Metro 2033

‘Ulman, behind me,’ the stalker spat out, and he nimbly climbed up to the platform. The robust fighter who was walking next to him followed the commander. The soft sounds of their stealthy steps dissolved at once in the quiet of the station. The other members of the party, as if on command, took up defensive positions, keeping the tu

‘Will Papa die?’ He felt the boy pulling on his sleeve. Artyom lowered his eyes. Oleg was standing, staring at him pleadingly, and Artyom understood that the child was ready to cry. He shook his head in a calming ma

‘Is it because I told where Papa worked? Did they hurt him for that?’ Oleg asked. ‘Papa always told me never to talk to anyone,’ he sobbed. ‘He said that people don’t like missile men. Papa said that it wasn’t shameful and bad and that the missile men had been protecting the country. That others just envy them.’

Artyom glanced at the priest apprehensively, but the old man, fatigued by the journey, had sat down on the floor and was staring blankly into the emptiness, paying no attention to their conversation.

Melnik and Ulman returned several minutes later. The party crowded around the stalker, and he put the others in the picture:

‘The station is empty. But it has not been abandoned. In several places there are images of their worm. And something else… We found a diagram on the wall that was hand drawn. If one is to believe it, this branch leads to the Kremlin. The central station and transfer to the other lines is there. One of them goes off in the direction of Mayakovskaya. We have to move off in that direction. The track should be free. We won’t poke our noses into the side passages. Questions?’

The fighters glanced at each other, but no one said anything. Then the old man, who had been sitting indifferently on the ground until now, became upset at the word ‘Kremlin,’ and began shaking his head and mumbling something. Melnik bent down and tore the gag from his mouth.

‘You can’t go there! You can’t! I won’t go to the Kremlin! Leave me here!’ the priest began to babble.

‘What’s wrong?’ the stalker asked with displeasure.

‘We can’t go to the Kremlin! We can’t go there! I won’t go!’ the old man kept repeating like a wind-up toy, fidgeting.

‘Well, it’s fine that you won’t go there,’ the stalker answered him.

‘At least, your fellows won’t be there. The tu

People started whispering. Recalling the sinister glow on the Kremlin towers, Artyom understood why it wasn’t only the priest who was afraid to show himself there.

‘Everyone!’ Melnik said. ‘We are moving forward. There’s no time to waste. They have a taboo day today and there is no one in the tu

‘No! Don’t go there! You can’t! I won’t go!’ The old man, it seemed, had gone totally out his mind. When a fighter approached him, the priest slipped out of his hands with an imperceptible serpentine movement, then with feigned obedience froze at the sight of the machine gun muzzles aimed at him.

‘Well, get lost!’ His triumphant laughter turned into a choking wheeze after several seconds, a spasm twisted his body and he foamed profusely at the mouth. His face became a hideous mask, with his mouth sharply angled upwards. It was the most terrifying smile Artyom had seen in his whole life.

‘Ready,’ Melnik reported. He approached the old man who had fallen to the ground and, hooking him with the tip of his boot, turned him over. The stiffened body moved heavily and rolled over face downwards. At first Artyom thought that the stalker had done it so as not to see the dead man’s face, but then he understood the real reason. Melnik illuminated the tightly drawn wires around the old man’s wrists with his flashlight. The priest was squeezing the needle he had driven into his left forearm in his right fist. Artyom could not understand how he had contrived to do it, where he had hidden the poisoned dart and why he had not used it earlier. He turned away from the body and covered young Oleg’s eyes with the palm of his hand. The party had stopped dead still. Although the order to move had been issued, not one of the fighters had stirred. The stalker looked them over. One could imagine what was going on in the fighters’ heads: just what awaited them at the Kremlin if the prisoner preferred suicide to avoid going there? Not losing any time on opinions, Melnik stepped towards the stretcher with the groaning Anton, bent down and took one of the handles.

‘Ulman!’ he called. After a second of wobbling, the broad-shouldered scout took up position at the second handle of the stretcher. Submitting to an unexpected impulse, Artyom approached them and grabbed a rear handle. Someone else stood beside him. Saying not a word, the stalker straightened up and they moved forward. The others followed them, and the party once more assumed combat formation.

‘It’s not too far now,’ Melnik said quietly. ‘About two hundred metres. The main thing is to find the crossing to the other line. Then, on to Mayakovskaya. I don’t know what’s further ahead. There’s no Tretyak… We’ll think of something. Now we have one road. It’s impossible to turn off it.’

His words about the road woke something in Artyom and he again recalled his own trip. Having thought about it, he didn’t immediately recognize what Melnik was talking about but as soon as he heard the stalker’s reference to the dead Tretyak, he started and loudly whispered to him:

‘Anton… The wounded man… it seems he served in the RVA… So he’s a missile man! That means we still will be able to do it! Won’t we?’

Melnik looked over his shoulder at the watch commander on the stretcher.

He, it seemed, was really ill. The paralysis in Anton had passed long ago, but now delirium tormented him. His groans were replaced by unclear but furious commands, desperate entreaties, sobbing and muttering. And the closer they approached the Kremlin, the louder the wounded man’s cries became and the more intently he bucked on the stretcher. ‘I said! Don’t argue! They’re coming… Hit the ground! Cowards… But just how… just how are the others?! No one will be able there, no one!’

Anton argued with comrades only he could see. His forehead was covered with perspiration, and Oleg, ru

After another fifty metres, Melnik lifted his hand and the party again came to a halt. A crudely painted symbol was shown in white on the floor: the now customary twisting line thrust its thickened head at a fat, red mark that cut across the line lying ahead. Ulman gave a whistle.

‘The red light’s lit, it says there’s no road,’ someone laughed nervously from the rear.

‘It’s for the worms, it doesn’t concern us,’ the stalker cut him short. ‘Forward!’

However, now they were moving ahead more slowly. Melnik, having put on the night vision device, took up the position at the head of the party. But it was not only out of caution they had stopped hurrying. At the ‘Genshtab’ station, the tu