Dmitry Glukhovsky - Metro 2033

Kirill went silent, thinking through the argument. Pyotr Andreevich filled up the kettle with water from the canister, and asked: ‘Anyone want more tea? Let’s have a final cup, soon it’ll be time for us to be relieved.’

‘Tea – now you’re talking! Let’s have some,’ Andrey said. The others became animated at the idea as well.

The kettle came to a boil. Pyotr Andreevich poured another cup for those who wanted it, and made a request:

‘You guys… There’s no point in talking about the dark ones. The last time we were sitting like this and talking about them, they crawled up. Other guys have told me that the very same thing happened to them. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, I’m not superstitious – but what if it’s not? What if they can sense it? Our shift’s almost over already, what do we need these shenanigans for at the last minute?’

‘Yeah, actually… It’s probably not worth it,’ seconded Artyom.

‘OK, that’s enough, man, don’t chicken out on us! We’ll get there in the end!’ said Andrey, trying to cheer up Artyom but not really succeeding in convincing him.

The mere thought of the dark ones sent an unpleasant shiver through everyone, including Andrey, although he tried to hide it. He didn’t fear humans of any kind: not bandits, not cutthroat anarchists, not soldiers of the Red Army. But the undead disgusted him, and it wasn’t that he was afraid of them, but that he couldn’t stay calm when he thought about them or indeed any other danger.

Everyone fell quiet. A heavy, oppressive silence came over the men grouped around the fire. The knobbly logs in the fire were crackling, and to the north, a muted, deep-chested croaking sound in the tunnel could be heard from time to time in the distance, as if the Moscow metro were the giant intestine of some unknown monster. And these sounds were really terrifying.

Once again, all sorts of nonsense started filling Artyom’s head. The dark ones… He’d come across those damn non-humans only once during his watch, and he’d been scared silly – but how could he not have been…

So, you’re sitting there on watch. You’re warming yourself by the fire. And suddenly you hear it: from the tunnel, from somewhere in the depths, a regular, dull knocking rings out – first, in the distance, quietly, and then, ever closer, and ever louder… And suddenly your ears are struck by a horrible, graveyard howl, and it’s coming closer… And then complete mayhem! Everyone jumps up; they heap the sandbags and crates on which they’d been sitting into a barrier – quickly so that there’d be something to hide behind. And the most senior among them shouts with all his might, at the top of his lungs, ‘Alert!’

Reserves rush in from the station to give support; at the three-hundredth metre where the main blow will have to be absorbed, they pull the cover from the machine gun, and people throw themselves to the ground, behind the sandbags, directing their guns at the mouth of the tunnel, taking aim… Finally, having waited for the dark ones to draw closer, they turn on the spotlight, and strange, delirious silhouettes become visible in its beam. They’re naked, covered in black, glossy skin, with huge eyes and mouths like gashes… They’re striding rhythmically ahead, towards the fortifications, towards death, with reckless abandon, without wavering, closer and closer… There are three… Five… Eight beasts… And the first among them suddenly throws back its head and emits a howl like a requiem.

You feel a shiver along your skin; you resist the urge to jump up and run, to toss your gun aside, to abandon your comrades, to throw everything to the devil and run… The spotlight is aimed straight into the muzzles of these nightmarish creatures to strike their pupils with its bright light, but it’s obvious that they’re not even squinting, they’re not throwing up their hands, but they are looking into the spotlight with eyes wide open, and continuing to move steadily onward, onward… Do they even have pupils?

And now, finally, the guys run up from the three-hundredth metre with more machine guns; they lie down alongside, commands fly overhead… Everything’s ready… The long-awaited ‘Fire!’ thunders. At once, several guns begin to rattle, and the big machine gun rumbles. But the dark ones don’t stop, they don’t crouch; they stride ahead fully erect, without slowing their pace, just as steadily and calmly as before. In the light of the spotlight, you can see how the bullets tear at their glossy bodies, how they’re being pushed backwards, how they fall; but they get right back up again, rise to their full height, and march on. And again, hoarsely now, because its throat has already been pierced, a sinister howl rings out. Several minutes more will pass as the steel tempest finally breaks this inhuman, unthinking obstinacy. And then, when all of these ghouls have tumbled, breathless and motionless, the guys will finish them off with shots to the head from five metres, just to be sure. And even when everything’s over, when the corpses have been tossed into the shaft, that same sinister image will continue to hover before your eyes, for a long time to come – bullets plunging into those black bodies, the spotlight scalding those wide-open eyes – but they kept on marching, as steadily as ever, onwards…

Artyom convulsed at the thought. Yes, of course, it’d be better not to chat about them, he thought. Just in case.

‘Hey, Andreich! Get ready! We’re on our way!’ they shouted from the south, from the darkness. ‘Your shift’s over!’

The men at the fire began to move about, throwing off their stupor, rising to their feet, stretching, putting on their backpacks and weapons and Andrey picked up the little puppy. Pyotr Andreevich and Artyom were returning to the station while Andrey and his men were returning to the three hundredth metre since their shift there hadn’t quite ended.

Their replacements walked up and exchanged handshakes, ascertained whether or not anything strange or peculiar had happened, wished each other the relaxation they deserved, and sat down a bit closer to the fire, continuing a conversation they’d begun earlier.

When everyone was already headed south along the tunnel, towards the station, Pyotr Andreevich began speaking heatedly with Andrey about something, apparently returning to one of their eternal disputes; and the husky guy with the shaved head, who had questioned them concerning the dark ones’ eating habits, fell away from them, drawing even with Artyom, and beginning to walk in step with him.

‘So then, you know Sukhoi?’ he asked Artyom in a low, muffled voice, without looking him in the eye.

‘Uncle Sasha! Well, yes! He’s my stepfather. I live with him,’ answered Artyom honestly.

‘You don’t say… Your stepfather? I’ve never heard of such…’ muttered the man.

‘And what’s your name?’ Artyom decided to ask, having reasoned that if someone questions you about your own relative, then that gives you the right to ask a question in return.

‘My name?’ asked the man, surprised. ‘Why do you need to know?’

‘Well, I’ll tell Uncle Sasha, Sukhoi, that you were asking after him.’

‘Tell him that Hunter was asking. Hunter. Tell him I said hello.’

‘Hunter? That’s an odd name. What is it, your last name? Your nickname?’ Artyom asked.

‘Last name? Hmm…’ Hunter smirked. ‘What of it? It’s totally… No, son, it’s not a last name. It’s… how should I put it… A profession. And what’s your name?’

‘Artyom.’

‘Fine then. Nice to meet you. I’m sure we’ll see each other again. And fairly soon at that. Cheers!’

Giving Artyom a wink before parting, he remained behind at the three-hundredth metre, along with Andrey.