Artyom had said right away that he was against it. The recent tales his stepfather told him about people who had spent time on the surface were fresh in his mind, about how afterwards they had long been sick, and about the sorts of horrors sometimes seen up there. But they immediately began to argue that this was a rare opportunity. When else would they manage to make it, with no adults, to an abandoned station, as they had now? And now they had the chance to go up to the surface too, and see, see with their own eyes, what it's like to have nothing above your head. And, resigning all hope of convincing him nicely, they declared that if he was such a coward, then he could sit down below and wait for them to come back. The thought of staying alone in an abandoned station, and, on top of that, besmirching his reputation in the eyes of his two best friends, was completely unbearable to Artyom. So, summoning his courage, he consented.

To everyone's surprise, the mechanism that brought the barrier dividing the platform from the escalator into motion actually worked. And it was Artyom himself who managed to start it up after half an hour of desperate attempts. The rusty iron wall moved aside with a nasty grating sound and before their eyes stood the short row of steps of the escalator, leading upwards. Some of the steps had collapsed and, through the yawning gaps, in the light of the flashlights, one could see colossal gears that had stopped years ago, corroded with rust, grown over with something brownish that was moving, just barely noticeably . . . It wasn't easy for them to force themselves to go up there. Several times, the steps they stepped on gave way with a screech, and dropped below, and they climbed across the chasm, clinging to the old hulls of the metro lamps. The path to the surface wasn't long, but their initial determination was evaporating after that first collapsed step; and in order to raise their spirits, they imagined themselves to be real stalkers.

Stalkers . . .

The word, strange and foreign to the Russian language, had caught on very well nonetheless. Earlier, this was the name given to people whose poverty compelled them to make their way to abandoned military firing ranges, take apart unexploded missiles and bombs and redeem bra.s.s casings with those who bought non-ferrous metals. It was also given to those strange people who, in times of peace, climbed around in the sewers. But all of these meanings had something in common: it was always an extremely dangerous profession, always a confrontation with the unknown, the mysterious, the ominous . . . Who knows what happened at those abandoned ranges, where the radioactive earth, disfigured by thousands of explosions, ploughed with trenches and pitted with catacombs, put forth monstrous sprouts? And one could only guess what might dwell in the sewers of a teeming metropolis once the builders had closed the hatches behind them, leaving those gloomy, narrow, reeking corridors forever.

In the metro, the rare daredevils who had the guts to venture to the surface were called stalkers. In protective suits and gas masks with tinted gla.s.s, they were heavily armed as they ascended to the surface in search of items that were necessities for everyone: military supplies, equipment, replacement parts, fuel . . . There were hundreds of men who dared to do this. Those who were able to make it back alive could be counted on one's fingers - and these men were worth their weight in gold. They were valued even more highly than former metro employees. All kinds of dangers awaited those who dared to go up above - from the radiation to the ghoulish creatures it had created. There was life there too, on the surface, but it was no longer life according to the customary human conception of it.

Every stalker became a living legend, a demiG.o.d, whom everyone, young and old, regarded with rapt amazement. In a world in which there was nowhere left to sail or fly, and the words 'pilot' and 'sailor' were becoming dull and losing their meaning, children dreamed of becoming stalkers. To strike out, clothed in shining armour, accompanied by hundreds of gazes of adoration and grat.i.tude, climbing to the surface, to the realm of the G.o.ds, to do battle with monsters and, returning underground, to bring the people fuel, military supplies, light and fire. To bring life.

Artyom, his friend Zhenya, and Vitalik the Splinter, all wanted to become stalkers. And, compelling themselves to climb upwards along the horrifying, screeching escalator with its collapsing steps, they imagined themselves in protective suits, with radiation damage monitors, with hulking machine guns at the ready, just as one would expect of real stalkers. But they had neither radiation monitors, nor protection, and instead of imposing army-issue machine guns, they had only the ancient double-barrelled rifle, which, perhaps, didn't even shoot at all . . .

Before long, their ascent was complete, and they found themselves almost on the surface. Fortunately, it was night; otherwise, they would have been blinded. Eyes accustomed to darkness and to the crimson light of bonfires and emergency lamps in their many years of life underground wouldn't have withstood the glare. Blinded and helpless, they would have been unlikely to make it back home again.

The vestibule of the Botanical Garden station was almost destroyed; half of the roof had collapsed, and through it one could see the radioactive dust of the dark-blue summer sky, already cleansed of clouds, and strewn with myriad stars. But what was a starry sky for a child who wasn't even capable of imagining that a ceiling might not be above his head? When you lift your gaze, and it doesn't run up against concrete coverings and rotten networks of wires and pipes, but is lost instead in a dark-blue abyss, gaping suddenly above your head - what an impression! And the stars! Could anyone who had never seen stars possibly imagine what infinity is, when, most likely, the very concept of infinity first appeared among humans inspired, once upon a time, by the nocturnal vault of the heavens? Millions of shining lights, silver nails driven into a dome of dark blue velvet . . .

The boys stood for three, five, then ten minutes, unable to utter a word. They wouldn't even have moved, and by morning would certainly have been cooked alive, if they hadn't heard a bloodcurdling howl ring out nearby. Coming to their senses, they rushed headlong back to the escalator, and raced down it as fast as their legs could carry them, having thrown all caution to the wind, and several times nearly plunging downwards, into the teeth of the gears. Supporting each other, and pulling each other out, they made the journey back in a matter of seconds.

Spinning down the final ten steps like a top, having lost the double-barrelled rifle along the way, they immediately lunged for the control panel of the barrier. But, d.a.m.n it, the rusted old iron had become wedged, and it didn't want to return to its place. Scared half to death that the monsters would pursue them from the surface, they raced off homewards, to the northern cordon.

But, remembering that they'd probably done something very bad, having left the hermetic gates open, and had possibly left the path downward, into the metro, and to people, open for the mutants, they found the time to agree to keep their lips sealed, and not to tell any of the adults where they'd been. At the cordon, they said that they'd gone to a side tunnel to hunt for rats, but had lost their gun, become frightened, and returned.

Artyom, of course, caught h.e.l.l from his stepfather. His rear end smarted for a long time from that officer's belt, but Artyom held up like a captive partisan, and didn't blurt out his military secret. And his comrades kept silent as well.

Everyone believed them.

But now, when he thought of their escapade, Artyom fell, more and more often, into reflection. Was this journey, and, more importantly, the barrier they'd opened, connected somehow to the sc.u.m that had been a.s.saulting their cordons for the last several years?

Greeting pa.s.sers-by, stopping now and then to hear some news, to shake hands with a friend, to land a kiss on the cheek of a familiar girl, to tell the older generations about his stepfather's dealings, Artyom finally reached his home. n.o.body was there, and he decided not to wait for his stepfather but to go to bed: an eight-hour watch was enough to take anyone off their feet. He threw off his boots, took off his jacket and planted his face in the pillow. Sleep didn't make him wait.

The flaps of the tent were lifted and a ma.s.sive figure slipped quietly inside, whose face couldn't be seen. The only thing visible was the ominous gleam of a smooth skull reflecting the red emergency lights. A m.u.f.fled voice was heard: 'We meet again. Your stepfather, I see, is not here. Doesn't matter. We'll find him. Sooner or later. He won't get away. For now, you'll come with me. We have something to talk about. For example, the barrier at the Botanical Gardens.'

Artyom, frozen, recognized the guy he had met at the cordon earlier, the man who had introduced himself as Hunter.

The man came closer, slowly, silently, and his face was still not visible. For some reason the light was falling in a strange way. Artyom wanted to call for help, but a powerful hand, as cold as death, clamped onto his mouth. At last he managed to grab hold of a lantern, turn it on and light up the person's face. What he saw, rendered him powerless for a moment and filled him with horror: what loomed in front of him was not a human face, but a terrible black muzzle with two huge, vacant and white-less eyes and a gaping maw.

Artyom darted and threw himself out of the tent. The light suddenly went out and the station became totally dark. There was only some weak reflected light from a small fire somewhere in the distance. Without pausing for thought, Artyom rushed in that direction, toward the light. The ghoul jumped towards him from behind, growling, 'Stop! You have nowhere to run!' He roared with terrifying laughter, which slowly became a familiar graveyard howl. Artyom ran off, without turning to look, hearing the footfalls of heavy boots behind him, unhurried, even, as if his pursuer knew that there was nowhere to run, that Artyom would be caught sooner or later.

Artyom ran up to the fire and saw a figure sitting there with its back to him. He was going to tap the sitting person on the shoulder and ask for help, but the person suddenly fell backwards and it was clear that he had been dead a long time and his face was covered with h.o.a.rfrost for some reason. And in the face of this frozen person, Artyom recognized Uncle Sasha, his stepfather.

'Hey, Artyom! That was a good sleep! Now get up! You've been snoozing for seven hours in a row already . . . get up sleepyhead! We have guests coming!' Sukhoi's voice rang out.

Artyom sat up in bed and stared at him, stunned. 'Oh, Uncle Sash . . . You . . . Is everything OK with you?' he asked at last, after a minute of blinking. It was hard for him to overcome the urge to ask him if he was alive or not, and that was only because the fact of it was standing in front of him.

'Yes, as you can see! Come on, come on, get up, no point lying about. I want to introduce you to my friend,' said Sukhoi. There was a familiar but m.u.f.fled voice nearby, and Artyom was covered in perspiration, remembering his recent nightmare.

'So, you've met already?' Sukhoi was surprised. 'Well, Artyom, you're sharp!'

Finally, the visitor squeezed into the tent. Artyom shuddered and pressed against the tent wall - it was Hunter. The nightmare came alive again: dark, vacant eyes; the roar of heavy boots behind him; the stiff corpse sitting at the fire . . .

'Yes. We've met.' Artyom managed to squeeze out his reply and reluctantly extended a hand to the visitor. Hunter's hand was hot and dry, and Artyom slowly started to convince himself that it was just a dream, that there was nothing sinister about this person, that it was just his imagination, ignited with fear after eight hours at the cordon, playing out in his dreams.

'Listen, Artyom! Do us a favour! Boil some water for tea! Have you tried our tea?' Sukhoi winked at the visitor. 'A poisonous potion!'

'I know it,' Hunter responded, nodding. 'Good tea. They make it at Pechatniki too. Pig's swill. But here, it's a different matter.'

Artyom went to get the water, then to the communal fire to boil the kettle. It was strictly forbidden to make fires inside tents: a couple of stations had burnt down due to tent fires before now.

On the way he thought about Pechatniki - it was at the other end of the metro system, and who knows how long it would take to get there, how many transfers, crossings, through how many stations you'd have to go - lying sometimes, fighting sometimes, other times getting through thanks to connections . . . And this guy says casually, 'They make it at Pechatniki too . . .' Yes, he's an interesting character, even if a little scary. His grip squeezes like a vice, and Artyom wasn't a weakling - he was always eager to compare strength with a good handshake.

Having boiled the kettle, he returned to the tent. Hunter had already thrown off his raincoat under which you could see a black polo-neck jumper, tightly filled with a powerful neck and a bulging, strong body, and military trousers drawn tight with an officer's belt. On top of the polo-neck, he was wearing a vest with lots of pockets, and a holster hung under his arm containing a burnished pistol of monstrous size. Upon closer inspection, Artyom could see that it was a 'Stechkin' with a long silencer, and it had something attached to it, which by the looks of it was a laser sight. A monster like that would cost you all you had. The weapon, Artyom noted immediately, was not a simple one - not for self-defence, that was for sure. And then he remembered that when Hunter introduced himself he added, 'as in someone who hunts.'

'So, Artyom, pour the visitor some tea! Yes, and you Hunter, take a seat! Tell us how you are!' Sukhoi was excited. 'Devil knows how long it's been since I last saw you!'

'I'll tell you about myself later. There's not much to say. But strange things are going on with you, I hear. Goblins are crawling around. Coming from the north. Today I was listening to fairy stories while standing with the patrol. What's up?' Hunter spoke in brief, choppy phrases.

'It's death, Hunter,' Sukhoi's mood suddenly darkened. 'It's our death stealing up from the future. Our fate is creeping in. That's what it is.'

'Why death? I heard that you crushed them very successfully. That they're disarmed. Well? Where are they from and who are they? I've never heard anything like this at any of the other stations. Never. And that means that it isn't happening anywhere else. I want to know what's up. I'm sensing a great danger. I want to know the level of danger, I want to understand its nature. That's why I'm here.'

'Danger should be liquidated, right Hunter? You're still a cowboy, Hunter. But can danger be liquidated - that's the question.' Sukhoi grinned sadly. 'That's the hitch. Everything here is more complicated than it seems to you. A lot more complicated. This is not just zombies and corpses walking across cinema screens. That's too simple: you load a revolver with silver bullets,' Sukhoi demonstrated by putting his palms together and pretending to point a pistol as he continued, 'pow-pow! And the forces of evil are slain. But this is something different. Something frightening . . . And as you well know, it's hard to scare me.'

'You're panicking?' Hunter asked, surprised.

'Their main weapon is horror. The people are barely maintaining their positions. People are sleeping with machine guns, with uzis - and they're coming at us unarmed. And everybody knows that there's a higher quality and quant.i.ty of them still to come, they are almost running away, going crazy from the horror of it - some have already gone crazy, between you and me. And this isn't just fear, Hunter!' Sukhoi lowered his voice. 'This . . . I don't even know how to explain it to you plainly . . . It gets stronger every time. They are getting into our heads somehow . . . And it seems to me that they're doing it on purpose. You can sense them from afar, and the feeling gets stronger and stronger, and the agitation is so vile that your knees start to shake. And you can't hear anything yet, and you can't see anything, but you already know that they're coming nearer . . . nearer . . . And then there's a howl - and you just want to run . . . But they're coming closer - and you're starting to shake. And a while later you can see them walking with open eyes into the searchlights . . .'

Artyom shuddered. It seemed that he wasn't the only one tormented by nightmares. He used to try not to talk about it to anyone before. He was afraid that they would take him for a coward or for a lunatic.

'They're crippling our minds, the reptiles!' Sukhoi continued. 'And you know, it's like they adjust themselves to your wavelength, and the next time they come, you feel them even more strongly, and you're even more afraid. And this isn't just fear, I can tell you.'

He went silent. Hunter was sitting there without moving, studying him, and apparently thinking over what he'd heard. Then he took a mouthful of hot brew and spoke, slowly and quietly: 'This is a threat to everybody, Sukhoi. To the whole filthy metro, not just to your station.'

Sukhoi was silent, as though he didn't want to reply, but suddenly he burst out: 'The whole metro you think? No. Not just the metro. This is a threat to the progress of mankind, which got itself into trouble with its progress already. It's time to pay! It's a battle of species, Hunter! A battle of species. And these dark ones are not evil spirits, and they aren't some kind of ghoul. This is h.o.m.o novus - the next stage in evolution, better adapted to the environment than us. The future is behind them, Hunter! Maybe, h.o.m.o sapiens will rot for another couple of decades, or for another fifty in these demonic holes that we've dug for ourselves, back when there was plenty and not everyone could fit above ground so the poorer folk were driven underground in the daytime. We will become as pale and sick as Wells' Morlocks. Remember them? From The Time Machine where beasts of the future lived underground? They too were once h.o.m.o sapiens. Yes, we are optimistic - we don't want to die! We will cultivate mushrooms with our own dung, and the pig will become man's best friend, as they say, and our partner in survival. And we will guzzle multivitamins with an appetizing crunch that were prepared by our careful ancestors in the tonnes. We will shyly crawl up to the surface to quickly steal another canister of petrol, a few more rags, and if you're really lucky, a handful of cartridges - only to quickly run back down into the stuffy vaults, looking shiftily around like thieves to see if anyone noticed. Because we aren't at home there on the surface anymore. The world doesn't belong to us anymore, Hunter . . . The world doesn't belong to us anymore.'

Sukhoi fell silent, looking at the steam slowly rising from his cup of tea and condensing in the twilight of the tent. Hunter said nothing, and Artyom suddenly realized that he had never heard anything like it from his stepfather. There was nothing left of his former confidence in the fact that everything would necessarily be fine; nothing left of his 'don't panic, we'll get through it!'; and nothing left of his encouraging winks . . . Or was that just all for show?

'You don't have anything to say, Hunter? Nothing? Go on, contradict me! Where are your arguments? Where is that optimism of yours? Last time when I spoke to you, you were certain that the levels of radiation would lower, and people could return to the surface again. Eh, Hunter . . . "The sun will rise over the woods, but just not for me . . ." ' Sukhoi sang in a teasing voice. 'We'll seize life with our teeth, we will hold onto it with all our strength - but what would the philosophers have said and the sectarians confirmed, if there was suddenly nothing to grab? You don't want to believe it, can't believe it, but somewhere in the depths of your soul you know that that's how it is . . . But we like this whole business, Hunter, don't we? Me and you, we really love living! We will crawl through the stinking underground, sleep in an embrace with pigs, eat rats, but we will survive! Right? Wake up, Hunter! No one will write a book about you called The story of a real person, no one will sing about your will to live, your hypertrophic instinct for self-preservation . . . How long will you last on mushrooms, multivitamins and pork? Surrender, h.o.m.o sapiens! You are no longer the king of nature! You've been dethroned! No, you don't have to die instantly, n.o.body will insist on that. Crawl on a little more in agony, choking on your own excrement . . . But know this, h.o.m.o sapiens: you are obsolete! Evolution, the laws of which you understood, has already created its new branch, and you are no longer the latest stage, the crown of creation. You are a dinosaur. Now you must step aside for a new, more perfect species. No need to be egotistical. Game over, it's time you let others play. Your time is up. You're extinct. And let future generations wrack their brains over the question of what made h.o.m.o sapiens extinct. Though, I doubt anyone will be interested . . .'

Hunter who was studying his fingernails through this monologue, raised his eyes to Sukhoi and said gravely, 'You have really given up on everything since I last saw you. I remember that you were telling me that if we preserve culture, if we don't turn sour, if we don't stop using proper Russian, if our children learn to read and write, then we'll be fine and we'll last here underground . . . Didn't you say all that - or wasn't it you? And now, look at you - surrender, h.o.m.o sapiens . . . What the h.e.l.l is that?'

'Yeah, well, I just figured out a thing or two, Hunter. I have felt something which you have yet to get, and maybe you'll never get it: we are dinosaurs, and we are living the last days of our life . . . It might take ten or even a hundred years, but all the same . . .'

'Resistance is futile, right?' Hunter offered, in a mean voice. 'What are you driving at?'

Sukhoi was silent, his eyes downcast. Clearly this had cost him a lot - having never admitted his weaknesses to anybody, or said such a thing to an old friend. Even worse that it was in front of Artyom. It was painful to him to hold up a white flag.

'But no! You won't wait!' Hunter slowly said, standing up to full height. 'And they won't wait! New species you say? Evolution? Inevitable extinction? Dung? Pigs? Vitamins? I'm not there yet. I'm not afraid of it either. Got it? I am not putting my hand up to volunteer. The instinct of self-preservation? You call it that. Yes, I will sink my teeth into life. f.u.c.k your evolution. Let other species wait their turn. I'm not a lamb being led to slaughter. Capitulate and go off with your more perfect and more adapted beings - give them your place in history! If you feel that you've fought all you can fight, then go ahead and desert, I won't judge you. But don't try to scare me. And don't try to drag me along with you into the slaughterhouse. Why are you giving me a sermon? If you don't do it alone, if you need to do it collectively, you won't be so ashamed? Or has the enemy promised you a bowl of hot porridge for each person that you bring to them in captivity? My fight is hopeless? You say that we're at the edge of the abyss? I spit on your abyss. If you think that your place is at the bottom of the abyss then take a deep breath and forward march. But I'm not coming for the ride. If rational man, refined and civilised h.o.m.o sapiens chooses to capitulate - then I refuse to be called one and would rather become a beast. And I will, like a beast, sink my teeth into life and gnaw on the throats of others in order to survive. And I will survive. Got it?! I will survive!'

He sat down and quietly asked Artyom for another splash of tea. Sukhoi stood up himself and went to fill and heat the kettle, gloomily and silently. Artyom stayed in the tent alone with Hunter. His last words were ringing with contempt; his malicious confidence that he would survive lit a fire in Artyom. For a long time he was trying to decide whether to say something. And then Hunter turned to him and said: 'And what do you think my friend? Tell me, don't be shy . . . You want to turn into vegetation too? Like a dinosaur? To sit on your things and wait until someone comes for you? Do you know the parable about the frog in the cream? Two frogs landed in a pail of cream. One, thinking rationally, understood straight away that there was no point in resistance and that you can't deceive destiny. But then what if there's an afterlife - why bother jumping around, entertaining false hopes in vain? He crossed his legs and sank to the bottom. The second, the fool, was probably an atheist. And she started to flop around. It would seem that she had no reason to flail about if everything was predestined. But she flopped around and flopped around anyway . . . Meanwhile, the cream turned to b.u.t.ter. And she crawled out. We honour the memory of this second frog's friend, eternally d.a.m.ned for the sake of progress and rational thought.'

'Who are you?' Artyom ventured at last.

'Who am I? You already know who I am. The one who hunts.'

'But what does that mean - the one who hunts? What do you do? Hunt?'

'How can I explain it to you? You know how the human body is built? It's made up of millions of tiny cells - some emit electrical signals, others store information, others still soak up nutrients, transfer oxygen. But all of them - even the most important among them - would be dead in less than a day, and the whole organism would die, if it wasn't for cells responsible for immunity. They're called macrophages. They work methodically and regularly like a clock, a metronome. When an infection gets into an organism, they find it, track it down, wherever it's hiding, and sooner or later, they get to it and . . .' He made a gesture as though he was wringing someone's neck and let out an unpleasant crunching sound. 'Liquidate it.'

'But what relevance does that have to your job?' Artyom insisted.

'Imagine that the whole metro was a human organism. A complex organism, made up of about forty thousand cells. I am the macrophage. The hunter. This is my job. Any danger that is sufficiently serious as to threaten the whole organism must be liquidated. That's what I do.'

Sukhoi finally came back with the kettle and poured the boiling brew into the mugs. He had obviously gathered his thoughts in the meantime, and he said to Hunter, 'So you're going to take on the liquidation of the source of danger, cowboy? You're going to go hunting and shoot down all the dark ones? It's hardly possible that anything will come of it. There's nothing to be done, Hunter. Nothing.'

'There is always one last option - the last resort. To blow your northern tunnel to pieces. Collapse it completely. To cut off that new species of yours. Let them procreate from above and leave us moles alone. The underground is now our natural habitat.'

'I'll tell you something interesting. Only a few people know about this at the station. They've already blown up one tunnel. But above us, above the northern tunnel, there is a stream of ground water. And, when they blew up the second northern tunnel, we were almost flooded. If the explosion had been just a bit stronger - goodbye my dear VDNKh. VDNKh. So, if we now blow up the remaining northern tunnel, then we'll be flooded. We'll be covered in radioactive swill. Then that will be the end, not only for us. Therein lies the real danger to the metro. If you start an inter-species battle now and in this way, then our species will lose. As they say in chess: check.' So, if we now blow up the remaining northern tunnel, then we'll be flooded. We'll be covered in radioactive swill. Then that will be the end, not only for us. Therein lies the real danger to the metro. If you start an inter-species battle now and in this way, then our species will lose. As they say in chess: check.'

'What about the hermetic gate? Surely we can simply close the hermetic gate in that tunnel?' Hunter said.

'The hermetic gate was already dismantled along with the rest of the lines gates fifteen years ago by some smart guys - and they sent the material to fortify one of the stations. No one remembers which one anymore. Surely you knew about this? There you go, check again.'

'Tell me . . . Have they increased their pressure recently?' Hunter, it seems, was conceding and shifting the conversation to another tack.

'Increasing? And how! It's hard to believe that it was only a little while ago that we didn't know they existed. And now, here they are - a major threat. And believe me, the day is near when they will sweep us away, with all of our fortifications, searchlights and machine-guns. It's impossible to raise the whole metro to defend one good-for-nothing station . . . Yes, we make pretty good tea, but it's unlikely that anyone will risk their life even for such excellent tea as ours. In the end, there's always compet.i.tion with Pechatniki. . . . check again!' Sukhoi grinned sadly. 'No one needs us. We ourselves will soon not be in any condition to handle the onslaught. We can't blow up the tunnel and cut them off. We also don't have the means to go to the surface and burn them down, for obvious reasons . . . Checkmate. Checkmate to you, Hunter! And checkmate to me. Checkmate to all of us in the near future, if you see what I mean.' Sukhoi grinned sourly.

'We'll see,' Hunter snapped back. 'We'll see.'

They sat there a little longer, discussing all kinds of things. Many of the names mentioned weren't familiar to Artyom. There were references to bits and pieces of stories. Every once in a while an old argument would spark up, of which Artyom understood little, but their discussions had clearly been going on for years, abating if the men hadn't seen each other in a while and flaring up again when they met.

Finally, Hunter stood up and said it was time he went to bed because he, unlike Artyom, hadn't slept since his patrol. He said goodbye to Sukhoi. But before leaving he suddenly turned to Artyom and whispered to him: 'Come out for a minute.'

Artyom jumped up straightaway and followed him, not paying attention to the surprised look on his stepfather's face. Hunter waited for him outside, silently b.u.t.toning up his raincoat and lifting the latch on the gate.

'Shall we go through?' he suggested and he quickly stepped forward onto the platform towards the guest tent where he was staying. Artyom hesitantly moved to follow him, trying to guess what this man wanted to discuss with him, a mere boy really, who had done nothing significant or even useful for anyone so far.

'What do you think about the job that I do?' Hunter asked.

'It's cool . . . I mean if it wasn't for you . . . Well, and the others like you - if there are such people . . . Then we would have long ago . . .' Artyom mumbled uncomfortably.

His tongue was twisted and he felt hot suddenly. As soon as someone like Hunter paid him attention and wanted to tell him something, even just asking him to come outside for a minute, to be alone, without his stepfather, he blushed like a virgin and started agonizing, bleating like a lamb . . .

'You think highly of it? Well, then, if people think highly of it,' Hunter grinned, 'that means there's no point in listening to the defeatists among us. Your stepfather is being a coward, that's all. But he's really a brave man. In any case, he was once. Something horrific is happening here Artyom. Something that can't be allowed to continue. Your stepfather's right: these aren't just the goblins we've seen at dozens of other stations, these aren't vandals, they're not just degenerates. This is something new. Something meaner. There's a chill in the air. There's death in the air. I've only been here two days and I am already being penetrated by the fear here. And the more you know about them, the more you study them, the more you see them, the stronger the fear, as far as I understand. You, for example, have you seen them often?'

'Only once so far. I've only just started on the northern patrol, though,' Artyom confessed. 'But if I'm honest, once was enough. I've been tortured by nightmares ever since. Like today for example. And it was a while ago that I saw them!'

'Nightmares you say? You too?' Hunter frowned. 'Yes, it doesn't look like a coincidence. . . . And if I live here a bit longer, another couple of months, and go on patrols regularly, then it's not out of the question that I'll turn sour too . . . No, my lad. Your stepfather is mistaken. It isn't him speaking. It's not his thinking. It's them thinking for him, and it's them speaking for him. Give up, they say, resistance is futile. And he's their mouthpiece. And he probably doesn't even know it himself . . . And it's right, I guess, that they tune in and impress themselves on the psyche. Fiends! Tell me, Artyom,' Hunter turned to him straight on, and the boy understood: he was about to tell him something really important. 'Do you have a secret? Something that you wouldn't tell anyone on the station, but that you could tell a pa.s.ser-by perhaps?'

'Well . . .' Artyom hesitated and for a perceptive person that would have been enough in order to understand that such a secret existed.

'And I have a secret too. Why don't we swap. I need to share this secret with someone but I want to be sure that they won't blab. That's why you give me yours - and don't let it be any c.r.a.p about a girl, but something serious, something that no one else should ever hear. And I'll tell you something. This is important to me. Very important - you understand?'

Artyom wavered. Curiosity, of course, had got him, but he was frightened of telling his secret to a man who was not only interesting to talk to and who had seen many adventures but, by the looks of things, was also a cold-blooded murderer, who wouldn't hesitate in the slightest to remove any obstacle in his path. And what if Artyom happened to have been an accessory to the incursion of the dark ones . . .

Hunter looked into his eyes rea.s.suringly. 'You have nothing to be afraid of in me. I guarantee inviolability!' And he winked fraternally.

They had walked up to the guest tent that had been given to Hunter for the night but they remained outside. Artyom thought again for the last time and decided what to do. He took in some more air and then hurriedly, in one breath, laid out the whole story of the expedition to the Botanical Gardens. When he was finished, Hunter was silent for a time, digesting what he'd heard. Then, in a hoa.r.s.e voice, he said, 'Well, generally speaking, you and your friends should be killed for doing that, from a disciplinary point of view. However, I already guaranteed you inviolability. But that doesn't extend to your friends . . .'

Artyom's heart jumped, he felt his body freeze in fear and his legs falter. He wasn't able to speak and so he waited in silence for the verdict.

'But in light of your age and the general brainlessness of that event, and also the fact that it happened a while ago, you are pardoned. Go on.' And so that Artyom could be brought out of his prostration sooner, Hunter winked again at him, this time even more rea.s.suringly. 'But know that you'd be shown no mercy by your fellow inhabitants at this station. So you have voluntarily given over to me a powerful weapon against you yourself. And now listen to my secret . . .'

And while Artyom was regretting his big mouth, Hunter continued: 'I haven't come across the whole metro system to this station for no reason. I'm not giving up on my own task. Danger should be eliminated, as you have probably heard many times today. Should and will be eliminated. I do that. Your stepfather is afraid of it. He is slowly turning into their instrument, as far as I can see. He is resisting them more and more reluctantly and he's trying to get me to join him. If the ground water thing is true then the option of exploding the tunnel is, of course, obsolete. But your story has clarified something for me. If the dark ones first made their way here after your expedition, then they're coming from the Botanical Gardens. Something has been growing there that isn't right, in that Botanical Garden, if that's where they were born . . . And that means that you can block them there, closer to the surface. Without the threat of unleashing the ground waters. But the devil knows what's happening at the seven-hundredth metre of the northern tunnel. That's where your powers end. That's where the powers of darkness begin - the most widespread form of government in the whole Moscow metro system. I'm going there. No one should know this. Tell Sukhoi that I asked you lots of questions about conditions at the station, and that will be the truth. You don't have to explain anything, right - if everything goes smoothly, I'll explain everything to whoever needs to know. But it might be that . . .' He stopped short for a second, and looked at Artyom more closely. 'That I don't come back. Whether there's an explosion or not, if I don't come back before the following morning, someone should say what's happened to me, and tell my colleagues about the fiends that are making trouble in your northern tunnels. I have seen all my former acquaintances here at this station today, including your stepfather. And I feel, I almost see, that there's a little worm of doubt and horror crawling through the brains of everyone who has been exposed to their influence. I can't rely on people with worm-eaten brains. I need a healthy person, whose ability to reason has not yet been stormed by these ghouls. I need you.'

'Me? But how can I help you?' Artyom was surprised.

'Listen to me. If I don't come back, then you have to, at any cost - at any cost you hear! - you have to go to Polis. To Gorod . . . And look there for a man with the nickname Melnik. Tell him the whole story. And one other thing. I will give you something, which you will give to him as proof that I sent you. Come inside for a minute.'

Hunter took the lock off the entrance, lifted the flap of the tent and ushered Artyom inside.

There wasn't much room in the tent due to the huge camouflage rucksack and the impressively large trunk which were standing on the floor. By the light of the lantern, Artyom saw a dark shimmering gun-barrel in the depths of the bag, which, by the looks of it, was a rea.s.sembled army hand machine gun. Before Hunter could manage to close the bag so he wouldn't see, Artyom caught a glimpse of a matte black metal box containing machine-gun magazines, laid in a dense row next to the weapon, and small green anti-personnel grenades on the other side of it.

Without any commentary on this a.r.s.enal, Hunter opened the side-pocket of his rucksack and withdrew a small metal capsule from it, made of a machine-gun cartridge case. The side where there should have been a bullet was screwed up into a little twist.

'Here, take this. Don't wait for me if I've been gone two days. And don't be afraid. You will meet people everywhere who will help you. You have to do this! You know that everything depends on you. I don't have to explain that to you - right? That's it. Wish me success and get out of here. I need to catch up on some sleep.'

Artyom managed to utter a word of goodbye, shook Hunter's hand and started wandering over to his tent, stooping under the weight of the mission on his shoulders.

CHAPTER 3.

If I Don't Come Back

Artyom was sure he would be cross-examined as soon as he got home. His stepfather would shake him down, trying to find out what he spoke about with Hunter. But, contrary to his expectations, his stepfather wasn't awaiting him with a rack and Spanish boots but was snoring peacefully - he hadn't had a chance to sleep in the last twenty-four hours.

Since he'd been on night patrol and slept that day, Artyom was again going to have to work the night shift - this time at the tea-factory.

Decades of life underground, in the darkness interspersed with patches of dull-red light, makes you lose a true sense of day and night. At night, the station's lighting was a little weaker (as it was on the trains of long ago so that people could sleep) but the lights never went out completely except in the case of an accident. Though it had become aggravated by years of living in darkness, human vision was nonetheless comparable with the eyesight of the other creatures that lived in the tunnels and abandoned pa.s.sages.

The division of 'day' and 'night' had probably come about by force of habit, rather than by necessity. 'Night' made sense because the majority of inhabitants at the station were more comfortable with the idea of everyone sleeping at the same time, letting the cattle rest, turning down the lights and imposing restrictions on noise. The inhabitants of the station could find out the time by the two station clocks, placed over the entrance to the tunnels on either side. These clocks were considered to be as important as strategic objects like the arms store, the water filters and the electric generator. They were always looked after, and the smallest problems with them were immediately dealt with, and any delinquents attempting to take them down were dealt with very strictly, sometimes sent into exile from the station.