'The Worm will cry there and so on? Well, how can I put it? It is for them in the future. For you, of course, you will miss this moment, and even me, too, but now the basis of a future civilization is being laid down: of a culture which will live with nature in the world. Cannibalism is a necessary evil for them. There is nothing without animal protein, you see. But the legends will remain, and when the direct need to kill and stuff your face with those like you fades away, they will stop doing it. Only then will the Great Worm remember. It is unfortunate only to be living in this dandy time . . .' The old man again began to laugh unpleasantly.

'You know, I've already seen so many things in the metro,' Artyom said. 'At one station they believe that if you dig deeply enough, you can dig all the way to h.e.l.l. At another, that we already are living on the threshold of paradise, because the final battle of good and evil is over and those who survived were chosen for entry into the Heavenly Kingdom. After that, the story about your Worm doesn't sound all that convincing somehow. Do you at least believe in it yourself?'

'What's the difference what I or the other priests believe in?' The old man grinned. 'You won't be alive much longer, just a few hours, so I'll just tell you something. One cannot be so frank with someone as with he who will carry all his revelations to the grave. So, what I myself believe in is not important. The main thing is that the people believe. It is difficult to come to believe in a G.o.d whom I have created myself.' The priest stopped for a short while, thinking, and then continued. 'How could I explain it to you? When I was a student, I studied philosophy and psychology at the university, although I doubt that's anything to you. And I had a professor: an instructor of cognitive psychology, a most knowledgeable man, who laid out the intellectual process systematically - he was a real pleasure to listen to. And then I put to him a question as all others do at that age: Does G.o.d exist? I had read various books, had conversations, as is customary, and I was inclined to the view that most likely He did not. And somehow I decided that this professor in particular, a great expert on the human soul, could answer for me precisely this question that so pained me. I went to see him in his office, on the pretext of discussing a paper, and then I asked, "In your opinion, Ivan Mikhalych, does G.o.d actually exist?" Then he really surprised me. For me, he said, this question isn't worth asking. I myself was from a family of believers, used to the idea that He exists. From the psychological point of view, I did not try to a.n.a.lyze the truth because I did not want to. And generally, he said, for me it was not so much a question of knowledge based on principle, as everyday behaviour. My faith was not that I was sincerely convinced of the existence of a higher power, but that I was fulfilling the prescribed commandments, praying at night and going to church. I would be better for it, more at peace. And that's it.' The old man went silent.

'And what?' Artyom couldn't contain himself.

'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 G.o.d and teach his word. And believe me, the Great Worm is no worse than other G.o.ds 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 n.o.body!'

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, ma.s.sive t.i.tanium helmets with face guards, like the Hansa Spetsnaz, and large t.i.tanium 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 gla.s.sy 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!'

'd.a.m.n, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 p.r.o.nounced.

'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 pa.s.sage, 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 ba.s.s.

'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 pa.s.sage, 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.

'Take his shield, helmet and machine gun! Quickly,' he ordered Artyom. 'Let's go, let's go!' he screamed to the rest.

The t.i.tanium helmet was soiled with the awful foam, and he would have to take it from the dead man's head. Artyom was unable to force himself to do it. Limiting himself to the machine gun and shield, he took his place at the rear of the formation, covered himself with the shield, and moved behind the others. Now they were nearly running. Then someone threw a smoke bomb far ahead and, availing themselves of the confusion, the party began to climb down to the tracks. Another fighter cried out in surprise and fell to the ground. Now only three were able to carry the stretcher with the wounded Anton. Artyom was reluctant to show himself from behind the shield and fired back several times without looking. Then things grew strangely quiet: the needles were no longer flying at them, although, judging by the rustle of the steps and voices all around, the pursuit had not ceased. Summoning his courage, Artyom looked out from behind his shield. The party was ten metres from the entrance to the tunnel. The first fighters had already stepped inside. Two, turning, swept the approaches with their lights and covered the rest. But there was no need for it: the savages, it seemed, did not intend to follow them into the tunnels. Crowding around in a semi-circle, lowering their pipes and shading their eyes with their hands from the blinding light of the flashlights, they awaited something in silence.

'Enemies of the Great Worm, listen!' The bearded leader appeared from the crowd. 'The enemies are going into the holy pa.s.sages of the Great Worm. Good people do not go after them. It is forbidden to go there today. Great danger. Death, and d.a.m.nation. Let the enemies give back the old priest and leave.'

'Don't let him go, don't listen to them,' Melnik commanded slowly. 'Let's go.'

They continued moving cautiously. Artyom and several other fighters were moving backwards and not taking their eyes off the station they were leaving behind. At first no one actually came after them. A voice was heard from the station: someone was arguing, at first not loudly, but then beginning to scream.

'Dron cannot! Dron must go! For the teacher!'

'Forbidden to go! Halt! Halt!' A dark figure dashed from the darkness into the beams of the flashlights with such speed that it was impossible to hit it. Immediately behind it others too appeared in the distance. Not able to target the first savage, one of the fighters tossed something forward.

'Get down! Grenade!' Artyom flung himself onto the ties with his face down, covering his head with his hands, and opened his mouth as his stepfather had taught him. The incredible sound and deafening force of the shock wave hit his ears and pressed him to the ground. He lay there for several minutes, opening and closing his eyes, trying to come to his senses. His head pounded, coloured spots circled before his eyes. Clumsy, endlessly repeated words were the first sound he heard after coming to his senses. 'No, no, don't shoot, don't shoot, don't shoot, Dron doesn't have a weapon, don't shoot!' He turned his head and looked around. In the intersection of the beams, with hands lifted high, the savage who had been guarding them while they were imprisoned in the monkey cage stood. Two fighters kept him in their sights, awaiting orders, and the rest got up from the ground and shook themselves. A heavy dust from the rock hung in the air while a pungent smoke crept from the side of the station.

'What? Did it collapse?' asked someone.

'From one grenade . . . The whole metro holds on by a hair . . .'

'Well, they won't try to get in here any more. Until they get rid of the blockage . . .'

'That should tie them up. Let's go, there's no time, we don't know when they'll come to their senses,' the approaching Melnik ordered.

They halted only an hour later. During this time, the tunnel split in two directions, and the stalker, who was walking ahead, chose which way to go. Huge, cast-iron loops were seen in one place. Most likely at some time they had strong shutters hanging from them. Next to them was scattered the debris of a pressurized gate. Except for that, nothing of interest was found: the tunnel was completely empty, pitch-black and lifeless.

They walked slowly. The old man stumbled at every step, and several times he fell to the ground. Dron walked unwillingly and mumbled to himself about a prohibition and d.a.m.nation, until they stuffed a gag into his mouth. When the stalker finally allowed them to stop and he had dispatched sentries with night vision instruments fifty metres on both sides, the exhausted priest collapsed to the floor. The savage continued pleading inarticulately through the gag, until the escorts brought him closer to the old man and he dropped to his knees in front of him and stroked the old man's head with his bound hands. The young Oleg rushed to the stretcher on which his father lay and began to cry. Anton's paralysis had pa.s.sed, but he was unconscious, just as after the first needle had struck him. The stalker, meanwhile, beckoned Artyom to his side. Artyom was no longer able to contain his curiosity.

'How did you find us? I was already thinking, you know, they were going to eat us,' he admitted to Melnik.

'You think it was difficult? You left the handcar right under the hatch. The lookouts noticed it when Anton didn't show up for tea. They just didn't try to poke around in there themselves. They placed a guard and reported it to the chief. You actually didn't wait for me even for a little while. Then I left for Smolenskaya again, to the base, for corroboration. We a.s.sembled at the alarm, but we needed time. While we got equipped, I began to remember what's what at Mayakovskaya. It was a similar situation: there was a crumbling side tunnel there as well where Tretyak and I had separated. We had been looking for the entrance to D-6 on the map. We were about fifty metres apart. He, most likely, had got closer to it. I'd been gone for only three minutes. I shouted to him, but he didn't respond. I ran to him. He was lying there all blue, swollen, his lips cracked by this c.r.a.p. I grabbed him by the legs and dragged him to the station. While I was dragging him, I recalled Semyonych and his story about the poisoned watchman. I shined my light at Tretyak and there was a needle in his leg. Then everything began to fall into place. I sent the messenger to you as soon as possible so that you would remain at the station, arrange your affairs, and return. But I was unsuccessful.'

'Are they really at Mayakivskaya, too?' Artyom was surprised. 'But just how did they get there from Park Pobedy?'

'This is how they get there.' The stalker removed his heavy helmet and placed it onto the floor. 'You will, of course, forgive me, but we didn't just come for you, but for intelligence as well. I think there must be one more exit to Metro-2 from here. These cannibals of yours also made it through to Mayakovskaya. There, by the way, it's the same story as here: children disappear from the station at night. And only the devil knows where they get to, and we see neither hide nor hair of them.'

'That is . . . you want to say . . .' The thought itself had seemed so unbelievable to Artyom that he didn't dare utter it aloud. 'In your opinion, is the entrance to Metro-2 somewhere around here?' Was the gate to D-6, that mysterious metro phantom, really located in the immediate vicinity? Rumours, stories, legends and theories of Metro-2 that he had heard throughout his life swirled in Artyom's head.

'Let me tell you something else,' the stalker winked at him. 'I think we're already in it. It has just been impossible to verify it.'

Requesting a flashlight from one of the fighters, Artyom began to study the tunnel's walls. He caught the surprised looks of the others, knowing that must look really stupid, but he couldn't help himself. And he only partly understood what had he expected to see on reaching Metro-2. Golden rails? People living as they once had, not knowing about the horrors of present-day existence, in fairy-tale abundance? G.o.ds? He pa.s.sed from one lookout to the other, but, as he didn't find anything, turned towards Melnik. He was speaking with the fighter who was guarding the savages.

'What about the hostages? Finish them off?' the escort asked casually.

'First we'll have a little talk,' the stalker answered. Bending down, he pulled the gag from the old man's mouth. Then he did the same with the second prisoner.

'Teacher! Teacher! Dron is coming with you. I am coming with you, Teacher!' the savage immediately began to lament, swaying from side to side above the groaning priest. 'Dron is violating the prohibition of the holy pa.s.sages, Dron is ready to die at the hand of the enemies of the Great Worm, but Dron is coming with you, to the end!'

'What else is there? What's this about a worm? What about the holy pa.s.sages?' Melnik asked.

The old man was silent.

Looking at the escorts in fright, Dron hurriedly said, 'The holy pa.s.sages of the Great Worm are forbidden for good people. The Great Worm may appear there. Man can see. It is forbidden to look! Only the priests can. Dron is afraid, but is coming. Dron is coming with the teacher.'

'What worm?' The stalker wrinkled his nose.

'The Great Worm . . . The creator of life,' explained Dron. 'The holy pa.s.sages are further. One cannot go every day. There are forbidden days. Today is a forbidden day. If you see the Great Worm, you will turn to ashes. If you hear him, you will be cursed, you will die quickly. Everyone knows. The elders say so.'

'What? Are all the morons like this there?' The stalker looked at Artyom.