METRO 2033 (65 page)

‘Whether I believe in the Great Worm or not isn’t so very important. But commandments from divine lips live for centuries. Just one more thing: create a god and teach his word. And believe me, the Great Worm is no worse than other gods and has survived many of them.’

Artyom closed his eyes. Neither Dron nor the chief of this surprising tribe, nor even such strange creations as Vartan, had the slightest doubt that the Great Worm exists. For them it was a given, the only explanation of what they could see around them, the only authority for action and a measure of good and evil. What else could a man who had never seen anything except the metro believe in? But there was in the legends of the Worm something that Artyom was still unable to understand.

‘But why do you incite them so against machines? What’s so bad about these mechanisms? Electricity, lighting, firearms, and so on. Your teachings mean that your people live without them,’ he said.

‘What’s bad about machines?!’ the old man’s tone changed dramatically: the good nature and patience with which he had just set forth his thoughts evaporated. ‘You intend an hour before your death to preach to me the benefits of machines! Well, look around! Only a blind man won’t notice that if mankind owed some kind of a debt, then he wouldn’t rely so much on machines! How dare you snicker about the important role of equipment here, at my station? You nobody!’

Artyom hadn’t expected his question, way less seditious than the previous, about his belief in the Great Worm, to provoke such a reaction from the old man. Not knowing how to respond, he remained silent. The priest’s heavy breathing could be heard in the darkness, as he whispered some kind of curses and tried to calm himself. He resumed speaking only after several minutes.

‘I am out of the habit of speaking with non-believers.’ Judging by the voice, the old man had regained control of himself. ‘I got carried away in speaking with you. Something is keeping the young ones, they aren’t bringing the sacks.’ He paused meaningfully.

‘What sacks?’ Artyom responded to the ploy.

‘They will prepare you. When I spoke of torture, I wasn’t being strictly accurate. Pointless cruelty goes against the grain of the Great Worm. My colleagues and I, when we understood that cannibalism had taken root here, and we could no longer do anything about it, decided to look after the culinary side of the problem. And so someone recalled that the Koreans, when they eat dogs, catch them alive, put them in sacks and beat them to death with sticks. The meat benefits a lot from it. It becomes soft, tender. One man’s multiple haematomas, as it were, are another man’s cutlet. So don’t judge us too severely. I myself would perhaps be happier to die first and then suffer the sticks. Inevitably, there will be internal bleeding. A recipe is a recipe.’ The old man even clicked the lighter in order to get a look at the effect he had produced. ‘However, something is keeping them, it shouldn’t have happened . . .’he added.

A whistle interrupted him. Artyom heard cries, running, children’s crying and that ominous whistle again. Something had happened at the station. The priest listened to the noise uneasily, then extinguished the fire and grew silent.

Several minutes later heavy boots began to rumble on the threshold, and a low voice murmured, ‘Is anyone alive?’

‘Yes! We’re here! Artyom and Anton!’ Artyom yelled at the top of his lungs, hoping that the old man had no pipes with poisoned needles hanging around his neck.

‘Here they are! Cover me and the lad!’ someone screamed. There was a dazzling, bright flash of light. The old man dashed towards the exit, but a man barring the way hit him in the neck. The priest began to wheeze and fell.

‘The door, hold the door!’ Something had come crashing down, plaster began to fall from the ceiling and Artyom blinked. When he opened his eyes, two men were now standing in the room. They were not run-of-the-mill soldiers and Artyom hadn’t seen anyone like them before. Dressed in heavy long bullet-proof vests over tailored black uniforms, both were armed with unusual short machine guns with laser gun sights and silencers. In addition, massive titanium helmets with face guards, like the Hansa Spetsnaz, and large titanium shields with eye slits added to the impressive sight. A flame-thrower was visible on the back of one. They quickly inspected the room, illuminating it with a long and inconceivably strong flashlights, that were shaped like cudgels.

‘These?’ one of them asked.

‘Them,’ the other confirmed. Efficiently examining the lock on the door of the monkey cage, the first moved back, took several steps and leapt, striking the cage with his boots. The rusty hinges broke and the door collapsed half a foot from Artyom. The man lowered himself onto one knee in front of Artyom and lifted his face guard. Everything now fell into place: Melnik was looking at Artyom through squinted eyes. His wide serrated knife slipped along the wires entangling Artyom’s legs and hands. Then the stalker cut the wire that had been binding Anton.

‘Alive,’ Melnik remarked with satisfaction. ‘Can you walk?’

Artyom began to nod, but was unable to lift himself to his feet. His numbed body was still not totally under his command. Several more men ran into the room. Two of them immediately took up a defensive position at the doors. There were eight fighters in all in the party. They were dressed and equipped just like those who had stormed into the room, but several of them wore long leather cloaks, as Hunter had. One of them lowered a child to the ground, covering him with the shield he wore on his arm. The child immediately raced into the cell and bent over Anton.

‘Papa! Papa! I lied to them so they’d think I was on their side! I showed them where you are! Forgive me, Papa! Papa, don’t be silent!’ The boy could hardly contain his tears. Anton looked at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Artyom was frightened that two paralysing needles in a day could turn out to be too much for the watch commander. Melnik placed his index finger on Anton’s neck. ‘He’s OK,’ he concluded after several seconds. ‘He’s alive. Bring a stretcher!’

While Artyom talked about the impact of the poisoned needles, two fighters unrolled a cloth stretcher on the floor and loaded Anton onto it. On the floor, the old man began to stir and mumble something.

‘And who’s this?’ Melnik asked, and, having heard from Artyom the explanation, said, ‘We’ll take him with us and use him as cover. How’s the situation?’

‘All quiet,’ reported a fighter guarding the entrance door.

‘Let’s get back to the tunnel,’ the stalker said

‘We have to return to base with the wounded and the hostage for interrogation. Here you go.’ He threw Artyom a machine gun. ‘If all goes as planned, you won’t have to use it. You don’t have any armour, so you’d better stay under our cover. Watch the youngster.’

Artyom nodded and took Oleg by the hand, nearly tearing the boy away from the stretcher on which his father lay.

‘Let’s build the “turtle”,’ Melnik ordered. The fighters formed an oval in a moment, sticking out their linked shields, above which only helmets were seen. Four carried the stretcher with their free hands. The boy and Artyom were inside the formation, fully covered by shields. They gagged the old man, tied his hands behind his back, and placed him at the head of the formation. After several strong jabs, he stopped trying to break loose and calmed down, staring sullenly at the floor. The first two fighters, who had special night vision instruments, served as the eyes of the ‘turtle’. The instruments were fastened directly to the helmets, so that their hands remained free. The party bent down on command, covering their legs with the shields and moved ahead swiftly. Squeezed between the fighters, Artyom held Oleg’s hand tightly and pulled him along. He couldn’t see anything, and could work out what was happening only by the curt discussions.

‘Three on the right . . . Women, a child.’

‘On the left! In the arch, in the arch! They’re shooting!’ Needles began to clang on the metal of the shield.

‘Take them out!’ Machine gun pops were heard in response.

‘There’s one . . . Two . . . Keep moving, keep moving!’

‘From behind! Lomov!’

‘Some more shots.’

‘Where, where? Don’t go there!’

‘Ahead, I said! Hold the hostage!’

‘Damn, it flew right in front of my eyes . . .’

‘Stop! Stop! Halt!’

‘What’s there?’

‘It’s all blocked! There are about forty people there! Barricades!’

‘Is it far?’

‘Twenty metres. They are not firing.’

‘They are approaching from the sides!’

‘When did they manage to build barricades?’

A rain of needles fell on the shields. On signal, they all got down onto one knee so that now the armour covered them completely. Artyom bent down, covering the boy. They placed the stretcher with Anton on the floor. The rain of needles intensified.

‘Do not respond! Do not respond! We’ll wait . . .’

‘It hit my boot . . .’

‘Ready the light . . . On the count of three, flashlights and fire. Whoever has the night vision equipment, choose the targets now . . . One . . .’

‘How they shoot . . .’

‘Two! Three!’ Several powerful flashlights lit up simultaneously and the machine guns opened up. Somewhere ahead Artyom could hear the cries and moans of the dying. Then the firing unexpectedly ceased. Artyom listened.

‘Over there, there, with the white flag . . . Are they giving up or what?’

‘Cease fire! We’ll talk. Put the hostage in front!’

‘Stop, you bastard, there! I’ve got him, I’ve got him! Smart old man . . .’

‘We have your priest! Let us leave!’ Melnik called out. ‘Let us return to the tunnel! I repeat, let us leave!’

‘Well, what’s there? What’s there?’

‘Zero reaction. They’re silent.’

‘Maybe they don’t understand us?’

‘So, hold the light on him for me a little better . . .’

‘Take a look.’ Then the negotiations suddenly stopped. It was as though the fighters were absorbed in thought. At first it was just those who were at the front, then the one’s covering the rear quieted down. The silence was tense, not good.

‘What’s there?’ Artyom asked uneasily. No one answered him. The people even stopped moving about. Artyom felt the palm of the hand he was holding the boy with start to sweat. It shook him.

‘I feel . . . He is looking at us . . .’ he said quietly.

‘Release the hostage,’ Melnik suddenly pronounced.

‘Release the hostage,’ repeated another fighter. Then Artyom, could bear it no longer and he straightened up and looked over the shields and helmets. Ahead, ten steps from them, in the intersection of three blinding beams of light stood, not squinting and not shielding his eyes with his hands, a tall stooped man with a white rag in his extended gnarled hand. The man’s face could be seen clearly. He was similar to Vartan, the one who had interrogated him several hours ago. Artyom ducked behind the shields and released the safety on his machine gun and chambered a round. The scene he had just observed remained before him. Simultaneously eerie and bewitching, it suddenly reminded him for a moment of an old book, Tales and Myths of Ancient Greece which he had loved to look at when he was a child. One of the legends told about a monstrous creation in semi-human form, whose look turned many brave warriors to stone. He drew a breath, mustered all his willpower, having forbidden himself to look the hypnotist in the face, jumped over the shields like an imp on a spring and pulled the trigger. After the strange, noiseless battle between machine guns with silencers and blow pipes, the Kalashnikov’s salvo seemed to jar the station’s domes. Although Artyom was convinced it was not possible to miss from such a distance, what he feared most, happened: the creature had guessed his intentions and, as soon as Artyom’s head appeared above the shields, his gaze fell into the trap of those dead eyes. He succeeded in squeezing the trigger, but an unseen hand deftly pushed the barrel aside. Almost the whole salvo missed, and only one round struck the creature in the shoulder. It issued a guttural sound that pierced the ears, and then, with one elusive movement, disappeared into the darkness. We have several seconds, Artyom thought. Only several seconds. When Melnik’s party had broken through to Park Pobedy, there had been the element of surprise on his side. But now, when the savages had organized a defence, there was no chance, it seemed, to overcome the barrier created by them. Running the other way remained the only way out. The words of his jailer flashed in his head: tunnels that are not on the metro map leave the station.

‘Are there other tunnels here?’ he asked Oleg.

‘There is one more station, beyond the passage, just like this one, like a reflection in a mirror,’ the boy waved a hand. ‘We played there. There are still tunnels like here, but they told us it was forbidden to go there.’

‘We are falling back! Towards the crossing!’ Artyom bellowed, trying to lower his voice and imitate Melnik’s commanding bass.

‘What the devil?’ the stalker snarled with displeasure. It seemed he had come to his senses. Artyom grabbed him by the shoulder.

‘Quickly, they have a hypnotist there,’ he began to jabber. ‘We can’t penetrate this barrier! There’s another exit there, beyond the crossing!’

‘True, it’s a double, this station . . . Let’s go!’ the stalker accepted the decision. ‘Hold the barricade! Back! Slowly, slowly!’

The others slowly, as if unwillingly, began to move. Urging them with new orders, Melnik was able to compel the party to reform and begin the retreat before new needles flew at them from the darkness. When they began to stand up along the steps of the passage, the fighter who was bringing up the rear let out a scream and grabbed at his shin. He continued to climb with his stiffening legs for several seconds but then a monstrous cramp brought him down, twisted him, as if he were wrung out laundry and he collapsed onto the ground. The party stopped. Beneath the cover of the shields, two free fighters rushed to lift their comrade from the ground, but it was all over. His body was turning blue before their eyes, and foam was appearing on his gums. Artyom already knew what it meant, and so did Melnik.