This figure was twice as large as the earlier one and it looked as if it was supposed to convince travellers they were going in the right direction. However, Artyom was not entirely happy about it.

The tunnel seemed endless. They walked and walked forever, and more than than two hours already had passed by Artyom’s calculations.

The third painted giant snake was more than ten metres long, and they heard something there. Anton froze, turning his ear towards the tunnel, and Artyom listened too. Strange sounds were coming from the depths of the crossings in fits and starts; at first he couldn’t make them out, but later he understood: a chant similar to the one the pipes had played to the music box at Kievskaya was being accompanied by the pounding of drums.

‘Not far now,’ Anton nodded.

Time, which had already been slipping by slowly, nearly stood still. Looking at his partner, Artyom realized with startling clarity that he was nodding too dramatically, as if his head were twitching in convulsions. When Anton began to glide down onto his side, looking comically like a toy animal stuffed with rags, Artyom thought that he might catch him, because there was plenty of time for it. Then a light prick in his shoulder stopped him from doing so. Taking a puzzled look at where it smarted, Artyom discovered a feathered steel needle stuck in his jacket. Nothing came of his intention to pull it out. His whole body was petrified, and then suddenly it was as if it had disappeared. His feeble legs gave way to the forces of gravity and Artyom ended up on the ground. At the same time, he remained almost totally conscious but it became increasingly difficult to breathe. He was unable to move his extremities. He heard footsteps near him, swift and weightless. The approaching being could not be human. Artyom had learned to recognize human footsteps long ago, on the patrols at VDNKh. A sudden, unpleasant smell reached his nose.

‘One, two. Strangers, laid out,’ someone overhead said.

‘I’m a good shot, it was far away.’

‘The neck, shoulder,’ another responded.

The voices were strange: devoid of any intonation, flat, they reminded one mostly of the monotone drone of the wind in the tunnels. However, they were definitely human voices.

‘To eat, well-aimed. That’s what the Great Worm wants,’ the first voice had continued.

‘To eat. One – you, two – me, we carry the strangers home,’ the second added.

The picture before him gave Artyom a start: they tore him from the ground jarringly. For a fraction of a moment a face flashed in front of his eyes: narrow, with dark, deep-set eyes. Then they put out the flashlights and it became pitch black. And only with the flood of blood to his head did Artyom understand that they were dragging him somewhere roughly, like a sack. The strange conversation continued for a time, although the phrases were intermixed now with an intense groaning.

‘A paralysing needle, not poison. Why?’

‘That’s what the commander ordered. That’s what the priest ordered. The Great Worm wanted it that way. It’s OK to save the meat.’

‘You’re smart. You and the priest are friends. The priest is teaching you.’

‘To eat.’

‘One, two, the enemies are coming. There’s a smell of gunpowder in the air, fire. A bad enemy. How do they get here?’

‘I don’t know. The commander and Vartan are doing the interrogation. You and I are the hunters. It is good that the Great Worm is happy. You and I will get a reward.’

‘A lot to eat? Boots? A jacket?’

‘A lot to eat. No jacket. No boots.’

‘I’m young. I hunt the enemies. It is good. There’s a lot? A ReWard… I’m happy.’

‘This day is OK. Vartan brings a new young one. You, I, we hunt the enemies. The Great Worm is happy, the people sing. A holiday.’

‘A holiday! I’m happy. Dances? Vodka? I dance with Natasha.’

‘Natasha and the commander, they dance. Not you.’

‘I am young, strong, the commander is very old. Natasha is young. I hunt enemies, brave, it is good. Natasha and I, we dance.’

Not too far away new voices could be heard and an argument had broken out. Artyom guessed that they had brought them to the station. Here it was almost as dark as in the tunnels, only one small campfire was burning in the whole place. They threw them nonchalantly onto the floor next to it. Someone’s steel fingers gripped him by the beard and turned him face up. Several people of an unimaginably strange appearance were standing around. They were almost stark naked, and their heads were shaved bare, but it seemed they were not at all cold. On the forehead of each could be seen a wavy line, similar to the pictures at the crossing. Their small stature caused them to appear unhealthy: sunken cheeks, pale skin, but they radiated some kind of superhuman strength. Artyom recalled with what difficulty Melnik had borne the wounded Ten from the Library, and he compared this with how quickly these strange creations had brought them to the station. A long, arrow was in nearly each one’s hand. Artyom recognized with surprise that they were made from the plastic sheathings that are used for spacing and insulating bundles of electrical wires. Huge steel bayonets hung on their belts, as from old Kalashnikov machine guns. All these strange people were approximately of the same age. There was no one here older than thirty. They scrutinized them in silence for some time, then the only one of the men wearing a beard and with a red line on his forehead said, ‘OK. I am happy. These are the enemies of he Great Worm, the people of the machines. Evil people, tender meat. The Great Worm is satisfied. Sharap, Vovan are brave. I will take the people of the machines to the prison and interrogate them. Holiday tomorrow, all good people will eat the enemies. Vovan! Which needle? The paralyser?’

‘Yes, the paralyser,’ a thickset man with a blue line on his forehead said.

‘A paralyser is good. The meat won’t be spoiled,’ the bearded one said.

‘Vovan, Sharap! Get the enemies and come with me to the prison.’

The light began to recede. New voices were calling nearby, someone inarticulately expressed his delight, someone wailed mournfully. Then singing could be heard, low, barely audible, and not good. It seemed as if the dead really were singing, and Artyom recalled the tales that made their way around Park Pobedy. Then they put him on the ground again, flung Anton alongside and before long he lost consciousness.

It was as if someone had shoved him, suggested that he had to get up right away. Stretching, he lit a lantern, covering it with his hand so as not to hurt the sensitive, half-asleep eyes, and inspected the tent (where was the machine gun?!) and he went to the station. He was so homesick, but now, when he again had turned up at VDNKh, he was not at all happy about it. The smoky ceiling, emptied tents filled with bullet holes and the heavy ash in the air… Here, it seemed, something awful had happened, and the station was strikingly different from how he remembered it. In the distance, most likely from the passage at the other end of the platform, wild howls were heard, as if they were slicing up someone there. Two emergency lamps sparsely lit the station, their weak beams penetrating the lazy tufts of smoke with difficulty. There was no one on the whole platform, except for a small girl playing on the floor next to one of the neighbouring tents. Artyom was on the verge of asking her what had happened here and where the rest had disappeared to, but, catching sight of him, the girl began to cry loudly, and he thought better of it.

The tunnels. The tunnels from VDNKh to the Botanical Garden. If the inhabitants of his station had gone anywhere, then it would be there. If they had run to the centre, to Hansa, they wouldn’t have left him and the child alone.

Jumping onto the track, Artyom moved toward the dark void of the entrance. It’s dangerous without weapons, he thought. But there was nothing to lose, and he had to reconnoitre the situation. Had the dark ones suddenly been able to penetrate the defences? Then any hope lay with him. He had to find out the truth and report it to the southern allies.