Metro 2035 Read online

  In one hand the little man confidently carried, like the tsar’s orb, a symbol of power—a hen’s egg smeared with manure. In the other he held gently but securely an emaciated chicken with an oppressed air.

  “Oleg.” The bearded man introduced himself with dignity.

  “And is there any discount, Olezhek?” The broker jangled his bag.

  “Everything has its price,” Oleg said firmly.” An egg costs two cartridges.”

  “All right … Damn you anyway. Give it here. Is it boiled? And another four. Here you are … One, two … Five. Ten.”

  “Don’t you do that!” Oleg shook his head.

  “Don’t do what?”

  “There’s only one egg. Give me two bullets. I don’t want anything extra.”

  “What d’you mean, one?” Artyom was flummoxed.

  “There’s one for the whole station. Today. Take it, before the others buy it. And it’s raw. There’s nothing to boil it on here.”

  “And how do I eat it?” Lyokha scowled.

  “Drink it, that’s how. Tap it here and drink.” Oleg showed him how.” But money up front.”

  “All right, here’s your cartridges. I’m afraid of raw eggs. I was flat on my back for a month once. Almost kicked the bucket. I’ll boil it somewhere myself.”

  “Nah!” Oleg didn’t let the egg out of his hands and didn’t take the cartridges.” Drink it here. In front of me. Or I won’t sell it.”

  “And why’s that then?” The broker was astonished.

  “I’ll tell you why. Ryaba needs calcium. What do you reckon she’s supposed to produce a new shell out of?”

  The little wolf-girl was standing there close by, observing, picking up crumbs of wisdom. Others clambered out of the semidarkness, preparing for something. Not just children—grown-ups who lived nearby moved closer too.

  “You what?” Lyokha asked.

  “The shell consists of calcium. Did you go to school? To lay a new egg, she needs calcium. Where am I going to get that here? So get it down you. And give me back the shell. She’ll peck it up, and tomorrow you can come back for the second one.”

  “And two cartridges for that?”

  “Everything has its price!” Oleg was adamant.” I’m not ripping people off! I’ll buy mushrooms for Ryaba with one cartridge and some for myself with the other. For a day. And tomorrow—a new egg. It’s all calculated. It all works. Like a Swiss watch. If you don’t want to, I’ll flog it to the Sonderkommando. They appreciate eggnog all right. Well? Will you take it?”

  “Flog it to who?” asked Homer.

  “Give that eggnog of yours here,” Lyokha muttered.

  “Just you break the shell carefully, so it goes inside.”

  “Don’t teach your grandmother!”

  Tap.

  “A brilliant break!” someone whispered respectfully in the crowd that had gathered around.

  “Tastes good, eh?” a little boy with a swollen belly asked enviously.

  “Now don’t you drink it so fast! Stretch it out, really feel it!” Lyokha was advised by a woman who was barely distinguishable from a man.

  “The yolk, the yolk’s started coming already, who can see?”

  “He does it like he guzzles eggs every day!”

  Lyokha wasn’t bothered by his fans. He didn’t notice them.

  “And you say boil it! An egg’s good raw. The white’s like liquid glass. The human soul probably looks the same as that,” said Oleg, scratching in his beard.

  “Listen, pal,” Artyom said to him.” How do we get out of here?”

  “Where to? What for?”

  “What comes after this? In the TsvetnoI Boulevard direction.”

  “What’s there to catch there? Nothing!” Olezhek declared categorically.

  “Look here, let’s say, what if,” the broker started pondering loudly, relishing the taste of his smeared egg.” What say you go to collect worms, and every day you put aside one egg, and then you sell twenty all at once to Hansa, and on the earnings you buy yourself a second chicken. Then you’ll stop just covering your costs, won’t you? In a month you’ll be making profit, eh?”

  “And feed her on worms? A chicken’s a delicate beast, she’ll kick the bucket from worms. Don’t you be the damned wise guy with me!”

  “Well, what about waiting for chicks? What if I lent you bullets for a cock?” Lyokha toyed with his remaining cartridges, jingling them.” Or even put up that cock, for fifty percent in our future joint-stock company. Eh?”

  At this point the little wolf girl, who had been watching all this without a break, couldn’t bear the tedium of the honest life any longer; she darted forward, ducked down, and struck the broker’s hand from below: the pointed brass cylinders shot up in the air and fell between the boards of the pallet, through the foul muck and onto the bottom. The egg-eating fans became flustered.

  “Why you little shit!” the broker howled.” I’ll break your lousy fucking neck! Come on, back off, all of you!”

  “There’s your loan for you!” Olezhek exclaimed in delight.” Sell myself into slavery. What for?”

  “Ah, go to hell!” Lyokha went down on his knees and started raking through the murk in the cold water, trying to ferret out his sunken cartridges: he held the egg that he hadn’t finished drinking up high in his free hand.

  The little girl clambered into some unassailable spot, hunkered down among the tattered plastic bags, and probably prayed there to her guttersnipe’s god not to let the broker retrieve all the bullets from the bottom. The others, keeping Artyom’s automatic in mind, were afraid to go asking for trouble.

  “Money doesn’t bring happiness,” Oleg proclaimed.” A man doesn’t need much. What’s it to me, one egg or ten? One’s exactly enough for me. And ten of them could give you a twisted bowel. I’ve always lived this way, and I’ll carry on like this.”

  But at this point the dastardly god of the down-and-outs took note of the little girl’s whisper, tore a hair out of his matted beard, uttered some mumbo-jumbo, and instead of a cartridge the broker Lyokha caught a shard of a bottle with his raking digits. He pulled it out—a cut like an infant’s open mouth, puking up black blood.

  “Bastards! Bastards the whole lot of you!” Lyokha actually shed tears in his fury, crumpled up the cursed egg, and flung it into the darkness.

  The people were stunned into silence.

  “You rat. You stinking reptile. What have you … What have you done?” Olezhek was totally stupefied at how quickly and cruelly the shell crunched and how instantly it sank.” You rat! You rotten lousy snake! You swine!”

  Together with Ryaba he stepped into the sharp water with his bare feet to look for where the shell had disappeared—there, he thought he saw it glowing white—but a hungry rat reached it first , grabbed it and then disappeared, trilling, as it dragging the shell off to somewhere in its own circle of hell.

  Olezhek was desolated by that.

  He sat the chicken on a pole and went for the broker, flailing his arms ludicrously. He had spent all these years in the Metro and hadn’t learned to fight. The broker gave him a short jab to the chin with his left and immediately knocked him over. From the pallet, steeping his beard through the holes in the boards, Oleg mumbled in abject despair.

  “My entire life … You lousy swine … My whole life … Smashed to pieces … Fucking money-grubber … Great know-it-all … What for? Why did you do that to me?”

  People leaned forward in their agitation. Artyom clicked the safety catch on his automatic and took a firmer grip on it. But no one was in any hurry to intervene for the unfortunate wretch.

  “There, now Olezhek’s got his too,” was the whisper on all sides.

  “And serve him fucking right.”

  “That’s the end of the high life.”

  “Let him be like everyone else now.”

  Olezhek burst into tears.

  “Over in Hansa there’s sand everywhere! They’re repairing Novoslobodskaya. Let her peck at the
sand …” Homer tried to calm him down.” That way she might even produce another one, on her internal reserves …”

  “Clever dick! A fat lot you know about a chicken’s reserves! And you go to Hansa yourself! They’ll sprinkle some sand out for you!”

  Confused, Lyokha squeezed his cut hand with his sound one, the terrifying little mouth in his palm didn’t close, and it was clear to everyone that the broker needed urgently, right this very moment, to get it bathed with alcohol, because with the various sorts of garbage inhabiting this foul shallow water, Lyokha was certain to have gangrene in a day’s time.

  “Has anyone got any moonshine?” Artyom shouted to the ragged jungle.” To rinse a cut!”

  They giggled derisively in reply, like monkeys. Moonshine, aha. Rinse a cut.

  “Look what it’s like in here! Half the station totally pissed! You must distill some out of something, don’t you?”

  “Even if only out of shit!” Lyokha implored.

  “Ah, they suck the worms!” someone sympathetic explained.” The worms show them trippy movies. But there’s no alcohol in them!”

  “They can’t do a fucking thing!” The broker flew into a wild rage.” Totally useless.”

  “You go and ask the soldier boys,” someone advised him.

  “Yes, yes, the soldier boys,” someone else laughed.

  “That’s right!” Artyom took Lyokha by the shoulder.” Let’s go to the border guards. You’ll go back to Hansa. We’ve still got visas. And that sweater’s gone away ages ago. They’ll seal you up, and we’ll part company.”

  “Where?” Olezhek shrieked.” Where’s this you’re going off to? What about me? What am I going to do?”

  “I’m not going back to them!” The broker dug in his heels.

  “Where are you going?” Olezhek hadn’t heard.” You shattered all my calculations!”

  “Right, pal …” Artyom took hold of a clip to click out some consolation for Oleg, but Oleg misunderstood.

  “Butcher! Executioner! Want to kill me? Well fire, then!” He got up off his knees, grabbed the gun barrel, and jabbed it onto his stomach.

  There was a roar.

  The chicken flew a little way off, fluttering its plucked wings, and started running half-wittedly around the pallet. The people were dumbfounded and deafened. An endless echo reverberated, drifting away along the underground river.

  “What have you done?” Artyom asked Olezhek.

  Olezhek sat down.

  “So that’s it, then,” he replied.

  The jacket on Olezhek’s stomach was turning sodden with something that flowed down onto the polythene skirt and became clearly visible as orange blood.

  This was absurd.

  “What have you done now, pal?” Artyom asked him.” Why did you do that?”

  Oleg looked round to find his chicken.

  “Who can I leave Ryaba to?” he said in a sad, weak voice.” Who can I leave her to? They’ll eat her.”

  “Why did you do that, you idiot? Eh, you great, stupid idiot?” Artyom roared, infuriated by his own wretched uselessness, and Olezhek’s, and everyone else’s.

  “Don’t shout like that,” Oleg told him.” It’s sickening to die. Come on, Ryabushka … Come to me.”

  “Why, you bastard! Why, you idiot! Grab hold of him. Grab hold of his legs quick. Let’s go to Hansa!” Artyom shouted to the broker, taking hold of Oleg under the arms.

  But with his slashed-open hand Lyokha couldn’t hold anything. Then Artyom stuck his bundle in Homer’s hands, loaded the radio set onto the broker, picked up Oleg—light and limp—and carried him on his back toward the pedestrian passage.

  “That’s Olezhek done for then,” someone said in the crowd.

  “Now you see him, now you don’t.”

  “And the egg didn’t save him.”

  Homer strode after them; and Lyokha too, gazing foolishly at the palm of his hand. The chicken, having recovered from its shellshock, started clucking and dashed along, flying from pallet to pallet after its master. And all the fans set off after it in a procession, rubbing their hands and giggling.

  Apart from one.

  The moment they moved off, a vague shadow slid down and pressed its face against the wooden boards, stuck a little hand into the filth and the broken glass, fearing nothing—on the wild guttersnipes everything healed over of its own accord. Their wild blood would pulverize any gangrene, and death only took the pampered home-bred children; he didn’t want to grind down his bony teeth on the orphans.

  By the time they got back to the center of the hall, to the steps that ascended from the underground sea through those eight meters to the distant heavens, the scaffolding on all sides was hung all over with Mendeleevites. The hubbub fell silent; everybody was waiting for something.

  Artyom clambered out onto the shore, set his waders on the granite, and stomped forward with them, leaving dirty puddles behind him.

  “Hey, guys!” he shouted to the border guards, toiling upwards.” We’ve got an emergency here! Got to get someone to sick bay! Do you hear?”

  The Mendeleevites, whispering among themselves, huddled up together and watched avidly.

  From the other side there was no answer at all. Unbroken, deathly silence.

  “Guys! Do you hear me?”

  A rivulet babbled down the steps, transfusing bad blood from recuperating Novoslobodskaya to feverish Mendeleev: and that murmuring was quite clear and distinct. Artyom moved up one more step and hissed back over his shoulder, summoning the others, who had come to a standstill right at the very beginning of the stairway to paradise: Lyokha and Homer.

  “I won’t go!” The broker shook his head stubbornly.

  “Well, fuck you, then!”

  Just how does this happen, thought Artyom, that it’s right there, Hansa—well fed, washed and clean, hair set in a neat parting—and beside it, at a depth of eight meters down, a cave with cave people? Communicating vessels, aren’t they? Why is it possible for … ?”

  They were all there. The commander had a perplexed air: He kept touching his neck, then looking at his hand. Another two were smoking; and somehow that reassured Artyom. They smoke—that means they’re human.

  “Wounded man for sick bay … Gunshot wound … Happened by accident …” he panted, lugging Olezhek up to the sandbag breastwork.

  It’s true, just look how much sand there is, thought Artyom. What should Olezhek have to die for?

  “Novoslobodskaya Station is closed, no access,” he was told.” Quarantine. You were warned.”

  Artyom moved closer, as far as he could, but without releasing the roll-ups from their teeth, the soldiers jerked up their gun barrels.

  “Ha-a-alt,” the commander said.

  What is he so annoyed with? Artyom looked closer.

  From here it was clear. The commander had managed to scratch off his pimple after all. Now the pimple was oozing blood one little drop at a time; as soon as the commander wiped it away, it gathered again and welled up. He had to milk it once more.

  “We’ve got visas! Visas! We were just here with you!”

  “Where’s my Ryaba?”

  “Step back!”

  He didn’t even look at either Artyom or Olezhek with his bullet wound, only at his fingers, at the little red drops. And he squinted sideways absurdly, as if he was hoping to see his own picked-raw neck.

  “Maybe we can make a deal? Just as far as the sick bay. We’ll pay. I’ll pay.”

  The soldiers couldn’t care less: their baccy was keeping them calm. They waited patiently for the commander’s word—to shoot or not. Olezhek didn’t move them.

  “You dragging a savage in here, are you?” the commander asked his pimple irritably.

  “Ryabushka.”

  “Hey look, it’s that one with the egg! I recognized him from the kilt!” one of the sentries finally exclaimed in delight.

  The chicken, caught by Homer, was fluttering its stupid, weak wings. Trying to follow its master—u
p to heaven.

  “A savage? You mean a savage?”

  “Step back!”

  “But he’ll snuff it on the spot right now!”

  “Has he got a visa?” The commander remembered something; he took a scrap of a paper napkin out of his pocket and plugged his wound with it.

  “He hasn’t got a visa. I don’t know!”

  “Step back. One. I’ll count to three.”

  “Just temporarily at least! If only to sew up the hole!”

  “Two.” The commander lifted off the napkin, looked to see if a lot of blood had flowed onto it, and was left unsatisfied.

  “That’s annoying. About the egg. I resent it.”

  “Let us in, you bastards!”

  “Listen here, Don Quixote! They’re like flies in there,” one of the soldiers said to Artyom.

  “You planning to rescue all of them? Your rescue tackle’s not up to it!” another one chuckled, spitting out the dead remnant of his roll-up.

  “Please! Come on, will you? Please!”

  “Three. Violation of the state frontier.” The commander frowned: The pimple refused to be plugged.

  For the first time he looked at Olezhek, in order to take aim at him.

  A scraping sound, like flint, a click—the automatics have silencers, in Hansa they take care of the soldiers’ ears!—and a bullet chipped the wall and pecked at the ceiling. Dust descended like a curtain.

  Only his service with Miller saved him: the body’s learned ability to manage without the mind. To sense with its skin where the barrel of the automatic will sting, bringing death, and to fling itself down on the ground and dodge that death, still not understanding anything with its head.

  He dropped, dumped the living bundle off his back, and started crawling, dragging Olezhek behind him. Another shot was fired at them, trying to hit the target, but the dust spoiled the aim.

  “You bastards!”

  Immediately, another whiplash—at his voice. A spray of concrete crumbs.

  The monkeys behind him started whooping rapturously.

  “There, try a dose of what we get.”

  “Did they sprinkle any sand for you?”