‘What? Is it getting worse?’ the stalker asked gravely.

‘What do we know? We are just ordinary folks. We pass it sometimes. Stay there, you’ll understand,’ the bearded one mumbled vaguely.

‘People disappear,’ the thickset peddler stated under his breath. ‘Many are frightened, so they run. One can never make out who has disappeared or who ran away on their own, and it’s even more awful for the rest.’

‘All these tunnels are damned,’ said the lanky one, and he spat at the ground.

‘But the tunnels are blocked.’ Melnik was stating a fact.

‘They’ve been blocked for a hundred years, but what about since then? Well, if you’re a stranger, then it’s better you should understand us! Everyone knows there that there is a fear of the tunnels, even though they have been blown up and blocked three times. And anyone can feel it in their skin as soon as they show up here, even Sergeich over there.’ The lanky one pointed at his bearded companion.

‘Exactly,’ the shaggy Sergeich confirmed and he crossed himself for some reason or other.

‘But they’re guarding the tunnels, aren’t they?’ Melnik asked.

‘The patrols are here every day,’ the bearded one nodded.

‘And have they ever caught anyone? Or seen someone?’ the stalker prodded.

‘How would we know?’ the peddler gestured helplessly. ‘I haven’t heard. But they try to catch someone.’

‘And what do the locals say about it?’ Melnik wasn’t backing off.

The lanky one said nothing, he only gestured sombrely but Sergeich glanced back and said in a loud whisper:

‘It’s the city of the dead,’ and thereupon he crossed himself again.

Artyom wanted to burst out laughing: he had already heard too many stories, fables, legends and theories about just where in the dead are found in the metro. And of souls in the pipes along the tunnel walls and the gates to hell, which they are digging at one of the stations… now there’s a city of the dead at Park Pobedy. But the ghostly draught had caused him to suppress his laughter, and, despite the warm clothing, it had chilled him. Worst of all was the fact that Melnik fell silent and ceased all inquiries. Artyom hoped that his companion was just scornfully waving aside such an absurd idea.

They passed the rest of the way in silence, each of them immersed in his own thoughts. The way proved to be completely quiet, empty, dry and clear but, despite everything, the heavy sensation that something bad awaited them intensified with every step.

As soon as they stepped into the station, this feeling rushed over them, like subterranean waters, just as uncontrollable and just as turbid and chilling.

Fear ruled completely here, and this was apparent at first glance. Was this that ‘sunny Kievskaya,’ about which the man from the Caucasus who was staying with him in a cell in fascist captivity had spoken? Or did he have in mind a station with the same name located at Filevskaya branch?

You couldn’t say say that the station was neglected and that all its inhabitants had fled. It turned out there were many people here, but Kievskaya gave the impression that it did not belong to its residents. They all were trying to stay close together. Tents were stuck to the walls and to each other in the centre of the hall. The distance between them required by the fire safety regulations was not observed anywhere: clearly, these people were frightened of something more dangerous than fire. Those passing by, immediately and wearily looked away when Artyom looked them in the eyes, and, avoiding the strangers, tore from their path, as beetles scurrying along cracks.

The platform, squeezed between two rows of low, round arches, went downward at one side with several of the escalators and, at the other, was raised at the short staircase where the side passage to the other station had been opened. Coals smouldered in several places, and there was a tantalizing aroma of roast meat. Somewhere a child was crying. Though Kievskaya was located on the edge of the city of the dead that the frightened peddlers had spoken of, it was fully alive.

Quickly saying goodbye, the peddlers disappeared into the passage to the other line. Melnik, prudently having looked along the sides, resolutely began to walk to the side of one of the passages. It was immediately apparent he had been here regularly. Artyom was unable to fathom why the stalker had questioned the peddlers in such detail about the station.

Had he been hoping that a hint of the true state of affairs be revealed accidentally? Was he trying to flush out possible spies?

They stopped after a second at an entrance to some office facilities. The door here had been knocked off, but a guard stood on the outside. The authorities, Artyom guessed.

A smoothly shaven elderly man with well combed hair came out to meet the stalker. He wore the old, blue uniform of a subway worker, aged and faded by washing, but surprisingly clean. It was clear how he managed to look after himself at this station. The man saluted Melnik, for some reason placing only two fingers to his forehead, and not sincerely, as the patrols had done in the tunnel, but ludicrously. He squinted derisively.

‘Good day,’ he said in a pleasant deep voice.

‘Good day, sir,’ the stalker replied and he smiled.

In ten minutes they were seated in a warm room and drinking the best of mushroom tea. This time they didn’t leave Artyom out as he had expected, but they allowed him to take part in a discussion of serious matters. Unfortunately, he didn’t understand anything of the conversation between the stalker and the station chief, who Melnik called Arkadiy Semyonovich. At first Melnik asked about a certain Tretyak, then he set about inquiring whether there were any changes in the tunnels. The chief reported that Tretyak had left on personal business, but was supposed to return quite soon, and he proposed they wait for him. Then they both got deeper into the details of some kind of agreements, in such a way that Artyom soon completely lost the thread of the conversation. He just sat there, sipped the hot tea, the mushroom smell of which reminded him of his home station, and looked around. Kievskaya clearly had known better times: the walls of the room were hung with moth-eaten carpets with the design preserved. In several places, immediately above the carpets, were fastened pencil sketches of tunnel junctions in wide gilded frames, and the table at which they sat looked like an antique, and Artyom couldn’t imagine how many stalkers had been needed to drag it down from someone’s empty apartment and how much the station proprietor had agreed to pay for it. On one of the walls hung a sabre that had grown dark with age, and alongside was a pistol of a prehistoric type, clearly unsuitable for firing. At the far end of the room, on a wardrobe, lay a huge white skull that had belonged to an unknown being.

‘There is absolutely nothing in these tunnels.’ Arkadiy Semyonovich shook his head. ‘We keep watch so the people remain calm. You have been there yourself and you know well that both lines have been blocked about three hundred metres from the station. There is no chance that anyone could show up. It’s superstition.’

‘But people are disappearing?’ Melnik frowned.

‘They are disappearing,’ the chief agreed, ‘but it’s unknown to where. I think they run off. We don’t have any cordons at the passages, and there,’ he waved his hand towards the stairs, ‘is a whole city. They can go where they like. Both to the Ring and to Filevskaya. Hansa, they say, is letting people out of our station now.’

‘But what are they afraid of?’ asked the stalker.

‘Of what? Of the fact that people are disappearing. You go around in circles.’ Arkadiy Semyonovich gestured helplessly.

‘It’s strange,’ Melnik said suspiciously. ‘You know, while we are waiting for Tretyak, let’s go down to the guard again. Just to get acquainted. Or they will worry the Smolenskie.’