‘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 pronounced.

‘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 passage, 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 bass.

‘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 passage, 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 titanium 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 passages of the Great Worm. Good people do not go after them. It is forbidden to go there today. Great danger. Death, and damnation. 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.