“And Pete the rascal made it back from here with a Japanese tape recorder,” noted Andrei. “If he’s not lying, that is. And didn’t become a follower of any Krishna.”

“Well, why Krishna? That ain’t necessary... People just change here, that’s the point. It’s just that nobody tells what has happened to him here. They can’t. Or don’t want to.”

“Pete did,” tedious Andrei wouldn’t give up. “He was walking and walking around here, then he looks – a tape recorder lying about. Panasonic. He took it, walked around some more, didn’t find anything else and went back.”

“And some people didn’t get back at all...” added Gleb gloomily. “And no traces left.”

The girls packed together more tightly.

“Why the hell are you saying such rubbish?!” I attacked Gleb. “So what if somebody told you that? Look at Andrei here, Pete has also told him all sorts of rubbish, about the tape recorder and all...”

Gleb got insulted and shut up.

“Boys, I’m scared...” Christine really was shaking all over.

I got up, intending to pet her on the shoulder and say something extremely manly, and bumped on her gaze – they like to show such eyes in the movies. She’d become white with fear, and was looking through me – or, rather, at what was behind me.

Actually, I don’t complain about the reaction. Having thrown myself backwards together with the armchair, I was already intending to hit the unknown enemy with my hand over the shoulder, but instead of it I hit the back of my own neck – first with the back of the damned armchair, then with the floor, and called myself an idiot in my mind. My side appeared to be soiled with something that looked like fuel oil, I stood up and saw a black, glistening mass of that very fuel oil flowing from under the door and spreading across the room. The door folds that somebody of us had bolted earlier began to creak, Bronya screamed hysterically, and I rushed towards my bag. The flare pistol turned out to be on the top; I leaned against the wall and started pulling the trigger frantically.

A series of greenish flares appeared where the door was, there was felt a disgusting smell of ammonium chloride, my finger on the trigger of the pistol became numb – and when I finally managed to loosen my grip, it became clear that the door was missing altogether, the doorway was charred and the remains of the smoking aggressive fuel oil were scattered all over the burnt parquet.

“I killed him! Or, I killed it...”

“Where have you got a gun from?” Oleg was standing in the corner, a chair in his hands. I looked at the flare pistol. In front of me there was a handy, smooth pistol, with a long muzzle and a small panel above the ribbed handle. On the panel there was a number 815. For about a minute I was staring at the weapon, puzzled, then shifted my eyes to the guys...

“We need to go and see what’s on outside,” declared Gleb, climbing out of the narrow space between the wall and what used to be furniture. “Maybe there are tons of that crap out there...”

“Will you come with me?” The ghost pistol stuck conveniently in my belt and didn’t hamper my movements.

“Frankly, I’m a bit scared.”

“And if you have a weapon?”

“What, you got an arsenal in your bag here?”

“No, but I will shortly. I think I’m going to start getting it. You, Gleb dear, try to concentrate, imagine yourself something horrid and begin dreaming of a weapon. That you really badly need it. Got it?”

“I’ll try...”

Gleb sat down in the armchair and closed his eyes. After a minute his right hand began rising, his fingers twitched – and I didn’t even notice at what moment there appeared a big pistol, with a thick, phallic muzzle.

Behind Gleb’s back originated nervous chuckles, somebody began to elaborate on a theory of sexual anxiety, there arose a question what that Gleb’s thing is shooting with...

Gleb, frowning, choked at the sight of his creation, then lifted the pistol and shot at the wall. Successfully, one had to admit. Bricks scattered in all directions with a great bang, and when the dust had finally settled, one could see a hole in the wall, about 2 metres wide. There were no more questions.

“Well, so now let’s go.”

Outside, no one was to be found. The fog scattered, and about two hundred steps away one could perfectly see the ruins of another house and rusty metallic constructions.

“Shall we have a look at what’s there?”

“Ok.”

“But Gleb dear, let’s have this agreed upon right away – I’m in the front, you’re in the back, about ten metres behind me. If something happens, shoot. Just not me. And shout ‘duck!’.”

“Fine...”

About three minutes later we made it running to the metallic constructions. These turned out to be the girders of a colossal bridge. An interesting idea. There isn’t even a river here... Surreal.

“Gleb, you go to the right, I’ll go to the left. We’ll meet near those bricks.”

Moving carefully through the dry weeds I was proceeding forward. A bridge like a bridge, weed like weed. Ruins like ruins. Nothing special.

At some distance, from behind the third girder there appeared Gleb with his gun, gazing around. I stood on my tiptoes and waved over at him. Gleb raised his hand rather clumsily, and the weed near me blazed up, stinking and crackling. I jump behind a wide steel beam and roll over to the side. Above me there blazes a ball of fire, molten metal crawls down the beam.

“Idiot, stop it, it’s me!..”

The weeds are burning. A third blast blows away the side supports of the girder. I’m lying in a puddle, reminding all of Gleb’s relatives to the seventh generation. His head can be perfectly seen from here, and also a part of his shoulder in a worn coat. Perfectly seen. In the sight of my pistol, my handy pistol, with the long muzzle and the panel above the ribbed...

Stick my darned mug into the puddle! The dumb, bloodthirsty mug into the cold, stinking, god damned puddle! Until the very sight of the trigger makes me feel sick! It’s Gleb! I’ve been drinking vodka with him! I’ve...

I’m crawling the roundabout way. I’ll have to throw away my coat and my slacks after all that, my hands are covered all over with dirty, sticky crust, the shoelace on my left sneaker is trying to get loose all the time. The damned neurotic, I am.

I look out cautiously from behind one of beams. There he is, the bastard, stands half-facing me. I put down the weapon on the beam, not to lead myself into temptation, and stand up quietly. Gleb doesn’t see me. I come to him from behind, one step, another – and then some piece of metal clanks joyfully beneath my feet. In my fright I manage to act ahead of Gleb, who is turning around to face me; his sex-blaster flies away into the weed and we fall down dashingly. The next moment I hear hoarse hissing, I turn over on my back and discover above us, at a height of about five metres, an unattractive bare-teethed maw full of slime, with awe inspiring fangs.

Actually, I don’t complain about... What god damned reaction can you talk about when all the words I had wanted to shout out to Gleb stuck in my throat? I choked and covered my face with my hands. Gleb half-risen, and a thin, straight ray shot out from his small, clutched fist. The maw blew up with a wild roar, thick, swampy slime poured from above, and I finally fainted...

“Redhead, are you ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled without opening my eyes. “Yeah, just a minute... you burnt it, Gleb dear, burnt it, you piece of... hell of a guy you are. Burnt it, after all.”

“Burnt it, burnt it, you jerk. Let’s go, it’s a long way to Tipperary. And where’s your gun?”

“There, lies on the beam.”

“Why did you leave it there?”

“So that I won’t burn you by mistake.”

The expression of Gleb’s face showed such sincere childish puzzlement and offense that everything else I’d wanted to say faded away on its own. I lowered my eyes to look at Gleb’s fist, still clutched. Gleb followed my glance and loosened his fingers slowly. In his hand there was an old gas lighter, the one well known to me. So... once in century, even lighters can shoot. Gas ones.