren't filled with anything, they were just soulless constructions.

Then he remembered the nightmare he had just had. The details of it had already been wiped from his memory and all that was left were vague, frightening memories of faceless children and black ma.s.ses against the sky. But there was the voice . . .

He couldn't follow the thought to its end. In front of him he heard the familiar awful squeaking and the rustle of paws, and then there was the suffocating, sweetish smell of rotting flesh, and when the weak light of their torches reached the place where these sounds were coming from, they saw in front of their eyes such a scene that Artyom thought it might perhaps be preferable to return to the Reds.

At the wall, face down in a row, lay three swollen bodies, their hands tied behind their backs with wire, and they had already been gnawed at by the rats. Pressing his jacket's sleeve to his nose so that he wouldn't smell the heavy sweetish and poisonous air, Artyom bent down over the bodies, and s.h.i.+ned his light at them. They were stripped to their underwear, and their bodies showed no evidence of injury. But the hair on each of their heads was stuck together with blood, especially thickly around the black dot of the bullet hole.

'In the back of the head,' Artyom pointed out, trying to make his voice sound calm and feeling that he might suddenly vomit.

Mikhail Porfirevich half opened his mouth and his eyes began to s.h.i.+ne.

'What they do, my G.o.d, what they do!' he said, sighing. 'Vanechka, don't look, don't look come here!'

But Vanechka, without showing the slightest unease, hunkered down next to the nearest corpse and began to point a finger at it, bellowing animatedly. The torch's beam slipped up the wall and it light up a piece of dirty paper, which was stuck right above the corpses at eye level. Above it, the letters 'Vierter Reich' were painted, accompanied by a depiction of an eagle. It went on in Russian: 'Not one swarthy animal is allowed within three hundred metres of the Great Reich!' And the same 'No through way' sign was also displayed with its circular black outline and little man crossed out.

'Swine,' Artyom said through clenched teeth. 'Because they have different colour hair?'

The old man just shook his head sadly and pulled on Vanechka's collar. He was busy studying the bodies and did not want to be lifted up from his squatting position.

'I see that our typographical machine still works,' Mikhail Porfirevich said sadly, and he moved on.

The travellers went on more slowly. After two minutes they saw the words '300 metres' had been painted on the walls in red paint.

'Three hundred metres to go,' Artyom said, listening uneasily to the echoes of a dog's barking in the distance.

About a hundred metres from the station they were struck by a bright light, and they stopped.

'Hands above your heads! Stand still!' a voice roared through a loudspeaker. Artyom obediently put his hands at the back of his head and Mikhail Porfirevich thrust both his hands into the air.

'I said, everyone, hands up! Walk slowly forward! Don't make any sudden movements,' the strained voice continued, and Artyom couldn't look to see who was speaking because the light was beating right into his eyes and it was too painful to do anything but look down.

Walking with small steps for some distance, they again stood still when they were told and the searchlight was finally turned to the side.

There was a whole barricade erected there, and there were two machine gunners in position and another guy with a holster in his belt, and they were all dressed in camouflage with black berets, aslant on their shaved heads. They had white armbands - with something looking like the German swastika on them but with three points not four. There were some barely visible dark figures in the distance and there was a nervously fidgeting dog by their feet. The surrounding walls were painted with crosses, eagles, slogans and curses aimed at non-Russians. They puzzled Artyom somewhat because they were partly in German. In a visible place, underneath a panel with the silhouette of an eagle on it and a three-p.r.o.nged swastika, there was that sign again, lit from underneath, the one with the unfortunate little black figure and Artyom thought that it was being displayed like some sort of religious icon for them.

One of the guards made a step forward and lit a long torch, holding it at head level. He slowly walked around the three of them, steadily looking into their faces, apparently trying to find some evidence of non-Slavic features. However, they all looked Russian and he turned his torch away and shrugged his shoulders, disappointed.

'Doc.u.ments!' he demanded.

Artyom readily extended his pa.s.sport. Mikhail Porfirevich rummaged in his pocket and finally found his.

'And where are your doc.u.ments for this one?' the older guard asked, nodding at Vanechka in disgust.

'You see, the thing is, that the boy . . .' the old man started to explain.

'Siiiilence! You will address me as "officer"! Answer the question precisely!' the doc.u.ment checker barked at him and his torch jumped around in his hands.

'Officer, you see, the boy is sick, he doesn't have a pa.s.sport, he's just little, you see, but, look, he's a.s.signed to me, here, I'll show you . . .' Mikhail Porfirevich began to babble, looking at the officer ingratiatingly, trying to find a spark of sympathy in his eyes.

But the man stood still, straight and stiff, like a rock, and his face was like stone, and Artyom again felt that he wanted to kill someone.

'Where is the photograph?' the officer spat, having flipped through the pages.

Vanechka, who had been standing quietly until that point, tensely watching the dog's silhouette and enthusiastically gurgling from time to time, now turned to the doc.u.ment checker and, to Artyom's horror, he bared his teeth and hooted meanly. Artyom was suddenly so scared for him that he forgot his own hostility toward the man, and his desire to kick him good and properly.

The doc.u.ment checker took an involuntary step backwards, staring at Vanechka unkindly and said, 'Get rid of this. Immediately. Or I'll do it myself.'

'Please forgive him, Officer, he doesn't understand what he's doing,' Artyom was surprised to hear his own voice p.r.o.nounce.

Mikhail Porfirevich looked at him with grat.i.tude and the doc.u.ment checker quickly rustled through Artyom's pa.s.sport and returned it to him, saying coldly, 'No questions for you. You can pa.s.s.'

Artyom made a few steps forward and froze, feeling that his legs wouldn't obey him. The officer, turned away from him, and repeated his question to the other two about the photograph.

'You see, the thing is,' Mikhail Porfirevich started and, stumbling, he added, 'Officer, the thing is that there's no photographer where we live, and it costs a lot to get them at other stations, and I just don't have the money to get a picture . . .'

'Take off your clothes!' the man interrupted him.

'I'm sorry?' Mikhail Porfirevich's voice quavered, and his legs started to tremble.

Artyom took off his rucksack and put it on the floor, not thinking at all about what he was doing. There are some things that you don't want to do and you pledge to yourself that you won't do, you forbid yourself, and then suddenly they happen all by themselves. You don't even have time to think about them, and they don't make it to the cognitive centres of the brain: they just happen and that's it, and you're left just watching yourself with surprise, and convincing yourself that it wasn't your fault, it just happened all by itself.

If they undressed them and led them like the others to the three-hundredth metre, Artyom would get his machine gun out of his rucksack, would switch it to automatic fire and would take out as many of these camouflaged non-humans as he could, until they shot him down. Nothing else made any sense. It wasn't important that he had only known Mikhail and Vanechka for a day. It wasn't important that they would kill him. What would happen to VDNKh? VDNKh? There was no point in thinking what would happen afterwards. There are things that it's just simpler not to think about. There was no point in thinking what would happen afterwards. There are things that it's just simpler not to think about.

'Undress!' the man articulated carefully, repeating himself. 'A search!'

'But, if you please . . .' Mikhail Porfirevich uttered indistinctly.

'Siiilence!' the man barked. 'Quickly!' and he reinforced his words with a gesture, by taking his gun out of its holster.

The old man started to unb.u.t.ton his jacket hastily, and the doc.u.ment checker turned his pistol away and silently watched how the old man threw off his jersey, clumsily hopping on one foot to take off his boots, and swaying, trying to undo his belt buckle.

'Faster!' the officer hissed rabidly.

'I'm clumsy . . . you see . . .' Mikhail Porfirevich started, but the doc.u.ment checker had finally had enough and smacked the old man in the teeth.

Artyom rushed forward but two strong arms grabbed him from behind and, as much as he tried to extract himself from them, it was useless.

And then something unforeseeable happened. Vanechka, who was about half the size of the thug in the black beret, suddenly bared his teeth and with an animal roar he rushed at him. The man didn't expect such speed from the wretched boy, and Vanechka managed to grab his left hand and even to hit him in the chest. However, a second later the officer recovered and flung Vanechka off, took a step backwards, held out his hand holding the pistol and pulled the trigger.

The shot, amplified by its echo in the tunnel, resounded in their ears but Artyom thought he could still hear how Vanechka sobbed silently and sat down on the floor. He was leaning over, clutching both hands to his stomach, when the officer kicked him and, with a disgusted expression on his face, pulled the trigger again, aiming at the head.

'I warned you.' He threw a cold look at Mikhail Porfirevich, who was frozen in place, looking at Vanechka with his jaw dropped and rattling sounds coming from his chest.

At that moment, everything went dark in front of Artyom's eyes and he felt such strength inside of him that the soldiers holding him from behind almost fell to the floor when he rushed forward. Time stretched for Artyom and he had enough of it to seize the handle of his machine gun and, clicking the safety lock, he fired a round right through the rucksack into the breast of the officer.

He noticed with satisfaction the black line of dots on the green of the camouflage.

CHAPTER 9.

Du Stirbst

'To be hanged,' the commandant concluded. There was a burst of applause which mercilessly tormented his eardrums.

Artyom raised his head with difficulty and looked from side to side. Only one of his eyes could open, the other was totally swollen - the interrogators had tortured him with all their might. He couldn't hear very well either, it was as though sounds were making their way to him through a thick layer of cotton wool. It felt like his teeth were all still in place. But what would he need his teeth for now anyway?

Again the same light-coloured marble, the normal stuff. And this white marble was already setting his teeth on edge. Ma.s.sive iron chandeliers on the ceiling, once, probably electrical fixtures. Now, there were lard candles in them, and the ceiling above them was completely black. There were only two such chandeliers burning in the whole station, one at the very end where a wide staircase stood, and the other where Artyom was standing in the middle of the hall, on the steps of a little bridge that connected to a side pa.s.sage that led to another metro line.

Frequent semi-circular arches, almost completely unnoticeable columns, there was a lot of free s.p.a.ce. What kind of station is this?

'The execution will take place tomorrow at five o'clock in the morning at Tverskaya station,' the fat man who was standing next to the commandant specified.

Like his superior, he was dressed not in green camouflage but in a black uniform with brilliant yellow b.u.t.tons. There were black berets on both of them, but not as big or as crudely made as those on the soldiers in the tunnel.

There were lots of depictions of eagles and the three-p.r.o.nged swastika, and slogans and mottos, drawn with great care in Gothic letters. Diligently trying to focus on the blurred words, Artyom read: 'The metro is for Russians!' 'Swarthy people to the surface!' 'Death to the rat-eaters!' There were others too, with more abstract contents: 'March forward to the last battle for the greatness of the Russian spirit!' 'With fire and sword we will establish true Russian order!' Then there was something from Hitler: 'A healthy body means a healthy spirit!' There was one inscription that especially made an impression on him. It was underneath a skilfully drawn portrait of a brave soldier with a powerful jaw and a strong chin, and a rather resolute-looking woman. They were depicted in profile, so that the man was s.h.i.+elding the woman. 'Each man is a soldier and each woman is the mother of a soldier!' the slogan went. All these inscriptions and pictures had somehow absorbed more of Artyom's attention than the words of the commandant.

Right in front of him, behind a cordon, the crowd was restless. There weren't many people here and they were all dressed rather blandly and basically, in quilted jackets and greasy overalls. There were hardly any women to be seen, and if this reflected reality, there wouldn't be many more soldiers in the future. Artyom's head fell to his chest - he hadn't the strength to hold it upright anymore, and if there hadn't been two broad-shouldered escorts in berets supporting him under the arms, he would have fallen already.

He felt faint again, and his head had begun to spin, and he couldn't manage to say anything ironic. Artyom had the impression that they would now turn him inside out in front of all these people.

A stupid indifference about what would happen to him gradually crept up on Artyom. Now he only had an abstract interest in what was surrounding him, as though none of this was happening to him, but he was just reading a book about it. The fate of the main character interested him, of course, but if he was killed then he could just pick another book off the shelf - one with a happy ending.

At first, he had been carefully beaten at length by patient and strong people while others asked him clever and judicious questions. The room had been, predictably, covered with disturbing yellow-coloured tiles, making it easy to wipe away blood. But it was impossible to get rid of its smell.

To start off with they taught him to call the gaunt man with slick, light hair and delicate features who was leading the interrogation 'commandant.' Then they taught him not to ask questions but to answer them. Then they taught him to answer the questions accurately and to the point. Artyom couldn't understand how his teeth were still in his mouth - though a few of them were seriously wobbly and his mouth had a constant taste of blood in it. At first, he tried to justify himself but it was explained to him that that wasn't worth it. Then he tried to stay silent but he was quickly convinced that this too seemed to be the wrong thing to do. It was very painful. It is altogether a strange feeling when a strong man beats you over the head - it's not just pain, but some kind of hurricane, which wipes all the thought from your mind and smashes your feelings to pieces. The real torture happens afterwards.

After a while, Artyom finally understood what he needed to do. It was simple - he needed to manage the expectations of the commandant the best way he could. If the commandant asked whether Artyom was sent by Kuznetsky Most, he had to just affirm that with a nod. It took less strength, and the commandant didn't wrinkle his Slavic nose at the response and his a.s.sistants didn't hit him. The commandant a.s.sumed that Artyom was sent with the aim of collecting military information and performing some kind of sabotage. He agreed again with a nod and then the torturer rubbed his hands together with satisfaction and Artyom had saved his second eye. But it was important not just to nod, he had to listen to exactly what the commandant had asked because if Artyom a.s.sented inattentively, the mood would worsen and one if his helpers would try, for example, to break one of Artyom's ribs. After about an hour and a half of this unrushed conversation, Artyom couldn't feel his body anymore, he couldn't see very well, he could scarcely hear and he understood almost nothing. He lost consciousness a few times, but they brought him back to his senses with iced water and ammonia. He must have been a very interesting person to talk to.

In the end, they had an absolutely false idea of who he was. They saw him as an enemy spy and a saboteur, who had appeared in order to stab the Fourth Reich in the back, and having decapitated the leaders.h.i.+p, to sow the seeds of chaos and to prepare for an invasion. The ultimate goal was the establishment of an anti-national Caucasian-Zionist regime over the whole of the metro system. Though Artyom generally understood little about politics, such a global aim seemed to him to be worthy and so he told them that was true too. And it was good that he had agreed. Because of this he still had all his teeth. After the final details of the plot were revealed, they allowed Artyom to pa.s.s out.

When he could open his eye one last time, the commandant was already reading the sentence. The final formalities had barely been settled when the date of his departure from this world was announced to the public, and they pulled a black hood over his head and face and his vision worsened dramatically. He could see nothing, and he was even more dizzy. He barely managed to stay standing for a minute and stopped struggling when a spasm seized his body and he vomited right onto his boots.

The guard took a cautious step backwards, and the public rustled indignantly. For a moment, Artyom felt ashamed, and then he felt his head swimming and his knees buckling.

A strong arm was holding up his chin, and he heard a familiar voice, which now seemed almost to come from a dream world: 'Let's go. Come with me Artyom! It's all over. Get up!' he said, but Artyom still couldn't find the strength to get up or even to lift his head.

It was very dark, probably because of the hood. But how would he get it off if his hands were tied at the back? Getting it off was essential - to look to see if it was indeed the person he thought it was or if he was imagining it.

'The hood . . .' Artyom managed to say, hoping the person would understand.

The black veil that had been over his eyes then disappeared and Artyom saw Hunter in front of him. He hadn't changed at all since the time Artyom had talked with him, a while back now, a whole eternity ago, at VDNKh. VDNKh. How had he got here? Artyom wearily moved his head and looked around. He was on the platform of the exact same station where they had read his sentence. There were dead bodies everywhere; only a few candles in one chandelier continued to smoke. The other chandelier was blown out. Hunter was holding the same pistol in his right hand that had so amazed Artyom the last time, having seemed so huge with its long silencer screwed onto its barrel and its impressive laser sight. A 'Stechkin.' The hunter was looking at Artyom anxiously and attentively. How had he got here? Artyom wearily moved his head and looked around. He was on the platform of the exact same station where they had read his sentence. There were dead bodies everywhere; only a few candles in one chandelier continued to smoke. The other chandelier was blown out. Hunter was holding the same pistol in his right hand that had so amazed Artyom the last time, having seemed so huge with its long silencer screwed onto its barrel and its impressive laser sight. A 'Stechkin.' The hunter was looking at Artyom anxiously and attentively.

'Is everything OK with you? Can you walk?'

'Yes. Probably.' Artyom summoned his courage but he was interested in something else at that moment. 'You're alive? Did everything work out for you?'

'As you can see,' Hunter smiled wearily. 'Thanks for your help.'

'But I didn't complete the task.' Artyom shook his head and it was burningly painful, and he was filled with shame.

'You did everything you could.' Hunter patted him soothingly on the shoulder.

'And what's happening at home? At VDNKh?' VDNKh?'

'Everything's fine, Artyom. Everything has already pa.s.sed. I was able to collapse the entrance and now the dark ones won't be able to get into the metro anymore. We're saved. Let's go.'

'And what happened here?' Artyom looked around, noticing with horror that the whole hall was filled with corpses, and that other than his voice and Hunter's, not another sound could be heard.

'It doesn't matter.' Hunter looked into his eyes firmly. 'You shouldn't worry about it.' He bent over and lifted his sack from the floor. A smoking army hand machine gun was lying in it. His cartridge belt was almost spent.

The hunter moved forward and Artyom tried to keep step. Looking from side to side, he saw something that he hadn't noticed before. Several dark figures were hanging from the little bridge where Artyom had had his sentence read.

Hunter said nothing and was taking long steps, as though he had forgotten that Artyom could barely move. As much as Artyom tried, the distance between then was increasing all the time, and Artyom was afraid that Hunter would just go off, leaving him in this horrible station, which was covered in slippery and still warm blood, and where the only inhabitants were corpses. Do I really deserve this? Artyom thought. Is my life so much more important than the lives of all these people? No, he was glad to have been rescued. But all these people - randomly scattered, like bags and rags, on the granite of the platform, side by side, on the rails, left forever in the poses that Hunter's bullets had found them in - they all died so that he could live? Hunter had made this exchange with such ease, just as though he had sacrificed some minor chess figures to safeguard one of the most important pieces . . . He was just a player, and the metro was a chessboard, and all the figures were his, because he was playing the game with himself. But here was the question: Was Artyom such an important piece to the game that all these people had to perish for his preservation? Henceforth the blood that was flowing along the cold granite would probably pulse in his veins too. It was like he had drunk it, extracted it from others for his existence. Now he would never be warm again . . .

Artyom, with effort, ran forward a bit in order to catch up with Hunter and to ask if he would ever become warm again or would he, even at the hottest firesides, stay this cold and melancholic, like an icy winter's night on a far-flung semi-station.

But Hunter was far in the distance. Maybe it was because Artyom didn't manage to catch him up that Hunter descended onto the tracks and rushed into the tunnel with the agility of an animal. His movements seemed, to Artyom, like the movements of . . . a dog? No, a rat . . . Oh G.o.d.

'Are you a rat?' The terrible idea tore from Artyom's mouth, and he was frightened by what he'd said.

'No,' came the answer. 'You're the rat. You're the rat! Cowardly rat! Cowardly rat!' Someone repeated it just above his ear, and spat fruitily.

Artyom shook his head but immediately regretted it. Now, thanks to his sharp movements, the aching blunt pain in his body had exploded. He lost control of his limbs and started to stumble forward, and then he rested his burning forehead on something cool and metallic. The surface was ribbed and it pressed on his skin unpleasantly but it cooled his inflamed flesh, and Artyom froze in that position for a time, not having the strength to make any further decisions. He caught his breath and then carefully tried to open his left eye a little bit.

He sat on the floor, his forehead against a lattice of some sort. It went up to the ceiling and filled the s.p.a.ce on both sides of the low and narrow arch. He was facing the hall, and there were paths behind him. All the nearest arches opposite him, as far as he could see, were turned into cages too; there were a few people sitting in each of them. This station was exactly the opposite of the station where he had been sentenced to death. That one was utterly graceful, light, airy, s.p.a.cious, with transparent columns, wide and high arches, despite the gloomy lighting and the inscriptions and drawings covering the walls. It was like a banquet hall compared with this one. Here everything was oppressive and scary. There was a low, rounded ceiling, like in the tunnels. It was barely twice a man's height. And there were ma.s.sive, rough columns, each of which was much wider than the arches that cut across between them. The ceiling of the arches were so close to the ground that he could have reached up and touched it were it not for the fact that his hands were tied with wire behind his back. Apart from Artyom there were another two people in the cell. One was lying on the ground with his face buried in a heap of rags, and he was groaning dully. The other had black eyes and brown hair and hadn't shaved for some time, and he was squatting, leaning against the marble wall, watching Artyom with lively curiosity. There were two strong men in camouflage and berets patrolling the length of the cages, one of whom had a big dog on a leash, and he would scold it from time to time. They, it seemed, had woken Artyom.

It had been a dream. It had been a dream. He had dreamt it all.

They were going to hang him.

'What time is it?' he muttered, only slightly moving his inflamed tongue, and looking sideways at the black-eyed man.

'Happast nine,' the man answered willingly, p.r.o.nouncing his words with the same accent that Artyom had heard at Kitai Gorod: Gorod: instead of 'o' they said 'a' and instead of 'y' they said 'ay'. And then he added, 'In the evening.' instead of 'o' they said 'a' and instead of 'y' they said 'ay'. And then he added, 'In the evening.'

Half past nine. Two and a half hours until twelve - and five hours before . . . before the procedure. Seven and a half hours. And while he was thinking, counting, time was already flying past.

Once Artyom had tried to imagine: what would, what should a person feel and think in the face of death, the night before his execution? Fear? Hatred for his executioners? Regret?

But he was empty inside. His heart was thumping hard in his breast, his temples were throbbing, blood slowly acc.u.mulated in his mouth until he swallowed. The blood had the taste of rusty iron. Or was it that wet iron had the taste of fresh blood?

They would hang him. They would kill him.