I need to find the gates, he thought. I need to find a way in…

‘Get up! You have to go soon.’ Daniel shook him.

Artyom yawned and rubbed his eyes. He had just dreamed something incredibly interesting, but the dream had faded instantly, and he could not recall what he had seen. All of the lights had already been lit in the station, and he could hear the cleaning women sweeping the platform while merrily bantering.

He put on his dark glasses and shuffled off to wash up, having tossed over his shoulder a not-very-clean towel his host had given him. The toilets were located at the same end as the bronze panel, and the line of people waiting to get in was not short. Having got in line, continuing to yawn, Artyom tried to recall at least some of the images from his dream.

The line stopped moving forward, for some reason, and the people in it started to murmur loudly. Attempting to understand what was the matter, Artyom looked around. All eyes were fixed on a bolted iron door. It was now open, and a tall man stood in the frame. Seeing him, Artyom, too, forgot why he was standing there.

It was a stalker.

He had imagined them to look exactly like this, both from his stepfather’s stories and the rumours gleaned from itinerant merchants. The stalker wore a stained protective suit, scorched in places, and a long, heavy body armour vest. His shoulders were broad; a light machine gun was casually slung over the right one, while a gleaming, oily belt of ammunition hung like a baldric from the left. He wore rough, laced boots with the pants legs tucked into the top, and there was a large canvas rucksack on his back.

The stalker took off his round special forces helmet, pulled off the rubber face piece of his gas mask, and stood there, flushed and wet, talking to the post commander about something. He was no longer young. Artyom saw grey stubble on his cheeks and chin, and silvery strands in his short black hair. Yet the man radiated power and confidence; he was completely at ease and collected, as if even here, in a quiet and cheerful station, he was ready to meet danger at any moment and not let it catch him unawares.

By now, only Artyom continued to unceremoniously examine the arrival. The people behind him in line first tried to urge him forward, and then simply started to walk around him.

‘Artyom! What’s the delay? You’ll be late if you don’t watch out!’ Daniel came up to him.

Hearing his name, the stalker turned towards Artyom, looked at him intently, and suddenly took a broad step toward him.

‘You from VDNKh?’ he asked, in a deep resonant voice.

Artyom nodded silently, and felt his knees start to shake.

‘You the one looking for Melnik?’ the stalker continued.

Artyom nodded once more.

‘I’m Melnik. You have something for me?’ The stalker looked Artyom in the eye.

Artyom hastily groped around his neck for the cord with the cylindrical case that it now felt odd to part with, as if with a talisman, and extended it to the stalker.

The stalker pulled off his leather gloves, opened the cover and carefully shook something out of the capsule into his palm. It was a small scrap of paper. A note.

‘Come with me. I couldn’t make it yesterday. Sorry. The call came when we were already on our way to the surface.’

Having said a quick goodbye and thanks to Daniel, Artyom hurried after Melnik, up the escalators that led to the passage to Arbatskaya.

‘Is there any news from Hunter?’ he asked, awkwardly, barely keeping up with the long-striding stalker.

‘Haven’t heard a thing from him. I fear you’ll have to ask your dark ones about him now,’ said Melnik, looking back over his shoulder at Artyom. ‘On the other hand, you could say there’s too much news from VDNKh.’

Artyom felt his heart start beating more forcefully.

‘What news?’ he asked, trying to suppress his worry.

‘Not much good,’ said the stalker, dryly. ‘The dark ones went on the offensive again. There was a heavy battle a week ago. Five people were killed. And it seems there are even more dark ones there now. People are starting to flee that station of yours. They can’t stand the horror, they say. So, Hunter was right when he told me something sinister was hidden there. He felt it.’

‘Who died, do you know?’ asked Artyom, frightened, trying to recollect who was supposed to stand duty that day, a week ago? What day was today? Was it Zhenka? Andrey? Please don’t let it be Zhenka…

‘I wouldn’t know. It’s not enough the undead are worming their way in there, but some kind of devilment is coming out of the tunnels around Prospect Mir, too. People lose their memory, and several people died along the tracks.’

‘What’s to be done?’

‘There’s a Council meeting today. The Brahmin elders and generals will have their say, but I doubt they’ll be able to help your station with anything. They barely defend Polis itself, and then only because nobody dares make a serious attempt on it.’

They came out onto the Arbatskaya station. Mercury lamps burned here, too, and just as at Borovitskaya, the living quarters were located in bricked-in arches. Sentries stood next to several of them, and overall, there was an uncommonly large number of soldiers here. The walls, painted white, were hung in places with army parade standards – with embroidered gold eagles – that seemed almost untouched by time. There was activity all around. Long-robed Brahmins walked about, while cleaning women washed the floor and scolded those who tried to pass over the still-wet surface. There were quite a number of people here, too, from other stations. They could be identified by their dark glasses or by the way they folded their hands together to cover their squinting eyes. Only living and administrative quarters were located on the platform; the shopping arcades and food vendors were removed to the passages.

Melnik led Artyom to the end of the platform where the office premises began, seated him on a marble bench lined with wood that had been burnished by contact with thousands of passengers, asked him to wait, and departed.

Looking at the intricate stucco work under the ceiling, Artyom thought about how Polis had lived up to his expectations. Life here really was arranged in a completely different way; people weren’t as cutthroat, exasperated, or browbeaten as at other stations. Knowledge, books, and culture seemed to play a thoroughly fundamental role. They had passed by at least five book stalls in the passage between Borovitskaya and Arbatskaya. There were even playbills posted announcing the performance of a play by Shakespeare tomorrow night and, just as at Borovitskaya, he could hear music playing somewhere.

The passage and both stations had been maintained in excellent condition. Although blotches and seepage were evident on the walls, all damage was immediately patched by repair teams, who scurried about everywhere. Out of curiosity, Artyom glanced down the tunnel, where he saw everything was in perfect order; it was dry, clean, and an electric light burned at intervals of one hundred metres as far as the eye could see. From time to time, handcars loaded with crates passed by, stopping to discharge the occasional passenger or take on a box of books that Polis sent out through the entire metro.

‘All of this might soon come to an end,’ thought Artyom, suddenly. ‘VDNKh can no longer withstand the pressure from these monsters… No wonder,’ he said to himself, recalling one night on watch, when he had to repel an attack by the dark ones, and all of the nightmares that tormented him after that fight.

Was it true that VDNKh was falling? That meant that he would no longer have a home He wondered if his friends and stepfather had managed to flee; if so, there was a chance of meeting them one day in the metro. If Melnik told him that he had completed his mission and could do nothing more, then he promised himself he’d head back home. If his station was destined to act as a lone covering force in the path of the dark ones, and if his friends and relatives were slated to die defending the station, then he’d rather be with them instead of taking refuge in this paradise. He suddenly had the urge to return home, catch sight of the row of army tents, the tea-factory… And chew the fat with Zhenka, and tell him of his adventures. It was a sure thing he wouldn’t believe half of it… If he were still alive.