...

this mystery that fell from heaven knows which sky,

this CREATURE OF UNKNOWN KIND
turned this place into a separate country,
into a magic country,
into an evil magic country from a magical alien planet...

When you have eliminated the impossible,

whatever remains, however improbable,
must be the truth.

“The Sign of the Four”

The terms from the novels by I. Efremov,

A. and B. Strugatsky, I. Varshavsky and
F. Herbert are used in the following text…

“Requiem for the Pilot”

PROLOGUE

In the intervals between the vomiting spasms, every second of which was
successful, Ensign Bashkalo, standing firmly on all fours on the left of Vadim,
proclaimed the following:
- Mother... Aggrr... M-mother-f... Blaeee!.. Never again!... Damn it!... Damn all this
crap of unknown kind... Fuck it!.. To hell with it!... Uuuuurrlaaa! Damn it with its gas
meteorites, with its fogs, with its fucking heaviness-lightness and transparent vehicles..
damn it, b-bitch, neither bottom, nor tops! Blyuerrrrrgaaa! Fucking Gorbachev!
Senior Ensign Petrovich, who was also barfing on all fours on the right of Vadim,
did not utter any understandable words. He was much older, and maybe that's why he
was throwing up much more violently. But maybe age did not matter at all, and Mother-
Trouble1 charged him for the passage in full, not partly.
Vadim did not feel sick at all. Physically, all was normal for him, no vomiting, no
cramps, no bloody mist between the eye lens and the retina, actually he was not even
frightened as he was supposed to, such an incredible deed they had accomplished,

1
The area of the disaster, includes the Zone and the “neutral”.

1
human fear was just inapplicable. Another level of shock had to be experienced in this
case, something like the aura of the first step into open Space, with a view the whole
world, when your personal life and death are not particularly significant in the context
of this achievement, and you are conscious of it. Like that. Physically Vadim was tired, as
if he was rubber and inflatable and he had suddenly been pierced with a needle. No
less, but no more either. He was standing between Bashkalo and Petrovich, resting the
hands on his knees, and, trying not to move, he looked at the pole number 323, the first
one on this side of the railway, and imagined a man who had stuck it in the brown clay
of the Astrakhan semi-desert one day (A year ago? A year and a half ago? A thousand
years ago?). There was someone who first crossed the royal narrow-gauge railway, who
had guessed to step on board of the second railcar passing by, iron only in appearance,
but to touch, in the light – it was a ghostly film take, projected by a mysterious
unknown type of film projector on a load of tobacco smoke... What is it called?..
“Combined shooting”!1 Someone thought up, guessed, found out about jumping
through the iron ghost, and crossed an impassable, deadly, cruelly killing railroad.
Someone risked it first. And stuck the pole into a bush of black wormwood. Pole three
hundred and twenty-three. The first one on this side. And also, probably, was puking...
Most likely Senior Ensign Petrovich personally knows this genius, hero and psycho. Or
maybe it was he himself? How it rinses him out! Similar to Vadim himself yesterday on
the “neutral” when the Zone was welcoming and evaluating him.
Time was passing, whether a dozens or hundreds of seconds went by, but
Bashkalo's vocabulary exhausted itself and Petrovich no longer sobbed weepingly
spewing out his afternoon snack, and soon there only were two raucous breaths on the
left and right. And the smells, unexpectedly strong as if they were in a small enclosed
space. Then everything completely subsided, and Vadim noticed that Petrovich is sitting
on the ground in Shukshin's pose2, barefoot, and attentively looking at him from under
the long visor of a blue American cap. Looking unkindly, wiping the mouth and under it
with a green handkerchief. Vadim straightened up immediately, raised his “forty-
seventh”3 by the strap which was clamped in his fist, and fixed it at the prescribed place,
ungovernable in ordinary life. Petrovich did not say a word, looked away, folded and
removed the handkerchief, quickly stood up and began to shovel wet clay with a heel,
covering the eruption. He picked up his “stick” - a broken pole without a disc, also
poking the mud onto a puddle of vomit with it. For some reason, he needed to - to
clean up the dirt, to cover his shit. But maybe it was necessary? Among Mother-Trouble
it is necessary to clean up, always and inevitably, to cover the results of bodily
functions, including metabolic products, either rear and front, to hide them, to bury, as
nobody knows what could happen to these results and products. What could be the
outcome? Not even because they, scouts, can be tracked down, but because the vomit
can come to life and eat them, having found and caught them from below.
1
SFX.
2
Shukshin, Vasily Makarovich, (25 July 1929 – 2 October 1974) was a Soviet/Russian actor, writer, screenwriter
and film director. “Shukshin's pose” means sitting on the ground with hands resting on legs, bent at the knees.
3
AK-47 - Kalashnikov's automatic rifle.

2
 What Vadim had already understood was that Petrovich does not act in the Zone
in vain or for nothing. So he nipped a chuckle “Vomit follows the trail!” in a bud.
Everything is real in the Zone.
- You!... What is your name... Sverzhin! - exhaustedly said Bashkalo, laying down
on his side. He was also wearing an American cap, but this one was colored in dirty-
yellow and had an inscription. He was wearing it backwards. - So you didn't even spit
after the vehicle? Just passed through and that's all? As if you, a cub, know the Zone and
it knows you? Damned contractor...
Vadim shrugged, feeling the weight of the backpack and the strap of the rifle
slipping from his right shoulder. How Bashkalo was obsessed with this contract. Actually
it is called “contract of employment for extended service”. Yazov, the Minister of
Defense. Signature, date. “It's already the second time the Defense Minister hires you
personally to work”, Mumbler4 squeaked the obvious again.
- So here the fuck you are! - said Bashkalo with condemnation.
- Vasya, clean up after yourself, - Petrovich said to him quietly, picked up his
backpack, put it on his back, raised his machine gun by the strap, hung it on a shoulder,
took off the cap, inspected it, put it on.
Bashkalo, glancing at Vadim and hissing under the breath, was kicking a bump,
shaggy with last year's grass. “A chunk”, thought Vadim. A Soviet Ensign is “demobbed”
until retirement. At this moment he remembered Ensign Antonov and smiled. Not every
Ensign is.
Senior Ensign Petrovich was looking around attentively, Vadim followed his
example. On this side of the railroad visibility was “a million per million”, no
atmospheric condensation, no precipitation, no light pockets. No ashes, which hellishly
annoyed them in the morning. The mound was low and the highway on the other side
was also perfectly visible, the poles on it, the sheen of the first frost on its concrete, and
even the KUNG1 with the screaming dead people, collapsed into the concrete, was
visible in the distance. “However”, thought Vadim, “for some reason they cannot be
heard from here.”
And the vehicle, that looked like a mechanical corpse with three passenger
railcars, one of which was that “combined shonoting”, had already disappeared.
How much time had passed?
Vadim scraped off the hazmat suit's cuff from his wrist and looked at the
numbers on his seven-melody “Montana” exchanged, by the way, with lieutenant Gonza
for the phalanx in epoxy on plexiglass not far from here less than two years ago. It was
half past eleven in the morning. Today. And from the “Obelisk” site - the place of the
previous halt - they left at twelve fifteen, according to the same watch. Today. Damn it.
Vadim barely restrained the urge to bring the watch to his ear, to check if they worked.
- Keep going. The way we went before to pole number three hundred twenty-four,
- said Petrovich. - Are you ready, Vasily? Sverzhin? Throw away your watch. I told you,

4
Vadim's inner voice.
1
The KUNG is a Soviet then Russian term for a standardized military vehicle module/trailer system.

3
the track is biased. Go. This direction.
And turning on the heels, using his stick (the broken pole) he casually showed the
exact direction. Along the mound, take the left. “God, what familiar places are these.
How many times I have traveled from “seventeenth” to Ten, that means Kapustin, and
back. As exactly on this vehicle by exactly this railway, as along exactly this road by bus,
and once by “ambulance”, and about ten times with Zhitkur and Doctor Vyatkin in a
famous brand new “Willis”, released in '43.”
Vadim moved, meanwhile adjusting the backpack's belts and his rifle's strap,
falling from his shoulder. It is strange that wearing a rifle on the neck is forbidden by
order. But what isn't strange here... here, ahead, is the old track from the heavy
machine, apparently the launcher, and probably it is five or maybe forty years old...
The steppe was disfigured. It was said that when Korolev came here with a
platoon of soldiers, here were a lots of tulips, and now only red clay is seen out through
the wormwood like a bald bookkeeper's head... “You have to negotiate the tracks
carefully. Especially this one!” Vadim suddenly realized (sensed), sharply reducing
speed.
- Well, - said Ensign Petrovich from the rear.
The track was “taken out”. For the second time that day and the second time in
his life, Vadim has seen this. He expected that, as in the morning, Bashkalo would kick-
start his sensible whining that here it is, taken out, that means for sure that a loot2 is
firing nearby, it would be nice to look around, to comb the area, because this is a
thousand, even divided into three, is falling into the pocket... But now, for some reason,
Bashkalo was not whining.
Vadim could feel the look of the Senior with his backpack and did everything by
the book: he stopped, lifted an open palm, stopping the group, pulled from under his
belt a strip of gauze, threw it on the track and waited with bated breath, and only after
stepped over, “having marked the beginning of the movement by the same gesture of
an open palm, visible by the wingman”, came to the paired trail and repeated the
actions exactly. More to it, it is necessary not to cross it right above the gauze. Hell
knows what. The Zone knows what Mumbler said somewhere between Vadim's eyes.
There was nothing to object.
- Look, the track is discharged, without a loot, - said Petrovich from behind. - I
picked it up a long time ago. “Gnatyuk” was here, such a cutie. You see, although the
trail is taken out, it's littered. And the working, evil track is always very clean, as if
someone just passed by. Like on wet sand. But you did everything right, I have to praise
you. Keep moving.
They went on down the track. Protective Mumbler in Vadim's head at the point
behind the nose bridge, after awakening never shut up, spoke measuredly, mumbling,
something like “You never left here, right? Did not demobilize and still live at the
famous Range, right? As if you got into the “I am going to army again” dream, right? As
if there weren't three years at home, Maika didn't exist, Katty wasn't born...”

2
The Zone's treasre.

4
 - Stop! - Petrovich said sharply.
Vadim stood with a raised leg, then warily lowered it. He didn't turn back.
Mumbler became silent. Both ears open, palms open. Ears and hands are required to
be open up to the wrists in all weathers, under any circumstances. In winter the hat's
ears must not be down! And no gloves or mittens.
- Vasya, fuck! Gnaw your butt! - said Petrovitch in a strange voice.
Here Vadim turned around cautiously - with his whole body.
Bashkalo, the rear-guard and the driver of the group, was looming ten meters
behind as required. And Senior Ensign Petrovich, left his pole stuck in the wet steppe, in
violation of all charters and unofficial spells, went to him, that means back. He went
back, slowly raising his hands on the both sides of the cap. Going right up to the frozen
Ensign, Petrovich dropped his hands so vigorously and spread them down there so
vexatiously, and in an accent point-blank cursed the Ensign's mother, that Vadim
realized: exactly It1, lying in wait for every third neophyte, has come to the first scouting
mission of the private contract soldier, Sverzhin, Vadim Valentinovich, into the Zone. The
exercise is finished, arms for inspection. Thanks for being alive. This, however, is
unknown.
- Didn't get you, Nikolaich! - Hissing, just as with a fright, but also with a
challenge, said Bashkalo.
Senior Ensign Petrovich walked around him, as if he was a Christmas tree, and
asked in a hopeless-calm tone:
- Vasya, comrade Soviet Ensign! Where is the cart? Where are the poles? Damn
your mother in all ways!
Bashkalo whirled himself around so, that even the KHM2 swung on him, slapped
both his sides, and from ten meters away Vadim saw how his round face sharply and
completely burned, turning exactly the color of a disk on a pole. It became even more
crimson than disc painted with iron oxide. Even his facial features disappeared and only
the mustache was protruding like swollen scratches. The red muzzle of the Ensign.
Vadim had never read a book, but certainly in one there is this: “the red muzzle of the
Ensign”.
“Let's not forget, all of a sudden”, said Mumbler importantly, “that Bashkalo has
been going to the Zone from the very beginning, that he is a skillful and tireless stalker,
and that an KHM, for some reason called by trackers along with AK-47, sings in
Bashkalo's hands at the firing line cleaner than a nightingale. You should be careful
with him.”
- Nikolaich... - Said Bashkalo. - Damn, Nikolaich! I don't know! Don't remember! I
fucked up, Nikolaich!
In the garden cart, gently painted in grey color, Bashkalo was driving fifty poles -
sharpened, treated with linseed oil cuttings for mops with numbered disks nailed to
them by copper braces. Gently painted in bright red, fiery color. (The whole previous

1
The Fuc... End.
2
Kalashnikov hand-held machine gun.

5
month, Vadim had dedicated two or three hours every God's day to painting carts and
poles.) The combat mission of the group of the Senior Ensign Petrovich in today's
expedition was formulated as “reconnaissance and designation of the third quarter of
the route 'Obelisk - m/u 20224 '.” In that way, the loss of the poles was ruining the task,
the mission in general, and Petrovich's reputation, as it is said: “the Senior officer is
responsible.”
- As in a dream, Nikolaich, don't remember! - Bashkalo said earnestly. - Missed it!
“The chunk is lying”, thought Vadim. (Or that was Mumbler?) “He does remember.
Left it intentionally. There, in a ditch below the embankment. There the cart is standing
now, and forever. He was supposed to go last, dragging the cart along the gravel and
across the rails, and in horror, and blindly, when the third railcar easily could catch the
cart, also pulling him, could knock him down and chew him up under the real wheels...
so to hell with it, the cart, and on the other side of the railway - be that as it may. The
money for the mission had already dripped in, and next time Petrovich would not take
him. And glory to the CPSU1. Missions with Petrovich aren't worth it. They almost draw
lots.” For weeks the trackers had been talking among themselves, the rumor
penetrated even in the “geese house”, and Vadim knows it, that Senior Ensign Petrovich
now goes for terrifying tracks, not around the “neutral” but in the most unknown
steppe; beats the wedges in the Zone, in those places where regular three kilometers
on a map objectively had became thirty kilometers long time ago. In the most direct
meaning - thirty, stretched “by the anomalous intensities of unknown kind near the
surface of the planet Earth”.
“The last thing I need is the ability to read thoughts”, Vadim thought with
unsighted anger. Now what? They have three complete poles, “connecting ones”: Vadim
carried them in the backpack's loop, like swords in a movie with Bruce Lee. Another
one, broken, was used by Petrovich instead of a cane (“Instead of a staff!”).
Petrovich silently returned to the middle of the distance between Bashkalo and
Vadim. Pulled out the cane-staff.
- Sverzhin, go to the three hundred and twenty-fourth, - he ordered in his usual
voice. - Take the next pole on the right, in three meters, and there stop on command.
Forward, march.
Vadim took the pole in his right hand after ten minutes. It was sticking out askew,
strongly rotated edge-on to their route. Vadim waited for the command, turned to his
superior and fell on his knee feeling sweat between stocking of the hazmat suit and
breeches. It was hot. Petrovich walked around the pole, made a “spiral” in two turns
from it, “inspecting” the air, its density and humidity with his hands, then said pointing
to the chosen place:
- Here we rest, have lunch and a smoke break. Bashkalo with me. Sverzhin stay
where you are. Watch quietly, as it's done. If you smoke – smoke.
Bashkalo went to the specified place, both with Petrovich they knelt, facing each

1
The Communist Party of the Soviet Union.

6
other, took off their backpacks and began to built the dastarkhan2. A couple of minutes
later Petrovich, extending an arm to Vadim, snapped his fingers. Vadim took off and
gave him his own backpack. He carried the bulk of the group's rations. He laid his poles
next to the Senior Ensign's pole-cane. The Ensigns assembled lunch quickly, observing
dozens of a strange little rules, almost imperceptible to the inexperienced eye. Vadim
remembered (without any Mumbler) as the association was obvious, the words of
cosmonaut Makarov. In the spring of eighty-two his father had another exacerbation
(the penultimate one, he did not survive the next one), and Vadim was sent to stay with
his mother in Sverdlovsk, accompanied by a special officer. And almost immediately,
literally a couple of days after the delivery, in her filthy children's regional library his
mother had a pioneer meeting with cosmonaut Makarov, who had come, the hell
knows why, for some seminar, perhaps, or a congress. There also was the writer
Strugatsky, a huge old man, next to whom the cosmonaut in an incredible leather
jacket looked like a Lilliputian from a cartoon. But Vadim did not care about the writer,
whereas the cosmonaut interested him, no matter how bad it felt inside, no matter how
Vadim's heartache, despair and hatred were strangling him. This was the cosmonaut,
after all... So, among all the different things, cosmonaut Makarov equally surprised the
ragtag of pioneers in caps and stockings, as well as Vadim in his yellow jumpsuit and
sneakers, when he said that the weightlessness is pretty disgusting and he, cosmonaut
Makarov, did not like it; and then he said that many years of training before starting can
not give as much useful knowledge as a five-minute observation of actions of comrades
who were already flying, after launch. And he illustrated this with a scene of going to
sleep in the living compartment of the “Soyuz” spacecraft. What kind of tricks there are,
unexplainable on Earth. Indeed, the way Petrovich and Bashkalo were making fire, the
precautions and tricks with which they were opening and heating the stew, there,
outside, you can hardly explain to anybody on Earth.
By the way, in the Pre-Zone area they already began to call the earth beyond the
perimeter of the quarantine zone - Earth with a capital letter. “So what did Gorbachev
say on Earth?” “Damn, did you hear that Americans are coming from Earth to search for
their people... Wish they brought their rations again...”
Vadim was invited to the table. They squatted, facing each other. Vadim always
felt uncomfortable sitting this way, both at home in Spartanovka, and at home in
Uralmash. The body was protesting, was not accepting the pose. Vadim was stretching
out one leg, getting from Bashkalo's hands a Chinese thermos with a little flower,
sipping almost warm tea, passing the thermos over the campfire to Petrovich, changing
his legs, munching the stew from the can, rising on the left knee, then on the right, so
that Bashkalo suddenly grumbled with his throat that he was tired of his, a goose,
fidgeting.
Petrovich said nothing, he was squeezing the aluminum thermos lid with his
square fingers, silently ate, silently drank, thinking some sort of thought, and Bashkalo
quickly fell silent. However, the expectation of a scolding clearly gathered over the fire,

2
The tablecloth which is spread on the ground.

7
and no one was surprised about Petrovich's resulting words after his, Petrovich, coming
out of his spell of contemplation.
- You're such a moron, Vasya Bashkalo, - he said heavily. - It would have been
better to trust the cart to the cub, and assign you to go as a bumper, behind the group.
So what shall we do now, a j-ass band Vasya? Shall we go three poles further from the
last one, and sit there on the spot for nothing, wait for tomorrow's vehicle to go back
from this side to that one? Such a successful mission you've ditched, Vasya. We were
going so well.
Bashkalo twirled his mustache, blushed again, but, of course, not so terribly this
time. He slurped from the thermos till coughing. He coughed, letting brown saliva drip
between his knees from under his mustache. Shame in people of this kind is usually
expressed through passing the buck. That's why Bashkalo gave the thermos not to
Vadim, who was the next in the turn, but pointedly returned it to Petrovich.
- Here, Nikolaich, have a drink. And forgive me. This one, - he nodded at Vadim, -
hindered us there, at the rails, I nearly knocked him down, twitched, and here,
apparently, lost the handle. It's always like this with geese. Sure you know. I'm guilty, of
course.
After listening to this Petrovich grinned and began to press an aluminum
pancake (the former thermos lid) with his thumb edgeways into the ground near to his
foot. Bashkalo was waiting with the outstretched “Chinese”. Petrovich took the thermos
and immediately gave it to Vadim.
- Drink it up, cub. And do not hesitate in front of your comrade Ensign on the rails
again.
- Can I have your permission to ask a question, comrade Senior Ensign. How did
you know about the second railcar? - asked Vadim. As if nothing had happened.
Petrovich, who immersed in forecasting and planning again, first answered
mechanically:
- Accidentally, like everything here, by intuition... Didn't understand, what?
The tea in the thermos was running low and the leaves from the bottom climbed
to Vadim's mouth.
- No stupid questions in the Zone, warrior! A tourist, damned adulterer! No
chattering! - boomed Petrovich, looming over.
Vadim handed him the thermos with the remaining couple of sips and a handful
of wet tea leaves, and suddenly Petrovich growled really angrily:
- So you, bitch, dirtbag, weren't at the briefing?
- My fault, comrade Senior Ensign, said Vadim, managing to replace the natural “I
don't understand” with “My fault”.
Petrovich pushed the thermos in the ground, unbuckled the gear, pulled out the
collar of the hazmat suit and snatched a roll of a blue electrical tape from behind the
back.
- You, motherfucker, have a golden ring on your finger! - He said hastily and
furiously. - Take it off now! Take it off quickly, you idiot! Is it rooted or what?

8
 - No... - said Vadim, stunned.
- Yes, take off the decoration, turd! - joined Bashkalo, although somewhat lazily. -
But where were you, Nikolaich, the old wolf, looking? Here they are, the geese. I'm
telling you! And good people die because of them. And poles get lost.
Bashkalo was smiling shiningly, like a toilet in a shop window. The teeth behind his
mustache were rare and white as sugar. He was older then Vadim by five or seven
years. Vadim could answer him properly, but again he restrained himself and took off
the ring. Petrovich feverishly snatched it with a nail, not instantly, hastily picked up the
edge of the tape, pulled out a strip, close to an arm's length, crushed it into a ball, put
the ring in its middle and began to wrap layer by layer, moving his lips (“Petrovich prays
with a guard duty regulations! Ha-ha-ha!”), no longer pulling PVC tape from the roll. He
had used up a half. Finally he tore it off. Having formed a ball he weighed it by a hand.
And crossed himself twice. Vadim and Bashkalo opened their mouths. Senior Ensign
Petrovich, making the sign of the cross is the mosaic of Lomonosov1.
- Here, cub, hide this deeper!
Vadim shoved the tangle with the ring in its stomach (“Happy cake!”, Mumbler
squeaked from behind his nose bridge) into the hip pocket. So this is how it is with gold
in the Zone.
- Remember, youngster: gold is like a lightning rod in the Zone. Gold catches
lightning. And do you know what kind of lightning you get here? Then, if you return, ask
your scientists. Who is still alive. Any chains, crosses?
And Petrovich finished the tea in one gulp.
Vadim shook his head.
- No sir.
Bashkalo laughed.
- You should listen to the instructions with your ears, but not with... family guy. -
Petrovich said with his usual loudness. - The same was with the poles: it was made from
the rod at first, before they got washed with the blood... So what brought you here,
damn you, married one?
Vadim was silent. Two (just two!) months ago no one in the world could convince
him to return here. Neither for money, nor for the Motherland. He was a happy TV
viewer just two months ago, he crawled on his knees to the TV to show Maika that here
is the burning bread factory, we used to get bread there, and Americans disappeared
right here, exactly here I served... He was a happy viewer. The Range (“Captain Zhitkur!”,
interrupted Mumbler) gave him money, fate (“Madness of your dad!”, interrupted
Mumbler) gave him Maika, Maika gave him Katty, and Vadim would agree to watch the
horrors of Kapustin only on TV. Alex the Ukrainian was choking with tears when in the
summer of eighty sixth he read to them letters from Kiev, about radiation, about illicit
radiometers, about cops in cellophane. But Vadim would never shed a tear because of
the disaster at the Range. He hated and feared it. And now it was the only hope. That
which he hated and feared.

1
A common name for any incredible thing.

9
 It turned out that all this time Petrovich was waiting for an answer.
- Are you silent? Silent-pliant, snotty. Okay. So. This is what we will do in
connection with the feat of the comrade Ensign... - He chewed his lips. - So, group,
listen to my command. Our mission of reconnaissance, marking a safe track to the
“area twenty nine” and inspection of the condition of nuclear weapons as far as is
visually possible for such a survey we cannot accomplish anymore. We can't get out
without the poles, and will not leave anything for others. Thank you, Vasya, again. We
change the route. Take the fallback route. We’ll smoke and go.
Petrovich pulled out the rarity of that summer - a fresh pack of “Rodopi”, opened
it and lit up. He neatly rolled the wrapper into a ball (“Puff the ball”, squeaked Mumbler)
and shoved it into the fire. The splinters were already burned and cooling, only the
tablets glowed blue. Bashkalo breathed noisily and asked for a cigarette with a gesture.
- Where are we changing to? What is the fallback route, Nikolaich?
- Not far, comrade Ensign, - said Petrovich, passing him the cigarette to light up
his. - It is a dive for three our poles from here. We didn't manage to do reconnaissance
for command... Thanks to you. So let's do science, since the tracks have coincided. Don't
soil your pants, Vasya, it's not far. Not far and familiar. My stash is nearby. I want to
share it with you. And with this one, the newbie.
- That's it... - said Bashkalo, inhaling. - Share the stash! Pi-iss, not war...
They smoked in front of each other, flicking the ashes in turn into the already
totally spirit fluid campfire. It was heavy, sucking, hopelessly-dueling, and Vadim
shrugged off the chatter ban again.
- Comrade Senior Ensign... Allow me one more question. To do with work. So all
these... weird places... Gitiks. They are all near our equipment, to the railway, as they
seem to generate only from equipment, right?
Petrovich laughed.
- He's playing Indians here. Oh, kids, kids... It was true, warrior! And binoculars
could be used at first, and sights. But now you will not take a walk along the free-
flowing steppe... So you, Sverzhin, of this... thinking kind. For one thousand five
hundred per month. How did you say – “gitiks”?
Vadim nodded.
- The “Jackets” in the smoking room were arguing. They call this an incredible
place. A gitik. “Science knows many gitiks.”1 There is such an expression.
- Now that's what we call the Red Army. - Petrovich said didactically. - All the
personnel of the test site, who are alive and not in the nuthouse, sit and read damned
science fiction instead of the Charter! Led by comrade General, the chief of the
quarantine. And you are still running to the scientists. You are strange, Sverzhin. But
you have flair. And the balance is good... And you shoot, they say... Leather stocking...
- Actually I don't read at all, - said Vadim, but nobody heard him.
- Yeah, he is... a Fenimore. Damn! - Bashkalo cut in.
- Here is your Fenimore... It's a strange thing about your conscription contract, -

1
A meaningless saying. Originally intended to demonstrate tricks.

10
said Petrovich. - I heard that enlistment offices recruit eighty-six to eighty-nine of the
demobilized from here by their polls, and immediately offer one thousand and a half
per month. Am I right, Sverzgin? Just asking.
- They also take a non-disclosure agreement, - said Vadim. - A fifteen-year
sentence.
- Look where they brought the country... - said Bashkalo unexpectedly, but right
in the vein, straight down the line.
- Well, if it's a fifteen-year sentence so then stop the chattering, - said Petrovich. -
Have you finished a cigarette, Vasya? And you, have you finished your lunch? Get up
now. Sverzhin, take the thermos and fill it with soil. Compress it with your fingers, it
should be packed! And put a cork above. And carefully throw it away, but better roll it.
And you, comrade Ensign Vasya, my dear man, - you are still responsible for the poles.
All three and a half. Ok, you convinced me, I'll carry the broken one. But don't you drop
the rest, I dare you in the name of the proletariat. Grab and cradle them. Gently. There
will be something that needs a fence.
“A cylindrical hollow of metal or glass, open from one or more sides, tools and
everyday items of any length and more than five centimeters in diameter acquire
dangerous properties with a 100% probability”, parodying the secret instructor in a
fencing mask, Mumbler howled. Vadim even rubbed his nose bridge, “like the following:
empty cans and bottles, mugs, shell and anti-aircraft cartridges, and other similar
technological objects …”
Vadim was shoving clay into the thermos, and the voice of Petrovich was barely
making its way through the mumbling of the little man in his brain. Vadim could not
calm Mumbler, before the thermos became “full to the eyeballs”. Fortunately, Petrovich
decided to repeat everything, after he waited for the place of a halt to be brought into a
safe state.
- Attention, group! Listen to the combat mission. Here we see, - Petrovich
indicated the “three hundred and twenty-fourth“, - there is an offshoot from the track.
Unknown to authorities. We go this direction. - A wave of the cane-staff. - About four
hundred meters according to the land map, and in fact a kilometer and a half. Under
the embankment again. The place is weird. - He scratched under the strap on his chin. -
“A gitik”, you said, Sverzhin? Let it be “a gitik”. I'll show you the real gitik. Big and
complicated. If we come back - do not talk about what you saw. Bashkalo, first of all I'm
talking to you. You'll get exactly fifteen years.
- Listen, Nikolaich, you... not so fast, you slow down... - began Bashkalo nervously.
- Shut your mouth, Vasya, damn your leaky hands, I'm talking to you in the
presence of the cub. We change the order of movement. Sverzhin, you go close,
completely on the “risks”1. I'll be “risking”, and you handing them over to me. Now we
go further. This track will be a place where you cannot talk, make noise, stomp out, or
pray. No sound! You can only look at me and repeat all my actions. Bashkalo, you are
ten meters behind all the time. Is the task clear?

1
Tools for detecting the Zone's traps.

11
 Vadim nodded. Mumbler was attentively silent.
- That's right, it is clear to me, - said Bashkalo, hard at work. - But you should
explain at least, Nikolaich...
- We'll get there - you'll see everything yourself. If you don't understand - I will
explain to you at home. No questions in the Zone. Or you forgot? It seems that you're
not a first timer, Vasya, - said Petrovich, expressing amazement in the last phrase.
- So is there something extremely dangerous? I didn't get. We've been ordered to
survive...
Petrovich lost his patience.
- Ensign Bashkalo, stop chattering! The task is set, is clear. Perform the task. It's
extremely dangerous everywhere here. And for the Soviet people, you, Vasya, must
work your fifteen hundred per month through two hundred for each mission. We seem
to have an ideological cub here, I live by the rules, and you have come to talk too much
about money lately. Enough, no questions. Right dress, attention. Forward, contract
boy. The order of movement is statutory before my command. On the march!
Vadim took one step and tumbled down into a river.
It was good in the river. And the world through which it was flowing was good.
Warm, safe, and forever homely. Newcomers have been warned about hallucinations
repeatedly. They were advised to recall what happened in them and, if possible, to
count a seconds of objective time. One, Mississippi, two, Mississippi, three, Mississippi...
And then, without fail, describe the memories in the report. A slow, narrow river in the
jungle. The heavy river, the powerful river, flows from afar, for a long time. The Amazon?
What the jungle is this? “How do I know”, said Mumbler, “am I a jungle specialist to you,
or what?” The river flows majestically, like semolina porridge. There is a feeling of peace
and security, peace in the whole world. And crocodiles and piranhas? There are none
here. The water is very clean and tasty. Upstream, a half of kilometer away from Vadim,
the river made a turn (he perceived it as “the river flowed out of the bend”), and out of
this bend some boards with life buoys on the walls, fishing rods and open doors
suddenly appeared, all sparkling in the sun, white, like in Chekhov's poem, suburban,
theatrical.
“That's right”, said Mumbler, “a houseboat. A square like a box, a house on a raft,
with a veranda, wicker chairs, curtains in the doorway... Who is sitting on the veranda?
Two people? Or one is sitting down, while the second at the railing, spits into the
water?”
It was unclear from the scene.
Two hundred eighty-five Mississippi, two hundred eighty-six Mississippi... Vadim
was counting diligently.
- Sverzhin, stop!
Vadim was thrown back. He stopped and slammed himself hard over the eyes,
trying to wipe them.
- “Stop” was a command! - repeated Petrovich after all this. - Pay more attention
on the track. - Vadim heard his footsteps, and here Petrovich approached and stood

12
next to him on the right. And only then the vision seemed to be cleared from the river
of semolina porridge, and Vadim realised that he had almost stuck into the famous fog
of the Zone. The atmospheric condensation.
“And I saw it a long time ago, about fifteen seconds”, said Mumbler, “But you
force me to count there, to watch here, friends don't act this way with a friend!”
“Oh, shut up!” - Vadim almost said it aloud.
- Hey you, bumper, how you called..., Sverzhin, you need to be more attentive, -
Petrovich said quietly and unexpectedly mildly. - Do you see the old “risk”, it is lying
right there? I'm throwing a new one next to it.
A small nut, flying for a dozen meters, with a gauze strip, not very long, tied to it,
crossed through the air and entered the fog. The fog blinked, at once, totally
disappearing for a moment.
- Did you get it, Fenimore?
Vadim completely returned from the river. The taste of water disappeared from
the tongue, sharp TV flashes melted in his eyes. An automatic desire to jump on one
foot, shaking the water out of the ear, lingered for one more second (By the way, yes,
he got water in his ear). His short-term memory kicked in, and Vadim said, focusing on
reality:
- Yes. I see. D-damn! What a mess. There is no fog in reality, is there?
- Yes. That’s the thing. Exactly this one does not actually exist. Something
happens with the eyes here. These kinds of places lie in wait. Gitiks, damn them.
Doctors say it's like a mental leap. We see in some other way, or sometimes do not see
at all. But the Trouble forces a special human gut feeling to show itself, if you're lucky. If
there is one - even you, young one, immediately distinguish the real fog from... well,
from this, from what's in the mind. But it can also happen like now - no fog at all,
neither in the brain, nor in reality, but the visibility is still only a few steps. And no hunch
will help. Here, take a step backward.
Vadim carefully obeyed. The fog vanished.
- There is no fog, but there are “risks”, right?
- Yes.
- Don't even step back, just lean back with your body.
The “risks” disappeared.
- Understood? Neither exists. Hocus-pocus. But they are there, I see them from
here. This is called “to blink the fog away“. Here is what a creation of unknown kind it is,
our Mother-Trouble... Hunch is a hunch, but attention and caution are the main thing.
Like in a minefield. Listen, Sverzhin, - Petrovich said suddenly, - so you are married; why
did you come here, you fool? Have you got kids? Come here.
Vadim was silent. Petrovich turned his head toward him, took up the visor and
raised his cap so that the visor overlooked the zenith.
- I have. A daughter, - Vadim said at last. What is that about, boss? Why did you
suddenly care?
Petrovich nodded a few times.

13
 - You are after demobilization, boy. Had been serving here, at the Polygon. You
are about twenty or twenty-two years old. And the kid is a year or two? No own shelter,
no help, right?
- Comrade Senior Ensign...
Petrovich shook his head: be quiet, puppy!
- L-listen to me, you fool, - he spoke in a half-whisper. - Listen to what old Senior
Ensign Petrovich is telling you; I'm old enough to be your father. Here's a suggestion. I
have friends at the Headquarters of the quarantine, let's make an act of your mental
instability, and throw your contract into the furnace, then you can run back to your
daughter! People, the “troublers”, are locked up here, perhaps, forever, but you! You are
not local! Run away, before you are also registered here forever. I'll give you money, five
thousand! I'm serious. If we are still alive at the end - run for your life! There, on Earth,
such things begin, exchanges, joint ventures, it turned out that Americans are human
after all, we saw them here... You have a head on your shoulders, you have hands - you
will get by, and you will have an ability to start over, with my penny! Here's the Zone,
son, Mother-Trouble, death, without a choice. Or even worse, prison is around. It will be
worse than a war here. It will be blood to the elbows. The Wild West and cinders above.
On his back, under the backpack, Vadim experienced a strange feeling, as if
somebody had ran a finger across him with an uncut nail. The feeling was related to
Bashkalo, silent behind him. Bashkalo had become strangely quiet on this little detour...
Almost delicate, even.
- Hell will come here, - said Petrovich. - I sincerely advise you, I'm not joking. You
have a wife, a child.. And you came here...
- Comrade Senior Ensign... - Vadim said again.
- Call me “Nikolaich” Do not argue! Do not argue! - Petrovich spat. - He's creasing
the muzzle, you look at this. I'm talking to you seriously and you are pulling a face... In
Afganistan all I did was bury guys like you, and here in the Zone all I do is bury guys like
you, and soon I'll start to kill guys like you myself...
- Nikolaich, comrade Senior Ensign. Thank you. I understood. I need to be here.
Do you understand? Let's go on, comrade ... Nikolaich.
- Did you think I'm checking you out through dibs now, puppy? - Petrovich asked
angrily.
Vadim was so amazed that he was almost offended. For some reason, he did not
suspect the Soviet Ensign was joking - and just got for it being unfairly scolded.
Petrovich read this on his face and slouched. Apparently, it was “I'm sorry”.
Bashkalo intruded a non-statutory awkwardness; he had finally got burst. Or got
sick.
- Hey, so what are you doing?
- E-e-eh, kids! - said Petrovich, sounding very non-military. - So then fuck you.
Forward, left step, to the “risks”, go around them, me on the left, you on the right. Do
not step on them. And then – silence. Got it, boy? Bashkalo, from here we silently keep
moving. Do you understand?

14
 - As for me, I understand... - Bashkalo responded.
- Another one hundred meters according to the map, half a kilometer objectively.
You will see how it is and what's here. He needs... - Petrovich muttered, not to Vadim,
but under the breath. And to Vadim he said: - Think about it! And go ahead, come on,
next to me.
They reached the destination in twenty minutes, using a dozen of “risks” and
finding just as many old ones. Vadim remarked to himself that Petrovich had not
ordered any pole to be driven into the ground. On the right the railway embankment
also stretched on, and everything was so much the same, was so usual, the steppe, the
cloudy summer sky, the embankment, but it lasted and lasted and dragged on, so you,
dying of boredom, could imagine yourself inside a “combined shooting”, walking on the
spot against the backdrop of a barrel with a landscape painted on it.
The destination was marked with a corpse. Or crowned, as Vadim would say, if he
was a well-read guy. The corpse looked eerie. Vadim tried to comprehend in which
position the person had died. A heap of broken bones in a hazmat suit. In one lump.
Vadim changed his position, took a step sideways, Petrovich muttered mechanically:
“Move carefully.” Vadim understood. The victim was sitting with his back to them,
stretching out his legs, and these legs were smeared on the ground, like plasticine with
a huge finger, for five meters, with fragments of cloth from his pants, intact woolen
socks, flattened shoes. And a head in a hat made of dog's skin was torn into the torso. A
bent AK-47 trunk stuck out above the hat with a rubber on the flame arrester, as rich
Americans do. Hands, like a broken puppet, lay on the sides of an oblate torso, palms
up, as if the dying man threw his arms up, and they broke away from the shoulders.
- Who is this? - asked Bashkalo quietly.
Petrovich did not answer straight away, and replied while preoccupied with
surveying the area. Squatting down and looking at the nearest square meters of the
steppe, he said after about a minute and a half:
- Please meet Candidate for Doctor of Sciences: Malyutin, Alex. From Moscow. We
made a discovery with him. For the first time in the world the area of the gravitational
locale of an anomalous, bitch, intensity, and this... vector of direction was located and
explored. Also, bitch, abnormal. I seem to have said everything right. Well, fine, Alex the
Candidate... Can you imagine, he tells me: you see, comrade Petrovich, it's all about
gauze. We are, he says, not in a vacuum, the nut is initially heavier that's why, he says,
the horizontal, I think, vector of anomalous gravity has time... well, to grab the gauze
and to pull it, as I understood him. And the density of the air. And this can be seen with
the naked eye. That's what, he says, we have to fix. Now you are going to throw and I
will take pictures... Alex used to call this thing “procrustes”. There was such ancient
Greek, a sadist. Together we, I mean me and Alex, were here four times. We even
settled down a little... There is our fireplace... We dragged down the instruments, but in
vain. These were all the measurements he made: the spring scale worked, the flares, a
goose feathers and the gauze on “risks”. And some boxes with electricity – not a damn
thing. And the camera. It was allowed then to use optics, it did not burn the eyes. But

15
what killed Alex - was actually the camera... Fine. Group, stand at ease. I designate the
safe limits. From here to here. A fireplace. Safety. Fifteen meters to the left - is
unknown. Did you understand?
- That's right, - Vadim and Bashkalo said discordantly in chorus, and the Senior
Ensign took out his pack of royal “Rodopi” and offered one to Bashkalo. Petrovich
continued, while smoking:
- But however, Alex used up about ten exercise books, ninety-six pennies each.
And you see, you cannot even get them now... - Petrovich coughed. - They were in his
backpack... We used to stay here for two-three days. Alex would carry his folding chair
with him.
Vadim noticed the chair: a folding structure of steel wire with a wet canvas seat.
- He died and I fell under investigation. I had to bring an officer from special
Department here, so as not to go to jail for the murder of one of our leading scientific
employees. Half a year ago still, you could have been imprisoned for the loss of a
warrior in the Zone, do you know that, cub? That officer drinks now... Drinks a lot, till
blackout. They say, right up to the dismissal of the officer's status by the court. And he
writes the reports on the upholstery of the room. With his finger.
- Well, that's clear, Nikolaich, - said Bashkalo, who had got bored. (“Interesting,
does his mustache smell of vomit?”, thought either Vadim or Mumbler. His nose was
itching because of Bashkalo's presence.) - We had admired the view, - continued
Bashkalo, cleaning the ash from the cigarette with his little finger. - Rest in peace, soft-
boiled bones. So why did you bring us here? To frighten our goose? I heard everything,
how you promised him five thousand. And filing for a madman. Makarenko1.
- You say you heard? - Petrovich asked again. - Well, if you heard then you heard.
It happens in the Zone. A whisper, like in a church. That's why being delicate is so
important. You know, Vasya, like in a prison cell?
He suddenly slammed Bashkalo on the shoulder, squeezed the shoulder with his
rake and pushed it towards himself, almost reached his eye with the cigarette.
- No, Vasya, we didn't come here for this, not for fear. We're going to make
science, you understand? What Alex could not do, but we will. This is not about
heaviness, it's about other thing. Something valuable. You will understand.
Ensign Bashkalo did not try to escape. He didn’t even seem frightened. He was
smoking, lifting the cigarette to the side of his mustache and blowing the smoke away,
and he did not take his eyes off the boss.
- Alex the Candidate made one calculation and explained it to me, I want to check
it, finally, - said Petrovich. - If he has come up with the right thing, we will make money.
Scientists will hang themselves. And you, screwy Vasya, will help me. To check.
The sound of the engine was heard. From the other side of the mound, from the
concrete. Vadim gave up watching the theatrical scene “who's going to overwhelm
whom” and even stood on his toes, trying to see the moving mechanism.
1
Makarenko, Anton Semyonovich, (1(13) March 1888 - 1 April 1939) was a famous educator, writer, and one of
the founders of Soviet pedagogy. Promoted democratic ideas and principles in educational theory and practice.
Makarenko is often reckoned among the world's great educators.

16
 - Comrade Senior Ensign!.. Someone is coming!
The LiAZ bus, the passenger transport serial number 20224, had driven past
them during its five-hour trip exactly three years ago, in the summer of 1987. On this
bus, next to Doctor Vyatkin, was Vadim himself, sitting with his arm broken and hurting
so much that he could even see the white dots. He, an ordinary scoop, was being taken
to the hospital, and he did not remember now, but then it appeared to him through the
pain, that three armed figures were standing behind the mound. Then the bus jolted,
the figures disappeared, his arm hurt, and Vadim forgot, forgot, forgot about them...
Vadim woke up.
Ensign Bashkalo was lying on the ground on his back, calmly looking at Petrovich,
who was hanging over him, while still smoking with his bloody mouth. Vadim froze. He
missed the fight completely. The standoff in the stalls lasted, probably, for another
minute.
The cigarette was finished, the argument had smoldered down to the filter.
Bashkalo brought it to the blood-stained mustache, the ash fell from the filter, hissed in
the blood; Bashkalo grimaced, spat to the side and crushed the filter with his fingers.
Senior Ensign Petrovich, Nikolai Nikolaevich was silent, standing over him.
- Comrade Senior Ensign!.. - said Vadim. - It seems that the bus has passed by.
- Yes, it happens here, - answered Petrovich calmly. - Sometimes they ride.
Ghosts. It is damn clear. Eight thousand eight hundred and sixty-two people. Missing
people. Just in the city. In one hour. Not a single body was found. Ghosts, of course.
There must be a lot of them here. Eight thousand eight hundred and sixty-two ghosts,
including women and children. Plus six thousand two hundred and two officers,
ensigns and soldiers on active duty in the steppe. Not counting unregistered farmers
and others on their places... And sometimes they're not even ghosts. It happens! Stop
chattering, private. Vasily! I am speaking to you personally. Do you understand me,
Vasily? Or are you refusing again to follow a combat order?
- Hey you, youngster! - said Bashkalo from the stalls in the same calm tone, and
not moving. - He's gone crazy, I mean it. For a long time the rumor was spreading
around the quarantine, that Kolya Petrovich has gone crazy. He goes to missions with a
group and comes back alone. And, you see, he says, that they stopped imprisoning
people for this. They began to believe what people say. “Died performing a rescue or
reconnaissance operation in the area of a natural disaster of unknown kind.” And he is
telling this now to you and me. Understand, goose? Listen, Nikolaich, I didn't believe
this! - said Bashkalo to Petrovich. - I hit one in his face for these words. You know me,
Nikolaich, we served in the same military unit! And this is how it turns out. It turns out
this is true. Came out with a group, came back alone. Did you kill them yourself? Or had
you brought them here and leave?
- Do you refuse to carry out a military order regarding a scientific investigation of
this anomaly? - Petrovich asked persistently. - Talk to me straight, why are you fidgeting
like a woman, you comrade Ensign of the Soviet army?
- Comrade Senior Ensign! Allow me to go! - said Vadim.

17
 Bashkalo licked his lips.
- Call me “Nikolaich”, youngster, - said Petrovich.
- All right, Nikolaich, all right. I will go, - said Bashkalo. - Everything is fine. But I
need to treat the hand with peroxide. Look how it is grazed.
- Then stand up, comrade Ensign. Prepare for the task. Personally yours.
And he turned his back to Bashkalo as if nothing had happened and came to the
“procrust” boundary, which was only clear to him. The remains of the scientist were just
a step away.
- I remember everything, Alex, everything... - said Petrovich to them. - Hey you,
Fenimore! Listen, newbie, what was that.., Sverzhin, be attentive. This... What the fuck
was it called? This gitik! According to Alex's calculations it is doubled. It stands in the
shape of eight, two glasses back to back. Two zeros. Give me my stick, youngster.
Vadim picked up the stick, handed it over. Ensign Bashkalo also approached,
hanging the rifle on his shoulder, tense, attentive, very concentrated. Vadim sneezed as
his approached.
The Senior Ensign was drawing on the ground with the end of a brush.
- Here's how that is. This “zero” is - the closest one. Has been founded by Alex.
And here's how the second one is located by the first. I'd found it during the first
mission when I walked around the heavy one. Like an “eight” on its side. They are only
ten meters in diameter each and both are the same. You can bypass it on the left using
the “risks”. It is safe. I did it before. Have I already said that? And here, between them,
I've noticed the traction, like in a good furnace. It starts at throwing the “risk”. Pulling
smoke somewhere. How much we had burned there...
He slipped the stick to Vadim, took out his wallet from one of his pockets, and
from the wallet - a piece of a comb, a piece of paper and, continuing to talk, he quickly
made a smoke pot.
- And Alex ascertained that where the joint and traction are between these
“procrustes”, something strange is present. By appearance – it is the effect of
“invisibility”, with air-to-air special effects, with oxygen, with gas. A step forward - there
is something, a step back - you don't see anything. Hocus-pocus, as I showed you,
Sverzhin, with the “risks” and the fog. “Risks” just disappear in the hole, but nothing
thumps as it would if they fell in the heavy stuff, nothing like this. And then Alex
thought of throwing “a cat” in there and pulling it back out.
Vadim (“Fenimore, or already Fenimore with a capital F? Huh?”, leaned out
Mumbler) was listening to Petrovich as he used to listen to cosmonaut Makarov.
Madness is infectious and contagious, and Senior Ensign Petrovich, Nikolai Nikolaevich,
judging by his tone and appearance, was now completely out of his mind, like everyone
who creates (or imagines he does) a story or a feat.
This time, the wrapper of a cigarette pack, glued on the sides with a blue
electrical tape, appeared from Petrovich's wallet. Petrovich first showed it to Vadim,
then handed it to him. In the wrapper Vadim saw a dry, bluish flower and the curved
stalk of some plant with sharp leaves on it. He stared at Petrovich. Petrovich grinned.

18
 - Bennettit! Did you understand, my Fenimore? An ancient flower, shortly. And
even more precisely – a protoflower. That's what we took out with that “cat”. Live
protoflower. I personally saw Alex drank two bottles1 like water. Two hundred million
years ago... or whenever it was. The Cretaceous of the Jurassic, did you understand,
son?.. In this hole is the Cretaceous! Understand?
He suddenly cut himself off, stopped smiling and lifted a finger, and said
anxiously.
- Oh! Do you hear? There is a shooting somewhere.
“Somewhere” nearby the fuse had flipped.
Vadim would remember forever that after the first hit, the smile returned to the
face of the Senior Ensign, and each of the next four bullets that pierced Petrovich from
the back made this smile wider, more cheerful, more sincere.
- There is a time hole, did you understand, son? - said Petrovich, gurgling and
dying. - I myself... oh... uh... like water...
And he died and fell on his side, as if at attention.
Bashkalo transferred the smoking pupil of the machine gun to Vadim. Vadim
stepped from foot to foot. Bashkalo barked quietly:
- Freeze, sonny! He'd gone crazy. He deserved it. And got it. He's dead. That's all!
And now you. A question! How should I finish you, bitch, immediately next to him or
with a benefit for science? Huh, contract boy? Want to suffer a bit more? It's up to you,
I'll provide that. And meanwhile, put the rifle on the ground slowly. And the twig, throw
away the twig too. F-Fenimore, fucking bitch!
Darkness was looking at Vadim with no blinking, with no trembling, the smoke
had faded away, Bashkalo's hands were firm, and Petrovich was not killed in hysterics;
and he was ready to kill Vadim clearly and consciously. Actually, the lecture about “went
out with a group, came back alone” he had read to himself, not to Petrovich. Now they
don't imprison you. Vadim sneezed. “You will not die”, Mumbler told to Vadim. You
cannot. You have girls. Irka and Katty. And Zhitkur did not order this.
- Don't shoot, comrade Ensign, - Vadim said calmly.
- Or what? - Bashkalo asked oddly, lifted his chin.
- Or then no one will pull living plants out of the hole, which have been dead for
two hundred million years. I can't even imagine how much they may cost. Even if paid a
penny for a year.
Bashkalo snorted. Vadim sneezed.
- Cheers to you, bitch! - said Bashkalo with a twitch. He was really calm; excited,
but not rabid. He was working. - Everything is possible in the Zone, you're right. Piss,
not war! Five-storey buildings fly, air cuts people, equipment operates itself. You can
walk a kilometer in a month, like at the airdrome, from hangar-three to meteorological
booth. And why not to visit the time hole? Science fiction. But if you, Fenimore, don't
put the rifle on the damp mother-earth right now, arsehole...
Vadim moved his shoulder, the rifle slipped, balanced against his leg. Vadim

1
Of vodka, of course.

19
moved his leg; the rifle fell.
Bashkalo's cap nodded approvingly. But the rifle did not move; as if it was cast
into space. Vadim was already too tired not to blink, his eyes were stinging.
- And everything else. The backpack, the jacket. The knife, the gun. Slowly. Take
off your gas mask too.
Watching the disarming of the survivor, Bashkalo sat down on the Alex the
Aspirant's chair. Vadim also wanted to sit. But the KHM together with its owner was
watching his slightest movement and the fuse was off. The scientist’s chair seemed
strong. Bashkalo sat carefully first, but when Vadim was removing a device for
measuring the parameters, Bashkalo somehow tested the strength of the chair and,
moving the ass, sat freely, spreading his legs, with his whole center of gravity. The
distance between him and Vadim was equal to four good spittles, but just as Petrovich's
corpse was lying across the directory, so was Vadim's equipment. Only Bruce Lee would
be able to jump over this all, dodging the oncoming bullets. By the method of
“combined shooting”.
Vadim’s clothes were a blend of wool, with the stockings of the hazmat suit over
the celebrated American shoes. He was cold, but he stood motionless, waiting. He was
freezing, trying not to tremble. He was sniffing and (already habitually) moving his
fingers at the hips, at least so checking the external situation. He sneezed twice, not
because of the cold, but because Bashkalo was making his nose itch stronger. Bashkalo
suddenly took out a bottle of vodka from somewhere, uncorked it and began to sip
gently from the bottleneck, watching Vadim with one eye. Vadim shivered when the
bottle became empty. Bashkalo dropped it in front of him and deftly crushed it with a
heel.
- Want some? - he asked, taking out the second. - Vodka in the Motherland is
really like water, but to you – according to the circumstances - even water is not
superfluous.
- No.
- “No, sir”, Anika-warrior. You had to say “no” at home, to your mother. So if it's
“no” then get on with the task. Assigned by the heroically fallen Senior Ensign. Let's see
what there is for two hundred million... pennies.
- I need to take something, - said Vadim, pointing to Petrovich's corpse, pretty
drenched in blood.
- No question, take it, - Bashkalo pressed the bottom of the half-empty second
bottle into the ground and aimed, holding the machine gun with both hands.
The dead, Alex the Aspirant and Petrovich, had been absolutely right. Several
flares marked the shape of “eight” of the “gitiks” perfectly, as in the class. Smelly smoke
was being blown along the boundaries of “locations of anomalous gravitational
intensities of unknown kind”, clearly denoting them.
- Two hundred million pennies... Some crooked junior science employee gets four
thousand one hundred and eighty-five rubles per month! - proclaimed Bashkalo
suddenly from somewhere from another world. There too, a thought process was

20
ongoing, gaining momentum, being born, coming to conclusions and finding the
general meaning of things. But Vadim did not even turn around, mesmerized by the
almost living twists of smoke. It was akin (not the same, but akin) to the drawing of
tobacco smoke in the sun, peeking through the cracks in the dark shed.
- And he sits in his tents - clicks on the scores, did you understand?! Damned JR!
Call me formally by name and patronymic, he says... And what about an academic then
- a hundred thousand per month? I beat the shit out of their mother together with your
Gorbachev! Who marks the tracks? An academic? Who carries devices and cables? JRs?
Who carries jars, funnels, loots inside and out? Gorbachev? Fu-cking no! Me! I went out
to the airfield, I went to the “Zhitkur” object, reached up to halfway together with
Pasha-Maz! (Here Vadim picked up his ears for a second. “Yes-yes-yes”, said Mumbler,
“'Pasha-Maz'. I wrote down.”) And to me, to me! - two hundred rubles with deductions
for the work. Where round here should I spend it? Quarantine? Fuck your quarantine.
“And maybe”, thought Vadim, appealing to Mumbler, “this is not two gitiks but
one?” “Or a system of two”, picked up Mumbler. “The system is even probably better”,
Vadim agreed. “But when it is the only one - this is flawed”, said Mumbler. “So you're an
astronomer”, said Vadim. Mumbler chuckled, self-satisfied. Vadim lit up another couple
of pieces of the comb and threw them; one to the right, filling the gap of the smoky
hoop, the second directly into the center of the hole. It then disappeared. Vadim stood
on a knee, watching. At the junction of two parts of the “eight”, the smoke drew a pipe
from the inside, accelerating, getting denser... and suddenly a hefty, upright circle
appeared in front of Vadim. Vadim jumped up and back for a couple of steps,
completely stunned.
- We have talked to the guys for a long time. Many are unhappy! Because this is
not right. We are here, in the Zone, in the middle of the Trouble, the main ones, so you
pay us well. And here, you see, you're driven. We teach you, drag you, share the combat
experience with you. And here we are now! You are living off us along with the same
psychos as our resting Senior Ensign Petrovich. Wanted me to go as a bumper, b-bitch!
Me! So “a thousand and a half” goose made sense to him. And me, the old stalker... he
decided to appoint me as a bumper in a tough place. And for what? The poles were lost!
I did not lose them... So, what's up with you, contract boy? What the hell!
Vadim turned around. Bashkalo was standing, his gun lowered, staring at the
smoke arch in space, his jaw hanging as far as the chin strap allowed. However, he
recovered faster than Vadim.
- Stop, sto-op! - he said, taking Vadim on sight again. - Calm down, son. Ye-e-es...
Fucking gitik! - he exclaimed softly and cheerfully. - The time hole. Well... Fine. Are you
ready for work and defense, comrade traveler to the past?
Vadim imagined how Bashkalo saw him, Vadim, in general, so to speak. Against
the background of the smoke patterns, in the center of the main arch of the system of
gitiks “The Time Hole -1”. A beautiful target. (Mumbler laughed.)
- As for me - I'm ready, - said Vadim loudly, cutting off this laugh, which nobody
except him could hear. - And what about you, a chunk, are you ready?

21
 - So you're not a pussy, right? A brave one, right? - said Bashkalo grinning, with
pleasure. - Well, say it, say it, bumper. Last speeches. The Senior Ensign Petrovich was
kind, but Ensign Bashkalo is evil. No damn way, puppy, you will not understand me. And
you did not understand the meaning of the situation. For you it won't make a difference
if I was lying as a corpse now and Petrovich was drinking vodka. Do you think he's
better than me? He has done in more of ours here than guerillas in his Afghanistan! He
was a beast, his soul was dead!
Vadim stopped listening to him. Bashkalo noticed this immediately.
- So you're a brave one, right? - he said over the gunsight. - Well, come on, come
on, come on, go ahead... you sensitive leather stocking. Bring me some prehistorical
loots, my two-legged cat. Some flowers. Dinosaurs. And will see, what we shall do with
you later. But if you don't get out, then you don't. A grenade after you. You don't know,
right? Exactly “procrustes” explode very well. How do you think we made it almost
halfway to the airfield? So many of these tough places were there... Stand down, - he
said to himself. - Come on, Sverzhin. Farewell.
Vadim turned away, looking at the hole, that means looking at the steppe, framed
with a smoke frame. “Slowly, try it with your hand first”, timidly suggested Mumbler,
who became serious. Vadim shook his head. No. He rummaged around the belt, pulled
out another strip of gauze from the clamp.
- Hey, hey, warrior, no jokes!.. - proclaimed Bashkalo expressively.
Vadim showed him the gauze over the shoulder. Bashkalo went silent. Vadim tied
several knots at one of the ends, one above the other, put the formed ball in his mouth
and began drooling on it. The wet ball weighted the strip rather well for something
homemade, making the “risk” manageable, but without a sinker, without a nut. For
some reason here and now it seemed important to be iron-free. (The thought about the
first one who ran through the second railcar flashed again.) Keeping the “risk” in his
outstretched hand, Vadim began to swing it forward and backward. Here the ball
touched the hole, like the surface of a vertical puddle, no waves ran, but the gauze
immediately stretched out. Vadim unclasped his fingers and the hole sucked it in. And
Vadim, without a farewell sigh, bent and stepped after it. And disappeared.
Having waited a moment, ensign Bashkalo licked the mustache, sticky with blood,
lowered the barrel of the machine gun and said into space:
- And what now, bitch? Is that all, bitch?
Meanwhile, two hundred million years ago Vadim was smothered by an
enormous sun, by overwhelming heavy, damp odors, making his knees weak, knocking
him down and tossing at the same time. And he fell with his eyes shut, not painfully but
heavily on the left side and left shoulder, as if somebody had snatched him back and
thrown him to the left. He knew for sure that he had already fallen, struck the ground,
but inside everything continued to fly, to churn, howling with cold in the lower
abdomen... and a huge wet rough palm grabbed him in that place between the ears,
where the balance control center of the brain is located, crumpled it into a ball, and
threw it to another huge wet rough palm. And back. And forth again. And he was aware

22
of all this, with no sign of fainting. His head was ringing clearly, and this ringing clarity
was thrown from side to side.
He waited. The panic of the five senses subsided with his eyes shut. Signals from
the periphery appeared: “It's wet!”, they informed him. He opened one eye and
immediately saw a prehistoric bennettite flower on its stalk, bent in front of his nose.
Vadim shook himself up. With one eye open, somehow the head wasn't spinning.
He was sitting in the thickets of Wollemi, his last “flare” was giving off smoke in
front of him, dirty gauze strips were hanging on a stems of strange grasses, including
his own, the clean one with the ball, wet with drool. There were also a few rusty nuts
thrown by Alex the Aspirant. The sun was pressing from above, it was sweltering, the air
was bitter, and one had to literally drink it, rather than inhale, so dense it was.
- July 14, 64, 765, 563, 122 BC, - said Mumbler aloud, without hiding. Not two
hundred million, but also nice. Please shave, like dad said.
Vadim looked around. Behind him was a pile of some kind of a fern, from which
some kind of bamboo tree protruded. Not bamboo. Dinosaur-like, with scales. On the
left, in an Ilex's embrasures, which was not focusing in the eyes, glistened either a hairy
lake or a Savannah, simply flooded with water. Everything was sparkling unbearably,
everything was wet, everywhere were rainbows. On the right there were impenetrable
bushes. Not bushes. Something green and impenetrable. The Lost World, the “black”
Conan Doyle in eight volumes. All this did not interest Vadim; he had already come to
his senses. He was interested in the way out. From here, from this side nothing clearly
indicated the time hole, but even in this heat there was a feeling of heavy chill on the
sweaty back, cold from the Zone. The hole was there and the hole was open. Vadim was
surprised: the temperature difference was very high, dozens of degrees, there must be
steam, it should be steaming like bath doors in winter. But there was no steam. Vadim
looked at his wet dirty hands. Seemed like he was sitting in the puddle. The ground
under his ass was deeply slushy, saturated with wet humus; brown water flooded the
dents from his palms right before his eyes. Something buzzed past his face like a slow
bullet, Vadim twitched the head away. His vision still could not cope with the general
focus, the huge green sunny world fell on its side every time he opened the second eye,
the dizziness was still there, as strong as ever... Something in the stomach slurped
loudly and gave a nasty taste in his mouth; but it pleased him. “Now I am going to
vomit”, thought Vadim, “And it will become easier, as on the “neutral” with the first
“kiss”. Yes, yes, it is already getting easier.”
Then it began. He did not have time. The hell knows why “Montana” on his hand
started to play.
Tam-ta-tam-ta. Ta-ta-tam. Never let me go. Tam-tadam-tadam...
The first organized melody played on planet Earth, the Solar System, Milky Way,
God's World, by the very first tune attracted to the confused, disoriented Vadim the
keen attention of a young Triceratops, who had just left his group of hatchlings in the
morning of this ancient day. The young Triceratops had gone into the jungle because it
was now time for the heroic and dangerous adventure of searching for the mother of

23
his offspring. He was equally scared and uncertain, but male pride was burning at his
intimate parts and forcing him on, and he was ready to snack on flint and rape T-Rex
females. So, is it possible to blame him for the fact that the squeaking of the watch,
inaccurate in its electronic annoyance, and the general light-headedness of the melody
infuriated him to the point of “kill immediately, bite!”? The young Torosaurus walked
through the Jurassic, looking out for the moos of young females, and here we go -
music by Poulton, words by Fosdick, performance by Elvis Presley. Who would not be
furious? Everyone would be furious.
Vadim did not immediately distinguish the attacking horned hippo from the
surrounding flora. And that actually saved his life, when he finally did, like a bunny on a
mysterious picture, and realized that the tenth chapter of “The Lost World” had already
begun.

24
 PART ONE
1990. DIFFERENT OFFERS

Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)

File “Blinchuk-4”
A fragment of self decryption, pp. 1-5

(Spelling errors fixed)

(For the previous meetings, we had developed a little communication ritual, I do not
want to decipher the reasons behind. Blinchuk, scarcely seeing me and scarcely saying
“Hello”, started whining again and again, with the peevishness of a helpless sick man, how it
nags at him, on his deathbed, that he never visited the Zone. But he could have. Oh, he could
have! His rating would crush any Wobenaka. Or Gena the Genious, now deceased. But it
didn't work out. And even now, when it doesn't matter anymore, the evil troublers, trackers,
they are also selfish smugglers, and related others - the little boozers, the clumsy beggars,
and border-hoppers, allowed him to go only to the “neutral”. But he still didn't reach the exit,
he was banned. He, who had been working as a god of the Perimeter for fifteen years! And
here is your regard, here is your glory. And what is he supposed to do, whom to ask so that
he will at least be buried there, in the Trouble. In the park of the Old Tens. That is his dying
wish. If only you, comrade writer, could put in a word for me before your aliens. It is not the
Ass, his former subordinate and protégé, that the old General and Major Blinchuk should
ask. And so on so forth.)
- Sergey Borisovich, this is now the third time you're trying to wring a tear from me,
saying how unfortunate you are, nobody needs you, old retired General-Major; damned
Maloroslikov pranked you, the bloody Putin hadn't given a hand.
- And what, is it so hard for you to listen to the whining of a dying man once again? I
should have finished you, such an insensitive shit you are, right at the moment you appeared
in my Pre-Zone on April 6th, 1998 on a thirteen-hour bus. I would have sent someone, and -
you would be finished like a gnat. Actually, get out of here! Now I'll call Dr. Vyatkin, and he'll
expose you. Doctor Vyatki-in! Come here!
- For the third time, Sergei Borisovich. This is already recorded and will not disappear.
- Got out of it. Well, give me some water.
(Drinks)
- So they set me up as the Commandant at the Trouble in 1990. In November. After the
putsch, the mess, the bickering, that time I was a Colonel. And then Pasha Grachev called me
from Ukraine, and... And until the end, until the fifteenth, until last year... Did you at least
know this, writer?
- The whole world knows this, Sergey Borisovich. But the putsch was in 91. And you
were appointed as a Commandant of the Zone in 1990. By the Gorbachev’s decree.
(Pause)

25
 - You know what? Fuck you, smart ass!
(Drinks)
- The whole world... I did my job badly if the whole world knows me!
(Drinks)
- On the other hand, though I was like the Governor-General... How can you not know
me... And everybody knew... Ones who needed to know and who didn't need to... So, I didn't
tell you yesterday, I didn't tell you the day before, but I will tell you today. I was, Shug...
pshug... pshuitz... Stierlitz1, damn it! I have been watching you carefully, from that day, when
you came to my Pre-Zone on a fake visa. Ufologist-conspirator! I know exactly who you are.
That's why I agreed to talk to you, as I'm dying. I know that the “troublers” trust you, that the
trackers care of you and that you had your hands on the Trouble Radio and saved many in
the Trouble through this matter. And that you're kind of a priest-confessor here... Although
you're a boor.
- Sergey Borisovich.
- Quiet and “yes, sir”, you scribbler! Damned putsch in ninety-one... Well yes, in ninety-
one! And you say “yes” and list-ten, what if there is a reason why I, an old stub with the brain
cancer, am telling you the same for the third time. About death, about funerals, about the
fact that I have never been in the Zone, never stood a foot. So get this, writer! Maybe
repeating makes sense, think about it. And you tell me about your putsch.
- I'm listening.
(Finishes the water)
- Is Antipov still flying?
- Still flying.
- Pour some more water. The water from the “neutral” is delicious. Where was I? Yes.
Accordingly, we are very fortunate that the Americans fall under the Lightning2, that's the
thing. There was no way to hide the Zone because of them. Although Gorbachev, and then
even Yeltsin, gave their civilian subordinates instructions to submit such proposals, and then
Yeltsin even delegated the question to the General Staff. I know this for sure. I had been
transferred from Chernobyl to Kapustin not just because, I was present at all their tea-
drinking meetings, have been wasting the time directly from the Lightning, from Ryzhkov's
commission. That one, you won't remember. At all, starting from the first, on New Year's eve
in eighty-nine...
- Sorry, you said “we are very fortunate with Americans”, Sergey Borisovich. Who are
“we”?
(Pause)
- Humanity, damn it. Such an ufologist you are.
(Pause)
- I'm listening.
- So then yes, sir, listen. The Americans... Now what...
1
Max Otto von Stierlitz (the other name is Isaev, Maxim Maximovich, and the real name is Vladimirov,
Vsevolod Vladimirovich) is the lead character in a popular Russian book series written in the 1960s by novelist Yulian
Semyonov. and dedicated to the work of the USSR intelligence service during the Second World War.
2
The disaster, which caused appearance of Mother-Trouble.

26
 (Highlights “now”)
- ...we are fortunate - it's understandable why. The internationalization of the Zone,
albeit under a moratorium, is not going anywhere. But even then! In ninety-one, when I ran
out of money all at once - Americans helped out. And earlier, straight away. In all the
editorial offices of the Commission for the Zone affairs there were Americans. There are, for
example, Yeltzin, Gorbachev and Nazarbaev sitting down and here is Matlock in a corner,
rubbing his glasses. He went there like it was his work. Although, of course, there were secret
meetings too. I'll tell you later... maybe. I remember that time I was agreeing with all of
them, say, that would be good if the quarantine would be tight, up to the idea that the
administrative border with Kazakhstan, at that time still a republic, should be moved for at
least thirty kilometers off the exclusion zone around Kapustin and the rest of the test-site, like
in Chernobyl, for fifty kilometers - even better. To decide something about the river, to start a
project for a bridge across Ahtuba near Kotly, the highway and the railway to Astrakhan
through it, through the floodplain... and total unity in military command. And of course, all
this is sponsored by Americans. That's what was the politics... In the Soviet Union, until it was
over, it would have still been possible, at least at the level of decision-making. We did not
have enough time.
(Thinks)
- Actually, later the bridge was built somehow, but with the rest, with the quarantine, it
didn't work out...
- Sergey Borisovich, sorry to interrupt, I didn't ask yesterday, the most interesting in all
those meetings with the presidents for me...
- So you always interrupt! I have already told you: you can interrupt. Interrupt. You
see, I confuse the dates. Enough apologizing. You're not a gentleman, and I'm not a
monsieur.
- Have you there, in the Kremlin, considered at least some of the Lightning's other
possible reasons? I mean - seriously. Because from the January 1990 there were already
regular film shoots at the “thirteenth hostel”, the phalanx was also filmed in the garage
cooperative, and things with time-space were already reliably recorded. And there was not a
single corpse in the city - that was known from the beginning...
- Exactly so. But in general, there wasn't any talk about aliens, you know... They
avoided it. And, accordingly, me too. What damn aliens, they said? Unknown kind and that's
it. A gaz meteorite, it’s final. How can serious people talk about this?! Such words aren't even
invented...
(Drinks)
- When Gaidar began to drag his father-in-law, the writer, Strugatsky, to these
gatherings, I could see how they were jarred. Everybody was jarred. And it jarred me. Fiction
writer at the meeting of a top-secret government commission! What a story... What are you
staring at? The writer was invited not to a bathhouse for some culture, but to a serious adult
meeting, with minutes... Gaidar, yes, he seriously considered it, but kept silent. He was a
cunning, clever guy. And this Natanovich, although he's a science fiction writer, he used to be
in the military, moreover, he was in our military, special one... He also acted smart. That was

27
impressive. Like, he was just sitting with his stick, but whatever he says - everything is right to
the point. He actually recommended announcing an indefinite quarantine, to build the camp
for the troublers and not let anybody out... And those who had already left, to relatives
maybe, following the resettlement program - make them come back. Notwithstanding the
titles. Such a mess started there, whoa! Everybody was stunned. But I was ready to put a
candle for him1 because of this for so many times! In the beginning - how they were all
barking at him...with one voice. I was also barking, such a fool. Like, it's not nineteen thirty-
seven anymore. Democracy, human rights. New thinking. Those times nobody even knew
these words, that's what it is about.
- And Matlock? Was he there at the time?
- And Matlock was listening, sipping tea... Or whatever was in his thermos. Coca-Cola.
We always kept his own thermos. And an interpreter. He spoke Russian, but not very well.
- And then?
- And he says: I think, he says, the opinion of Arkadiy Natanovitch is a deeply
thoughtful opinion (it is full of thoughtful thought). And everyone immediately became silent.
Impressive! It's horrendous what would have happened if there had been no quarantine.
- M-m, yes... And Strugatsky, did he also say nothing about an aliens, about UFOs?..
- I'm telling you, ufologist: with Gaidar they were birds of feather. Smart people, but
father-in-law was experienced, been there. A drinker, a person who understands. But they
both also knew how to keep quiet. And this book... About stalkers... He did write it, invented it
in his head! When I was reading it, I did not believe my own eyes! Ten years before the
Lightning... even more! With his brother... The book itself spoke for him. Even Yeltsin read it
afterwards, I know this for sure... His brother, a scientist, was also at the meeting once... And
in general I had a strange feeling that he, this Arkady, somehow knew something more, and
knew it in advance. After all, Gorbachev reported object to the Commission about Zhitkur-9
not instantly, but when he had already signed his resignation. In January of ninety-one... The
soviet Union was already finished.
(Laughs)
- That moment everybody lost the gift of speech. Yeltsin whacked his chair into the
wall, consequently Primakov dropped the glass with kefir... And Gorbachev is just sits there,
calm, blinks, fidgeting with a pen in a hands... So, this Arkady Strugatsky, in my opinion,
didn't even change his face expression... Set that aside. Listen, ufologist, I lied to you, listen!
Gaidar was not even there, at the first meetings! But Strugatsky already was present. He
already attended the meetings in eighty-nine, Pavlov was there, Ryzhkov, Khryuchkov, of
course, and no Yeltsin in sight, I had been flying from Ukraine... At Yazov's call.. Exactly!
- It is strange.
- Do you understand? Even I do not know everything, okay? Officially, I was transferred
to Kapustin on the fifteenth of November, and on the twentieth, the first meeting of the
Commission was held with Yeltsin invited as the president of the RSFSR. Because this was still
the Soviet Union, not CIS... But Nazarbayev, yes, was already the president. Of the republic.

1
Russian Orthodox rite. Putting a candle in the church for a human means asking God to take care of this
human personally.

28
And he was worrying a lot. Such a horror was happening in the Kazashsky Corner of the
Zone. The terrifying walls of the fire, this plasma lava... Well, you saw the movie.
- Mm, well... And the name “Kazashsky”, did everybody call it so from the very
beginning?
- I do not understand.
- “Kazakh” would be correct. Kazakh Corner, Kazakh Curve.
- Fuck knows. It just happened so. Actually, I never thought about it.
- By the way why did the main word not catch on if everything was by Strugatskys?
- What main word?
- Stalker.
- Stalker? Is this your question? A-a-a fuck kn... Set that aside, I remember! This
Natanovich also asked me... it was disturbing him. That is when we were drinking with him
later, already in ninety-five or ninety-six, when I was in Moscow for the last time... Why are
you smiling, writer? Understandably that it was interesting for him... It did not catch on
because of Americans. It's something offensive, from English slang. Wanker, or something
like that. Sat that aside, I remember. A peeping tom. A sexual blackmailer, accordingly.
Rubbish. So it did not catch on. And then you, ufologists, immediately appeared in the Pre-
Zone, at that time there was an extraterrestrial craze among the people, and there, among
you, ufologists, climbers and tourists of all sorts, so the “track”, “traverse”, all this, too. Well
“track” is “track” and, accordingly, “trackers”. And it happened. In my opinion, therefore that
is how. As for me, I prefer “walkers”, as we, military men, used to say. And aliens. Although
there is a subtlety. Well, you know.
- I see. I'm very interested in the intensity called the “Mother's cracks”.
- How did you say?
- The “Mother's cracks”.
- It’s the first time I've heard it. And what is this called scientifically?
- I don't know.
- The first time I've heard it. I bet trackers told you tales again, right, writer?
- It seems not.
- Ok then. Don't you hammer my dying head with nails. Ask precisely, about me.
- Yeah... Who did you meet with first regarding the aliens? Surely with Petrovich? The
famous conference in Two Pipes?
- Well, yes. No! I had the aliens to the fullest from the start, almost choked; faced the
Father and his terrible daughter. The same day, to be honest... It was on the next day as I
presented myself to the personnel at the Commandant's office upon arrival. On the
seventeenth of November of nineteen ninety.
- And your “kiss”, by the way, if it's not a secret...
- Pour some water. A single “greeting”, no tongues. Good timing. Fucking paralysis of
the fucking eyeball. The left one. My intuition is weak, you can count I don't have it at all.
Accordingly, the “kiss” is alike this, incomplete. Just like “get off”.
- And you say that you have never been in the Zone...
- I haven’t been in the Zone, I haven’t. This is the truth. You think I'm kidding you? I'm

29
not kidding. I guess I should tell you, right?
- I haven't seen the Father... Very interesting! Legendary times.
- For now maybe they are legendary. But then, I did not make a step out of the
Headquarters without a jar of bromine... When you are sitting in a meeting with the citizens
on Thursdays and Fridays, only bromine can save you. No vodka. Straight to the grave.
People would drink to death, die in a mouth. Because a day lasts for a year... The same in the
Zone and outside... “A hundred meters - ten miles” Yeah...
(Drops the plastic glass. I get under the bed to take the glass.)
- Sorry, slipped out. Yes, so the Father... Even CATU1 did not exist at that time. Two years
before CATU. And the Zone wasn't even registered as QZAI2 yet in Russian documents. Only
locals called it the Trouble. The Trouble, they said, the Mother-Trouble. And outside it was “the
emergency zone”, and that's it. The gas meteorite. There was an order to provide an
exclusion zone, and strict one, at least for ten kilometers around.
- And ZONA, Z, O, N, A, - when is this?
- This is when Yeltsin and Clinton signed the Memorandum. But who's gonna call it like
this here? The Zone is the Zone. Kapustin's quarantine. Blue houses!
- Oh, already then?
- Yes. When else? They are deeply Soviet, these Finnish trailers. They found a few at the
warehouses in the Middle Akhtuba, dismantled, still lying there from the seventies. Helped a
lot. Exactly two families, two entrances. I myself had been living in one with my wife for
about four years.
(Pause)
- It was detected from the tower in the city. Do you know about the tower? Later it
burned like a candle. It was built behind the highway, opposite Volgogradsky checkpoint,
right in the middle of the Dog's village, where they demolished a residential complex. Almost
on the “neutral”, oh God! That time the “neutral” did not get to the center of the Dog's village
yet, only the first line existed... Didn't you hear about that tower? Really didn't? One hundred
and fifty meters? By accord! Five hundred thousand rubles down the drain! I was absolutely
amazed when they showed it to me. Ostankino3 lookalike! Then they tried to sort out the
paperwork for a long time, and then it burned down when the “neutral” spread in '93. Shame
on you, historian... So he was walking along Severodvinsk street, the Father with his girl.
During the night wooly had eaten the fog on the Terminal Square, so the visibility through
the summer part of the “neutral” was perfect. Right above district thirty-nine. And he was wa-
a-alking right down the roadway. I had just come to the Maldavanov's office, haven't even
opened the vault yet. And they give me a call from the tower: this, they say, and this, comrade
Colonel. We are informing you, according to the instructions. A person with a child is walking
in the city, on the territory of the disaster. Do you understand? D-damned watchers, caught
me up, as if I was new. “Turn on the video system, comrade Colonel!” And broadcast an
image from the camera on the TV in my office.
- Was the Father wearing his cloak?
1
Closed administrative territorial unit.
2
Kapustin's Quarantine Zone of Abnormal Intensities.
3
Ostankino Tower is a television and radio tower in Moscow Russia. Standing 540.1 meters (1,772 ft).

30
 - O-oh, was he in his cloak? This cloak was the one and only in the whole world... And
toy guns on it, like on a Christmas tree. And the girl in a cradle on his back. Call
“Kashchenko” mental hospital1. So I was hooked. Grabbed the duty guide and ran into the
Zone, not listening to what he was trying to yell. A hero, heroic among other heroes. Also
dragged my own guard with me, an idiot.
(He crosses his heart twice, as all locals do: from the left to the right and from the right
to the left)
- “Give a horse to the Colonel!” It is funny to remember. Pour some more water.

1
Kashchenko, Pyotr Petrovich (December 28, 1858 (9 January 1859), Yeysk – February 19, 1920, Moscow) was
a famous Russian psychiatrist of Ukrainian origin, author of articles on mental health and mental health services. In
1889-1906 was a director and a Head of a few mental hospitals in Moscow and Saint-Petersburg. From 1922 to 1994
the Moscow Psychiatric Hospital No. 1 was named after Kashchenko. Now the surname has become a common noun
and is used in case of any oddities.

31
 CHAPTER 1

About twenty minutes later the fisherman1-Colonel finally exclaimed that his eye
is, kind of, healed, damn your mother this and, accordingly, that way. Then he said that
this is, as such, an outrage, comrade guide, because Devil knows where the man in the
black cloak down to the heels could go with the child along a terrible street of the dead
city; and that it is necessary, damn you, to warn your boss about the special effects of
the “neutral” that violate the rescue operation in its very beginning.
Comrade guide, a young man named Matveev, and nicknamed Nabis, was silently
listening to the high-ranking fisherman. Because it is no reason to console him, a
scumbag, and it is definitely no reason to argue him, a scumbag, when it's too late for
former and latter alike, when they are already here, already on the “neutral”. Let him
yell. Yell that the transformer is buzzing behind the back wall of the tent, that the
Colonel is now puffing and loudly expressing his horror with bold words. Mad, though.
Ran to the Trouble, to a psychotic bayonet, as soon as the drunk jolly fellows have
showed him the movie with the Father from the tower. As if a year and a half did not
pass after the Lightning, as if people did not die. So let him, a scumbag, yell,. Let him
yell. Moreover, the general tone of the claims is concrete - “he yells with relief”, and
thankfully he is not jumping at least, still sitting in his armchair, does not run from the
body... Well, Nabis keeps silent. Diplomatically. He was waiting for the end. Patience. In
this sense alive (that means - good) tracker is no worse than any Assol. Or a sniper.
The other trackers, that is the guard and the retinue of the Colonel consisting of:
the Ensigns Shultsev and Glyzin, and Korostylyov, the Major, - also kept silent, albeit for
a non-diplomatic reason, but for a physiological one. The Ensigns were being “kissed”
passionately, that means Shultsev was vomiting, and Glyzin has been struck from
behind. As for the Major Kororslylyov, he did not get anything shoddy as a “kiss”, like
the Trouble just shook his hand. that means either he is the first-time tracker of a rare
potential, or he is an experienced tracker, but is hiding it. And keeps silent. Pale, but
silent. “This one is an interesting fisherman”, Nabis decided, “dangerous one. But the
Trouble will redeem anyway. Let's write it down...” And Andreich Nikiforov, the driver of
the “sixty-sixth”, nicknamed Kharon, the master of transferring die-hards from the Earth
to the Trouble, was not considered as tracker. He sat in his bus cab and could not been
seen or heard. He was not taken by the “neutral” into account. Here he was a familiar
figure. You pay to the “neutral” just once, and Kharon was not asking for more. Seventy-
five for leaving the checkpoint, ten per hour for all the time of the trip. And not a single
step into the Zone. Three children, a wife, no one was lost, all are well.
- Well, why don't you say something, comrade guide on duty? - asked the Colonel,
furiously twirling his freed eye, blinking it, massaging it with all his fingers in turn. - You
could try to get out of it or just say “My guilt, sir”, at least. The old Colonel almost lost
the vision! And you, understandibly, didn't give a shit. What is your surname, I did not

1
Skurmach (Russian: скурмач) - a fishing inspector.

32
hear?
Diplomacy...
- Сivilian Matveev, - Nabis said after a pause.
- And why the fuck of unknown kind did you remain silent, guide?
Diplomacy. Nabis “switched on the library”.
- Your mission is a complete unprofessional adventure, comrade Colonel, - he said
quietly, - I tried to warn you earlier at the Headquarters. You did not give a sh... You did
not listen to me. And you, comrade Colonel, are not ready for the mission. And the aim
of the mission is not fucking clear. So I'll just try to bring you back alive. Without
explanations. Who has the ears - will hear... Although we did not walk out there yet. We
are not yet in the Zone...
- How is it that we are not in the Zone? - Colonel was surprised, pressing a
damaged eye with his finger.
Diplomacy. Nabis spit from the car on the white hot concrete of the Stand. This is
the kind of people we have as our bosses. And Kharon slammed the slightly open door
of his cabin. Heard everything, the old dog.
- What is it, comrade guide, searching for the words so you can politely tell the
boss that he's a moron? - the Colonel asked suddenly and grinned.
- Between the Trouble... It's like a barrier between the Zone and the Earth, the
“neutral”, a neutral band, - Nabis said, holding the tone. - As a trace strip. Here earthly
works as earthly, and the Trouble's works too... But nothing kills. No dangerous gitiks.
And a “kiss”... well, vomit, some things with the eyes, bleeding from different parts, -
these all are normal for the first time. The Trouble looks at you in the “neutral”, who you
are, where from. What you here for. And then registers you. It's like to enter the cell.
- Have you ever been jailed? - asked the Colonel, but not in a “shrewd” way,
somehow normally.
- No, - answered Nabis.
(The Colonel noted the guide has a strong incomprehensible and unpleasant
accent, although his Russian is correct and he himself is Matveev. In the “waiting room”
of the checkpoint they had time to tell Colonel a little about him. He is the best on-duty
guide of the rescue service personnel available today, said the issuing, Captain Mazin,
he took over twenty tracks, has been serving on contract for a year. Local, a refugee.
The village bully in the past, did not serve in the army, after the army he seemed to be a
boilermaker, freelanced at the Polygon. Tall, a young boy of thin bones with a very
dense mane of small curls on his head, blue-black, lambskin-like. In winter, might be, he
does not even wear a hat. Small mustache. The day before yesterday – on the day of
arrival - and yesterday Blintchuk saw him in the smoking room next to the
Headquarters three times, and every time Nabis was reading a book. They all read here.
God forbid such soldiers. Or even simple subordinates.)
- Yeah... How can it be fucking “neutral” if such a thing happens here with people?
- asked the Colonel.
Nabis shrugged his shoulders.

33
 - It is what it is, - he said. - It doesn't kill. Thanks for that.
- Who are you by nationality? - asked the Colonel.
Nabis stared at him, then realized and smiled a little.
- You think I have an accent. This is a speech defect, comrade Colonel.
- I beg your pardon, - the Colonel muttered distinctly odd words for him and
turned pale, which evidently replaced his “flushed”. - Guilty... But you do not understand
the aim of the mission... What isn't clear about it? To detain a person with a little child
seen from the tower, withdraw from the disaster zone, interview and provide assistance.
- Comrade Colonel, this is the Father, - said Nabis quietly.
- What does it mean - “the Father”? Does it mean he is a known person?
- He is the only one who survived in the Lightning. I mean they are only two. He
and his daughter.
They were sitting side by side on the ebonite armchairs with folding seats,
installed on the floor of the aboard Kharon's “shishiga”1. (Kharon stole the chairs in the
cinema hall of the Dog's village club, four in a row on the iron rack.) Nabis was sitting on
the edge. From the Earth they left through the Second, “Volgogradsky”, checkpoint and
for the “greeting” of the pioneers Kharon immediately turned to the Stand, a concrete
pad where two cars quietly rusted in the endless sun, dryness and heat. Door to door,
white “Volga” of the missing Chief of the Polygon and “Zaporozgets” of some, probably
also missing, Ensign. Neither Dog's poachers, nor bottle-women, nor even cops from
the guard towers allowed themselves to touch these cars.
In the areas of housing (“The Dog's curve”) the weather inside the “neutral” had a
specific behavior. A hot June day was reigning in this part of it in the middle of a cold
November of the Earth. The “time of midges”, which was terrible in the Lower Volga
region. But of course there were no midges in the “neutral”, as there was no other local
living creatures, including cockroaches. They say, there were not even bacteria here.
The dead ground, the zero circle. It was very quiet here, there was no sound from the
human side, although running red and green excavators, literally a hundred meters
away, were visible beyond the Volgograd-Astrakhan highway, ragged by the Zone. Well,
on the alien side there was no one to make noise.
(But stupid TV tower was not seen from the “neutral”. What to show and what not
to show the “neutral” chooses by itself. “Interesting, when the Colonel notices this”,
thought Nabis, “will he rush back to figure it out? They say, one million rubles was
stolen during the building of this tower. It was not created by a fool, of course. There
was enough to carve up.”)
Behind “zaporozgets” there was a green camouflage American bio-toilet, and also
an American plastic can with a tap hung on a concrete column with holders for a
barbed wire. The first thing, as soon as he stopped the engine, and the colonel had not
yet yelled that his eye had burst, Kharon dragged himself out of the cab with a canister
and filled the can with the water after pouring out the old one. This was a responsibility
of all drivers on the Dog's curve of the “neutral”. The water on the Stand was always

1
The GAZ-66, a Soviet and later Russian 4x4 off-road military truck, nicknamed “shishiga”.

34
useful. Some need to wash their top, others need to wash their bottom. And some need
both. The Colonel, whom, of course, no one dared to inform about the rituals and
peculiarities of going out to the Zone (or dared not to inform, or did not have time to
dare to inform), and who himself did not inquire, just saw Kharon with the canister and
started to command, allegedly: keep moving driver, I do not get why we stopped,
quickly go to where the man with the child is walking in the Zone... here's when the
hassle with the Colonel's eye started, and the orders soured in a mid-word, being
replaced by the questions, vaguely translucent through the obscenities, “what the hell
is that, what is happening to me?!”. Runny shit Ensign, in general an assembled and
attentive man, only asked Nabis: “Is the toilet okay, safe?” - and saw a nod, dashed from
the car like into a pit, holding the stomach but not forgetting, however, as many before
him, weapons. The vomiting Ensign decided not to rush from the car. He fell from the
chair on the floor to the left, and boasted to the Stand of his breakfast from a
mechanized hill, lying at the feet of the chief. And the Major Korostylyov, as it already
had been said, withstood the “greeting” without special effects, but was very surprised
and worried about the resulting discord of the rescue team. But had been bravely
enduring wonderment and worrying. He only put his machine gun a bit more
comfortable on the knees and adjusted the black knitted hat. “This one read the
instructions and did not swap fables with instructors. Or, still, it is not the first time he is
out here. From whom he is hiding, from me or from his own guys”, Nabis was thinking.
- So this is, must be, such a check, damn it, - said the Colonel, taking off his
helmet (a simple combined arms helmet in case), putting it on its top at the feet and
pulling out a large handkerchief from the pocket of the tactical vest. His Colonial
irritation has already extinguished, only the human remained, which was not
interfering with the work of the brain. A fright is necessary in the Zone. You can even
pump in pants, it's not forbidden, the main thing is that the brain then starts to work.
- Most likely it's a ritual, - said Nabis. - Something took a look at you. And you
rushed into the Zone in vain, comrade Colonel.
- So the old Colonel, the whole Commandment... was fucked over, that's how it
turns out.
- You did not want to listen to anything... Yes you are not the first. And the
circumstances.
- What circumstances? - asked Blinchuk unkindly.
Nabis was silent, looking at his stomach. Blinchuk blew his nose. Looked around.
- Ensind Glyzin! - he barked and, immediately lowering his voice, asked Nabis: - Is
the screaming forbidden?
- Me! - Glyzin muffly responded from the booth. And banged something,
apparently with a trunk, against the wall. - It's to blame, it's not over!
- All is allowed on the “neutral”, comrade Colonel, - answered Nabis. - For now.
Only the Trouble knows what will happen in a week. But it's better not to scream.
Everything should be quiet in the Zone. Hands should be bared, and ears should be
opened.

35
 - The Trouble - that is how you call it... - Blinchuk shook his head towards the
housing estate “Kapustin” in particular and the Polygon in general. Towards the Zone.
Nabis nodded. Blinchuk frowned and began to fold his handkerchief. The vomiting
Ensign Shultsev finished etching, lay a bit in waiting, slid from the car almost to his
puddle, but happily missed and, stepping unsteadily, headed for the washbasin.
Blinchuk, Nabis and Korostylyov were watching as he was pottering with the tap.
- And you, comrade Nabis, are you local? Civilian under a contract? - asked
Blinchuk.
- Yes, I lived in the Dog's. One street away from your tower.
Blinchuk chuckled. Hid the handkerchief.
- Where did you serve? Ah, yes...
- I worked at the Polygon, as the inspector of heating plants. And the main
occupation was a poacher. Cathroughr.
Blinchuk raised the rare eyebrows.
- The past life, you mean, - he said. - Is it the way it works here? To confess?
- Yes. The Trouble wrote off.
- I don't like poachers, - remarked Blinchuk.
Nabis shrugged the shoulders.
- And I don't like fishermen, but what can I do?
- Well, ok. The Father, you say... I need to get him out and question him. A living
child is with him! She’s alive, right? - he appealed to the Major. Kororstylyov nodded the
head.
- She is, I clearly saw.
- Accordingly, - said Blinchuk. - This is our aim. To find and to bring out. What shall
we do, comrade Nabis? How do we solve the task? What do you know about the Father?
What will be your essential advice?
- Most likely, we do not need to move anywhere. We must sit right here and wait,
- said Nabis. - Most likely, he is coming to us. Most likely, he got caught in your TV
camera intentionally. He wants to meet you. He or the Zone... This I don't know. He can
walk fast, but today he has nowhere to hurry. After all, because of him you rushed into
the Trouble, without preparation, on personal orders, with only one guide. So that
means you can also wait now, when the Trouble stooped you a little.
- Ding-dong, - said Blinchuk. - Stay down. Not ding-dong, but holy shit. And who
the hell is he?!
Nabis shrugged the shoulders.
- He is local. I remember him before the Trouble. He was a doctor in a hospital.
- Military doctor? - Major Korostylyov asked after a pause.
- I have not seen him in military uniform, - Nabis answered. - I have seen him in a
white coat.
The Colonel and the Major stared at each other. The Major fixed the machine gun
on the knees. The fact that the Major took AK-47 on a mission Nabis also noted. Not a
general “short” like a Colonel, not a fashionable “screwdriver”, like high society Ensigns,

36
but the real 47th, the gun for aliens. Very interesting inspector Major Korostylyov. Don't
you turn your back.
The washed wet vomiting Ensign returned to the car and took up the floor of the
back, looking at the authorities from the bottom up.
- So who is he right now? - asked the Colonel. - Is he dangerous?
- Very, - said Nabis. - He lives inside the Trouble. There all are dangerous. Even I
am dangerous there, and how dangerous you are, I cannot even imagine.
- Hey you, intelligence officer, - said Shultsev authoritatively, - enough chasing the
darkness. Right, Sergey Borisovich?
- Shut up, Shultsev, - said the Colonel thoughtfully. - And never leave the weapon.
- It's to blame! - exclaimed Shultsev, jumped into the vehicle body, picked up his
rifle, sat down and, curving a little the slender body under the bulletproof vest, began
to look as good as he could.
- Comrade Ensign, you need to clean up your vomit, - said Nabis. (Shultzev stared
at him as an Ensign at a soldier.) - There is a mop and a bucket of water behind the
toilet. Right for these purposes.
- Excuse me?! - said Shultzev.
- That's the way, - said Nabis. - Necessity. Internal order. Hide your shit from the
Zone. Shit in the Zone can also bite.
- Comrade Colonel! - Shultsev turned to Comrade Colonel as to his own father.
Blinchuk sharply scratched the shaved head and looked toward the Earth. “Exactly
now Chingachgook will notice that his tower had been screwed up”, thought Nabis. The
most suitable moment. And the scandal at once will begin. And in the midst of hazing
that occurred on the basis of personal animosity, the Father with his little Yana will
approach us. But how does he not even notice that from the autumn we got in the
summer?
- What is your name, comrade guide? - asked the Colonel. - I heard... Nabis?
- It is the nickname. This is the way it is here.
- The nickname. Good. So what is that?
“Now I will say my name and Shultsev will say “Fuck you, Sergey!” And I will kill
him. And will go to live with the Father. And will live fast and long.”
- Okay, don't say if you don’t want to, - said Blinchuk, having decided something
following Nabis' silence. - Shultsev, clean up after yourself. Then we will figure out what
is the charter here and what is a jeer. At the double.
- Yes, sir, - said deadman Shultsev, also making himself some notch in the
memory.
- If the Father had showed up himself, - Nabis said as if nothing had happened, -
that means, comrade Colonel, that he needs to talk.
- So what's that? Did he show up directly for me? - asked Blinchuk unkindly. - Why
are you twisting tales to me, comrade Colonel? How does he know personally about
me? And what, is he a contacting party? Folk deputy? But of what kind of folks?
- In the Zone all the calculations are based on the result, - said Nabis. - And the

37
result is obvious. The Father had showed up to you. You came. “Greeting” on the
“neutral” is mandatory for beginners. It is minimum half an hour on the Stand, but
usually an hour. (“The Stand” is this area.) And there is a time to look at you, there is a
time to assess you. - Then he paused, looking at something in the distance. - And
everyone knows that the new commandant is appointed and arrives today, Comrade
Colonel. It's been known already for two weeks.
Here came Shultsev with “masha”1 at the ready, like death with a scythe. The clout
dripped. He slapped the clout over the puddle and started to rub a slurry on the
concrete in this and that directions, frowning his face.
- Glyzin, damn it, where are you?! - yelled the Colonel. He yelled again. Deadman.
Glyzin jumped out of the toilet, deftly maneuvering the barrel of the rifle in the
doorway.
- Doesn't he need to clean up after himself? - Shultsev asked Nabis.
- He does not, - Nabis replied, and this answer angered Shultsev forever. But
Korostylyov intervened.
- Ensigh Shultsev!
- Me! - automatically exclaimed Shultsev.
- Cut the crap! - the voice of a two-year-old girl pronounced what the Major
intended to tell the Ensign very loudly, deafeningly, the clear bell-like.
And now the Colonel, Korostylyov and the Ensigns, - both jumped up in the truck's
body, one, sharply turned around with a mop, so drops splashed from it into the space
in a vane, and the other, quickly stood on his knee at the back wheel and put the rifle in
the voice's direction – and simultaneously saw the Father.
(Nabis spotted him about three minutes ago, right during the utterance of the
phrase “And there is a time to look at you”, and Kharon saw them (for sure) even earlier.)
If the current moment wasn't being described by me, Zharkovsky, but by the
correspondent of the local newspaper “The Star”, Klyuvkin, it would look like this.
Courageous full face photo “the look into the distance” on a quarter of the page.
Heading “THE MAN IN HIS PLACE”.
The text: “Forty-six year old Colonel frontier Guard Blinchuk, Sergey Borisovich
has seen a lot during his service. He also saw the death of his comrades, being the head
of the outpost on the Afghanistan border in the late seventies. He saw the grief and
misfortunes of people during his hard work in the area of liquidation of the
consequences of the Chernobyl accident. The experience has tempered Sergei
Borisovich's will, his subordinates and colleagues in one voice speak of his ability not to
lose his head at the most acute moments. Academician Velikhov spoke warmly about
him. Sergei Borisovich was one of the first candidates for the permanent position of the
military commandant of the special quarantine district around Kapustin, and his
appointment was unanimously approved at a joint meeting of the Government and the
Commission for Elimination of the consequences of the meteorite attack in the
Astrakhan region.

1
"A mop" in the Soviet-Russian Army jargon. (At the request of Ed. - S. Zh.)

38
 But here he freaked out“.
That would sound bitingly blunt, in perestroyka style, in the spirit of a new times,
i.e. new trends, non-trithroughl words; and the old editor-in-chief of “The Star”
Martysheva, with a heavy heart would approve it for publishing, and then would suffer,
waiting for destructive phone call in the night, and then herself would call to the
printing house in the morning, would torment the proofreaders all the next day... But
Klyuvkin, as usual, would be wrong. After Chernobyl Blinchuk couldn't be freaked by
anything to the extent of making a reckless decision twice a day.
- Glyzin, don't you shoot!
The highway (if counted on the left bank of the Volga) Volzhsky-Astrakhan (about
two and a half rows in width, the asphalt is from medium-poor to almost-good,
indistinct roadsides with deep ditches, a good Soviet road of of the Union significance)
runs almost parallel to the Volga's arm, Akhtuba, and dissects in half the secret city of
Kapustin (postal address “Leninsk-1” until recently) and the adjacent ancient village
Kapustino. If you go from Volzhsky, there will be the actual city, marked Volgogradskiy
check point (in fifty-seventy meters from the highway through a faded, well-shot
wasteland) on your left. Further the highway gnaws into the private sector, once or
twice, the 85th kilometer, and you are on wide Russian operational space, and ahead
you have freedom, the Caspian, Persia, massacre without restrictions, pearls, and carts
and canoes full of mysterious princesses. There are are two fences between the
checkpoint and the outer street of Kapustin (Enthuziastov): the first is right at the
checkpoint, barbed wire on a concrete pillars, however, quickly coming to naught, - and
the barrier of concrete slabs right aside Enthuziastov stretches along five-story
buildings and Komsomoltsev park to the north-east corner of the city. A year ago,
during evacuation (panic escaping) of people away the sparkling, burning, exploding in
the night Kapustin, this barrier was destroyed in many places. It has been rammed by
buses, by boards and by personal “zhiguli” cars as well. And even one brave armored
vehicle broke and brought down a rather long piece of this fence behind the hospital,
and drowned in asphalt at the nearest intersection right after that. At the Volgogradsky
check point, the distance between the outer fence of the wire and the concrete fence is
minimal, two dozen meters, here was the main flow of the refugees, and there is only
one concrete section left in the working condition, that means standing upright, - the
constituent part of the Stand perimeter. Right out of it, just in a few steps from
“shishiga”, the Father appeared in front of them. Appeared, arose as a character of a
magic TV-show of David Copperfield, an American Kio, broadcast before and after
midnight by Channel One of the central television. As if the Father was sitting there
since night, waiting for the moment, most effective for “Abracadabra” and “voila”. It was
impossible to believe that he, such as he was, could sneak in some other way up to
Blinchuk group, even if it was stricken with diarrhea, stomach colic, and diplopia.
Moreover, Nabis, who had trodden the Dog's Curve of the “neutral” in every way, knew
for certain: near the Stand there is not a single, even the most wasteful, even wiped, air
mirror. It's impossible to hide here. Hocus-pocus.

39
 “Such as he was” – and the Father looked like from American trick, but more
precisely - as in American action movie from a video salon in Sheremetyevo, where
Colonel Blinchuk recently waited for the flight. “Blade Runner” came to Blinchuk’s mind.
But suddenly Korostylyov distinctly muttered: “The Uryupinsk theater of the young
spectator” - and instantly the grandeur and brilliance of manner and clothes of the
mysterious alien in the eyes (aching, by the way, brutally rubbed) of the Colonel
Blinchuk was suddenly shedding to the image of some robot Werther from our TV
show.
- Ha. Ha. Ha, - the Colonel said aloud unexpectedly to himself.
- And what the evil beautiful man Seryozha is doing here? - from behind the
Father's hood asked his strange daughter, or who she is to him. This time, with the
voice of a fully mature, young, but mature, ripe high school girl. She looked exactly like
one as well. Very small, plump, ripe round schoolgirl. In the cradle behind the monster’s
back. Do not sit on the stump, do not eat the patty.
- I am in the squad, Father, - Nabis said because he was the subject of
conversation. - Bad luck for you.
- Or bad luck for you, - the Sitting on the Back remarked. And accompanying
gesture was made by the Father.
- We have one and the same Trouble, - Nabis countered. - And that's enough,
Father. Get off me. Speak to the one with whom you came for. I'm doing my work here.
Sitting and not glowing.
The Colonel suddenly realized: he, the Colonel, is sitting on a chair on the floor of
“GAZ-66” body, in more than two meters above the ground. And the Father is trampling
on the ground with his huge rubber boots. But his face is above the face of the
Colonel... It turns out that he's two and a half meters tall! And the girl on top. A young
woman.
However, the Father's face was hidden behind a helmet-mask of the insulating
gas mask IP-5, new sets of which, by the way, literally filled up all the rooms of the
Headquarters and pile of which collapsed right on Blinchuk not long ago when he tried
to open documents' cabinet in his new office... The pipe wasn't connected to the mask,
there was no respiratory bag. Flickering in the sun of the “neutral” with the PVC edges, a
large hood visor blocked the masked face from above. And lower, the thick, damned
leather at first glance, the blackest black coat was falling down. Fakely sparkling in
different places too.
Obviously, the clothes have been hand-made. And it was less than a half of the
damned leather in it. The braided wire coarsely sewed the parts of the pattern and in
the most important places we could see the fasteners with self-made brackets made of
thick copper wire. The cloak looked strong but homespun, not brand design. This
significantly reduced the greatness of the huge figure, behind the Hollywood
superman, freely walking through the world's most dangerous territory, you could see
the diligent, inept Soviet man, the direct descendant of Ellie the Cannibal from that

40
hysterical movie by Mark Zakharov1. Major Korostylyov - Blinchuk remembered him as a
Lieutenant on the 16th outpost - had a sharp eye and a quick mind. He also was well-
read. An intelligent officer. That is if you did not know how many people he had put in a
battle. But further on, it is about the Father.
The sense of provincial dress was sustained by the kind of weapon hanging on
the grand cloak like decorations hanging on the Christmas tree. Out of the dozen of
guns, strapped, tied, taped and almost nailed to leather in different ways, was the only
one real - a shabby KHM with a box store, hanging on the Father's chest like a
“schmeisser”. All the rest were the toys. There was plastic bazooka shooting balls and
the green barrel of plastic “maxim”2, and white and grey ugly with a grenade spring-
loaded rocket carrier, with which Blinchuk's son once flatly refused to go into the yard
to play war. Moreover, there were obviously self-made guns made of wood. Even the
ignite, the size of a sawed-off shotgun from the movie about Pavka Korchagin3, was
there. Knock-knock on the glass... “Who's there?” Bach!
The basis for the girl's seat was also self-made. They were a couple of bicycle
frames, a basket from a baby carriage, a pile of wire and a massage attachments to the
car seats. (Blinchuk could not see the girl fully: plump naked arms were hugging the
shoulders of a gigantic coat, a short bare neck, a round, attentive face over a bald of
the mask, several rich strands of hair flowing down the cheeks from under the ski cap.
Suddenly, Blinchuk remembered that now it is the middle of November, and felt how
hot he was, and realized that it was strange, that this was also a special effect...)
- In appearance, my father and I are nothing but clowns, right, comrade Colonel?
- Said the lass-girl in the voice of the old witch. Father stepped from foot to foot. - Club
props, folk festivals organization. Profession - a master entertainer! But do not be
upset. Hello! As an old resident, I welcome you on our planet!
Blinchuk cleared his throat, removed the SKAR's4 belt from his shoulder and rose
to his feet. The seat beneath him slammed, lifting. And it seemed to him that the Father
grew taller at the same time as it slammed. Blinchuk was looking at him from the
bottom up again.
- Good day to both of you, - he said. - May I come closer to greet you?
- Why not? - The lass asked. The girl. - You are much more radioactive than we
are.
At this moment, Blinchuk jumping out of the track's body landed wrong and
sprained the leg, the ankle. Kept the cursing to himself. Limping, he approached the

1
Ellie the Cannibal is a character of the satiric novel “The twelve chairs“, written in 1928 by Ilya Ilf and Eugeny
Petrov. Among other film adaptions, was filmed by Mark Zakharov in 1976. In a figurative sense, “Ellie the Cannibal“
is a vulgar, narrow-minded and sexy woman living at the expense of men for her pleasure; a person with limited
horizons, living only by consumption, the acquisition of things and competition with dresses with other “ellies”.
2
A toy made of plastic - an almost full-sized green or red Maxim machine gun, was very popular in USSR.
3
Korchagin, Pavel Andreevich is the main character of the novel “How the steel was tempered” written by
Nikolai Ostrovsky in 1932. Immediately after the publication of the novel, Pavel Korchagin, whose youth passed
during the Civil War and fighting for the New Economic Policy in the struggle for communism and the happiness of
the working people, became an ideal role model for several generations of Soviet people.
4
Shortened Kalashnikov automatic rifle.

41
alien couple. Somehow, while he was walking the Father suddenly diminished. Blinchuk
wanted to rub his eyes, especially since it had just become a habit. Father was not two
and a half meters tall, of course, not even two. He was only half a head taller than
Blinchuk. An illusion, or what? And with this heat... What the hell is happening to me?!
The Father was stretching the hand to meet him. The only thing Blinchuck had
time to notice was an engagement ring, deeply rooted in the thick ring finger, and a
deafening handshake followed, which, incidentally, was easily met by Blinchuk, his hand
was like a shovel too.
- It's nice, hello, - said the lass from above. - Here they call me the Father, and
according to the passport, my name is Kalitin, Valentin Andreevich.
She also stretched a hand to Blinchuk. As a girl, palm down. Blinchuk gently
squeezed the palm. The girl lowered her eyelashes, led her chin down, in a word,
created an expression of a curtsy on her face.
- Hello, -she said in the same voice. - This is my daughter, Yana. She was born
during the Lightning. She cannot walk on the ground, this will kill her.
During the last phrase, Blinchuk decided to play by their rules. According to the
reports and the testimonies, what was happening during the Lightning was horrible,
many and many refugees also needed psychiatric help. Those, who were lucky to get
out of the Zone. And seems that this two stayed in. “How could I not hear that someone
was not missing in the Lightning? How many more lies were in reports? We must
evacuate them, of course”, he thought nevertheless.
“Now the Father will hit him with all his guns”, thought Nabis, who was listening
attentively.
“Something is wrong here”, thought Korostylyov, “they are not lying and they are
not crazy.”
Ensign Glyzin wasn't thinking anything, he was covering the chief, but Shultsev,
who still had not decided where to put this damned mop, yes, he was thinking. And
here is what he thought: “I'll throw it, say, under “shishiga”, while it's noisy and insane
here. And I’ll find this poacher later.”
- Sergey Borisovich, it is a suicide to evacuate me and my daughter, - said the
young lady, smiling kindly. There were dimples on her round cheeks with a curl near the
nose. The word “evacuate” she denoted as a quote by intonation. - Because for you this
is the abduction, and for us this is resistance and then certainly your untimely death.
Why am I sure of that? Me and my daughter are not able to leave the Zone. And we will
fight for our lives. - The girl hugged the Father by the neck and leaned her head on her
shoulder. - The main thing is that it’s not about me and Yana. We just came to hand you
an invitation. There is an opinion that you are going to be a commandant here for a
long time. You will have a good nickname. I was asked to call you. So I strolled under
your surveillance camera. - The Father thoughtfully nodded with the stump of the trunk
on the gas mask, and the lady continued: - I was nearby, and this is not a big favor, here
in the Zone we have plenty of time. On other days, even in buckets. Will you go to talk?
- With whom? - asked Blinchuk hoarsely.

42
 - With responsible and knowledgeable people.
- Here, in the Zone?
- No-no, - said the Father through his daughter. - Sergey Borisovich, Comrade
Colonel, personally you cannot go out into the Zone at all. You will perish, and your
death will be very violent. You have it written on the face. Even one step into the Zone
will kill you. And this will be a pity. A pity not even because of you: death is a girlfriend
in the Trouble. But a pity because you seem to be the very useful man as the
commandant of QZAI.
- How did you say? What is “QZAI”?
- Kapustin's Qarantine Zone of Abnormal Intensities. This is how it will be called...
The Zone. And you will be called Pinya.
- Why - “Pinya”?.. - Blinchuk asked dumbfounded. - Where did you get all this...
- Here is what you have to understand right now... - the young lady continued
very seriously, and the Father made a gesture, stopping and apologizing at the same
time. - One second, - the lass said in a baritone. - Forgive me for interrupting. - The
Father took up his trunk and lifted the mask on his forehead, revealing the face.
Blinchuk jumped back, almost stumbling on his sprained leg. However, he would
probably have stumbled also on the healthy one. - Here's my face as a sign of trust, -
the girl said. - Even my daughter hasn't seen me. And will not see. In the Zone,
everything that appears to you, according to personal observations or to the words of
eyewitnesses or witnesses, any miracles, any wild assertions that you do not dare to
repeat officially on the outside, on the Earth, in reports, at night in a bed to Lubov
Antonovna, confidentially at the president's ear, is all true. This is real. Khrushchev's
five-storey buildings fly, the dead live, the air is harder than steel, and there is only one
step to the moon. Next year, on December 25th, President Gorbachev will resign on the
eve of official collapse of the Union. Be prepared for this, by the way. You are now a
politician. You have a great power, great influence. Big money. You will be hunted.
Blinchuk licked his lips.
- Are you mind readers, or what?
- Yes, - said the lass. The girl. Yana! - But not we are, I am. Yana is just a year old,
she cannot even speak yet. And the future on your face is written in black and white.
- My future? - clarified Blinchuk, not believing that he's generally talking about
clairvoyance. “As if Kashpirovsky hypnosis1 wasn't enough”, flashed in his head. “The
chargers of water, the diggers of souls.”
- Not only yours, the global future. Don't you try to hide an irony, it's absolutely
normal. And, in my opinion, Kashpirovsky is a cheater.
- Well, - said Blinchuk after a pause. - Cannot be clarified without a bottle. Who
wants to talk to me? Where is he?
- Sasha-Kharon will admirably take you there. All you have to say is that Petrovich
1
Kashpirovsky, Anatoly Mikhailovich (Born on August 11th, 1939 in the Ukrainian Soviet Socialist Republic) is a
Soviet psychotherapist. In 1989, six programs named “Health sessions of the psychotherapist Anatoly Kashpirovsky”
were broadcast on Central Television, during which Kashpirovsky allegedly cured about 10 million people from
various diseases in just 6 hours of television broadcasting.

43
is waiting in his den. There you will also find any bottle you want. And Sergey
Borisovich, do not punish Sasha, he does not even know himself that he should take
you to Petrovich.
- And where is the “den” and this Petrovich he, surely, knows? - asked Blinchuk.
- You are the officer of a rare type, - Yana said in a deep chest voice of an
experienced woman on a hunt. Here's what contained no provinciality - her art of the
voice changing. This had a powerful effect. And, apparently, it demanded a lot of effort,
because her heavy breathing became audible and she started to break off the phrases
with an ellipsis. - Chernobyl had changed you a lot. You used to be... Orders, rolling “r”
Instant suppression of the interlocutor... No objections from the lower rank or civilian
the status below yours... Is it true? And now you accept other's... their right for justice.
Even soldiers. Of course, this is Chernobyl. You do not fight for your shoulder straps,
especially when no one is fighting you. Yes, apparently, Petrovich is right. You fit.
Blinchuk ate it all with a woman's passionate gurgling as if he ate a shot of vodka
with a pickled mushroom. If it was a man talking he would tear that man apart. With
rolling “r”. Besides, she was talking quietly. Or “he”? What the hell!
- That is why, - the woman continued, - the second thing you must understand:
here in the Zone everyone knows much more than they say. A very important moment
for professional and interpersonal communications. Do you understand? - Blinchuk
nodded, as a cobra to a pipe. - Well, go now, you are expected elsewhere.
Blinchuk grunted, frowned for suggestiveness and said casually:
- So, accordingly, I’m supposed to send my group back?
- Why? Your protection is their job.
- And the guide? You are obviously in contravention with him.
- Funny expression. Just let it be. I'm not saying goodbye, Comrade Colonel. See
you there in an hour.
- You are in the car with me?.. - suggested Blinchuk.
The Father put on the mask in one jerk.
- Me and little Yana will go straight, - said Yana in s child's voice. - Our own way.
Blinchuk easily turned his back to them and went to the car. He was being
observed by eight eyes from the truck's body, but he turned to the cab and knocked on
a window. The driver, an elderly man in a fishing sweater, rolled down the window. For
some reason, clean cotton swabs were stuck in his nostrils.
- I am expected in Petrovich's den, - Blinchuk said to him. - Do you know where it
is, buddy?
Kharon raised his eyebrows, not taking his eyes off, and nodded, starting the
engine at the same time. Blinchuk climbed onto the back.
- Shultsev, - he said when sat down. - Get the mop out from under the car, take it
back and rinse it. Perform. Did you see his face? - he asked everyone when Shultsev
disappeared with a mop behind the toilet booth. - This Father?
Glyzin, Nabis, and Korostylyov exchanged glances with each other in two tricks.
- He's in a gas mask, - said Korostylyov.

44
 - He has taken it off, - said Bllinchuk and now Korostylyov lifted an eyebrow.
- No, Comrade Colonel, sir, - said Glyzin. - He hasn't. I paid attention. It's to blame,
of course.
Blinchuk blew out a gallon of air through his lips folded as a pipe, sat down
straight, for a bit and put on his helmet.
- Mm, yes, - said Nabis.
- It is strange, but my tower cannot be seen from here, - said Blinchuk. - And
these excavators are not mine. Seems that they are showing us some kind of a movie
here. And again, it is the summer. Well, I will figure it out. With rolling “R”s, goddamn
their mother.
Silent Shultsev came back, climbed onto the truck's body, sat down. Blinchuk
pounded his fist on the back of the cab. The vehicle moved and, having left the Stand,
immediately turned right.

45
 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “Fenimore-1”
A fragment
Own decoding

(Orthographic mistakes of decoding corrected – S. Zh.)

(...)We are meeting in Bezhensk, in the park in front of the factory of Madam Lebedeva
in the afternoon of 1st May year two thousand and one. Of course, we knew each other
before, that is not possible to live in Akhtubinsk Prezone and not to know Sverzhin-Fenimore,
and if not to know him personally, then at least to know about him. Our acquaintance with
each other was not at all the superficial, but he agreed for an interview for the first time,
though on regular terms. The tracker with the “King Kong” rating, author and co-author of
the most famous official tracks, conqueror of dinosaurs, co-author of the discovering of the
Staggering Forest. A year ago he went from the Zone to Kazakhstan, poling1 the only known
for today passage through the Hot (also known as Kazashsky) Corner. Naturally, no one
except him would know how many unofficial tracks he knows. A good phrase.
He dresses casually, real jeans, good leather jacket, in his hand can of real beer. He is
not armed. We say hello to each other, discuss the latest news about Antipov crew, who only
have half-tank of fuel left for today, and there along with Valov they are starting to worry
and suspect something. We do not talk about Earth matters, though there is an issue of
Komsomolka rolled up, as it seems is showing from opened Fenimore's jacket.
- Okay, this way we’ll end up talking about the weather. - he says. - So, my ink slinger, a
jackal of copying machines. Turn on your voice recorder and ask. What if the weather gets
worse. See the clouds?
- You have been in the Zone since 1990, right?
- That’s right. Since the 30th May. Only a few people here are older than me.
- And the regular military service, in fact, you served at the Polygon.
- That was it.
- Tell me about the ”Mother's cracks”.
- And what is that, Shugpshuits?
- What you all call me... Okay. Then tell me about captain Zhitkur.
- Why is that? I don’t know him. How can I know him? This was a legend.
- Vadim, I’m begging you. For real. Stop tricking, since you agreed to talk. “I don’t know
this, I don’t understand that...” All the Ten knew captain Zhitkur. The man who walked the city
with SMP2 and drove a “Willys”.
- But I didn’t serve in the Ten, my dear world dove. I served... No. I signed
confidentiality agreement. For twenty- five years. Let’s say I served where now is the Second
Epicenter.
1
Marking a track with poles.
2
The PPSh-41 (Pistolet-pulemyot Shpagina. Russian: Пистолет-пулемёт Шпагина - “Shpagin machine pistol“)
is a Soviet submachine gun designed by Georgy Shpagin in 1940.

46
 - Okay, and doctor Vyatkin?
- I was familiar with him, of course. He was a doctor in Bezhensk till ninety-five, then
he disappeared somewhere. But I knew him even before the army. He was deployed at the
same time as me, you can say, we were hanging out together. In my unit. He as a Lieutenant,
me as a private. Biennial from Chelyabinsk, doctor. Pediatrician, that is characteristic.
Awesome guy, wearing glasses, lower lip dangling till navel, all he was dreaming was his
rock collection of seventies... Totally civilian person, he was referring to the Commander of
the section as: “Comrade Commander of the section”.
- But wasn’t the “headless Corporal” in your section in eighty-seven, in fact...
- You will not manage to live to the old age, Shugpshuits. Hmm... He was. How did you
know?
- And wasn’t Captain Zhitkur raking there?
- I don’t have a clue. We could not leave the barracks. First of all, we were locked up
there. Secondly, we ourselves were so scared to come out, that we covered the windows with
blankets and would tear up any German.
- German?
- An officer. An officer - German, a goose – a cub, a youngster.
- We didn’t have the same words.
- You served?
- Well… yes.
- Local type of slang.
- Did you see that Corporal in person?
- Yes.
- Will you tell us?
- No. Bad memories.
- Terrifying?
- Well... no, just bad. Not for this sun. That cloud gone. And the beer is tasty. Some
other time.
- Well... then Petrovich.
- And what is wrong with Petrovich?
- How did you get to know him, for real.
- As a matter of fact, he took me for the first mission. I was a “Yazov contractor”. And
he was one of the best scouts, this Senior Ensign. And I happened to join his group.
- And did it go?
- Few of us survived. (Mockingly.) In fact.
- It just got stuck in my head. Talked yesterday with one muscovite over the phone.
- But you are yourself a muscovite.
- I am a troubler.
- In life, it seems you are a troubler. But the one who haven't been in the Zone. You are
a magacitl1, this is who you are.

1
The “magacitles” are colonizers from Earth who fled from the dying Atlantis to Mars. Characters of the
science fiction novel “Aelita“ written by Tolstoy, Aleksey Ivanovich in 1923.

47
 - Blinchuk also hasn’t been to the Zone.
- Blinchuk is a fisherman.
- I was prohibited by the Father.
- But what a liar you are, a fantast! The Father and Yana were dead a year before you!
Or two...
Already habitual moment of my triumph. I am doing it not for the first time, and it
always works brilliantly. Thank you, the Father. It is difficult to amuse a tracker. But I can. I
am getting out moleskin from my bag, from moleskin – a grey envelope with typographic
contour for stamp, in which letters S and A inscribed very ingeniously in five strokes. From
envelope I am taking out the letter of the Father, addressed to me. Passing it over to
Fenimore. The letter is short, he swallows it in a seconds. Shockingly he is cursing in the form
I cannot translate in acceptable lexicon. Who, which, whom. To correct. He’s returning me the
paper, stares at me, giving me back the can.
- Wow.
- Here it is, for real. Am I a magacitl?
- Okay, okay. The beer is yours, all what is left. Take it.
- Thanks. Zhenya-Turanchoks passed me this letter. Am I a liar?
- That’s already over. Over. You killed me and decided not to revive, left me as it is. And
the Father. What a monster he was! The only survivor, what do you want... I was acquainted
with him even before the Zone. He used to work in the hospital at the Ten, as a senior TB
laboratory assistant... or a chief assistant ... a Head of the laboratory, this is it! I stayed at the
hospital for a long time in autumn of eighty-six, I broke my arm meanwhile there. And it was
difficult not to notice him. Two meters tall, looking as a hybrid of Goga and Magoga. And
since I'm a drawer, a calligraphist, so they asked me to make him some kind of a poster for
the laboratory. And he happened to be a great guy. Alcohol, food, music. Call mama. And
then we met already in the Zone. He recognized me straight away, rushed to me and hugged,
almost dropping his Yana. She looked about ten then.
- But what happened to him in the Lightning, why he was in such a way in fact, and
such a daughter? .. Was he telling you? How he survived? Where people disappeared? Or at
least how they’ve gone?
- You know, yes, he told me ... But I don’t know if I can tell this to you. You yourself
know that he got you from the grave. And now I will return home - and there is some sort of
telegram from him. “You are fucking over, barber’s cat”, for example, “die in agony...” In
general terms: at the night of the Lighting they were covered in the maternity hospital by one
of the “red rings”, that were burning that region of Kapustin. I don’t know details about his
wife. But all were dead there, apart from him and his daughter. But was she his daughter
actually?...
- So, they all just died? “Missing” is an official version.
Fenimore is keeping silent for quite a while. I already feel that the interview will soon
be over. His face even got one-sided by a nervous tic. There was something deep, very
deep.He had tried the Father’s story on himself long time ago, some of their wounds
coincided, and now, I unintentionally opened the biggest one. What do I really know about

48
Vadim Sverzhin, apart from the fact that he is a super tracker, mega-looter and a centenar?
- You are right. Caught me. They are missing. Now, I'm telling you the story. You
already know about the “rings”... The fire on the “hoop” of the “ring” is from phosphorus, and
inside, in the “eye”, all is getting burned into the ash, and time is not working properly. As I
understood, he stayed with a newborn baby girl in that ash of the “eye” for a year, or more...
What they ate, what they drank there? May be for them it counted to hundred years by the
time the “ring” burnt out. He made up a cloak there for himself, and a stretcher for a girl.
Created for himself some sort of a world, some myths... You know when I first ran into him in
the Zone, we talked a little, and then suddenly he opened his cloak in a way a mute person is
offering to you porno, and said: “Look, lining is clear asbestos!” And exactly, his cloak was
covered by plates of asbestos from inside... He said it so proudly, as if he was glorifying his
track to the Moon...
(The ones missing were confirmed as dead less than a year ago. No dead bodies yet
were found anywhere in the Zone, town, the steppe, or the river. Fenimore - just like the rest
of old trackers – also escaped a direct answer. In principle, they all are eager to talk about
the missing ones when questioned about domestic animals, but you have to ask it cleverly:
how is that possible that no one, none from the list of survived at the Lightning night didn’t
remember about their home pets, animals; neither adults, nor children. And then they were
tearing their hair: how could I forget my cat. Or didn’t try to save the cow, which was in the
backyard. But I stopped asking this question after a lady, who was ten at the time of the
Lightning night, and who hit my eye with a coffee cup remembering that she forgot her
favorite hedgehog in her flat. What is more, later she told me that she saw a hedgehog when
her mother was grabbing the documents from the sideboard. The hedgehog was sitting in
his box near the entrance door, in the hall, and there was no panic yet, her dad was a
Colonel, and her mother said: don’t forget your Klyopa, here is a basket. Girl took the basket,
but not the hedgehog. And this happened to everyone. A famous aunt Alisa Rybakova, the
owner of “Chipka”, is still mourning her goats. She even went into the Zone, into impassable
private sector next to her house in order to see how they were. Nothing. Both people and
animals went missing without a trace.
So that I didn’t start catching Fenimore as well.)
- And did he prophesy anything to you?
- No.
(And I can see that here Fenimore is not lying. And the Father was not trying to give
him any predictions, and Fenimore himself was not asking for anything like that. Yes, I very
abruptly lost initiative, letter didn’t work out even ten percent of time from usual one
hundred and fifty and I, in dismay, was trying to change the subject.)
- You joined the “important ones”... in what time?
- In a year?..What am I saying? Less, of course. I spent a summer off from the army.
Met autumn and New Year on the marge of the Staggering Forest... And this is it, already in
February I put in a “notice of resignation” to Blinchuk. And he put his stamp.
- And why was Blinchuk signing these applications for “Yazov people”, do you know?
- I know it perfectly well, but this is not my secret. Here is a hint: talk to Petrovich, as

49
you are in good relations with him. For real. By the way, they were introduced to each other
by the Father! I remember that day very well.
(Pause. He looks at me, considering something. Smiling.)
- I will tell you. Autumn of nineteen-ninety. That time I wasn't in the “Pipes” myself, but
I was close. And there was a story... Accidentally there happened to be a local guide in
Blinchuk’s guard, from that area... hmm... Seryozha Nabis.
- Nabis?! Precisely Nabis?
- Well yes.
(He is smiling.)
- Nabis is a nickname, I already don't remember his surname. Such a dark-haired guy,
curly, handsome up to the point of taking and killing him, casting a gypsum statue from him,
and painting him instead of Socrates in the art shops. He was local, it seems.
(…)

50
 CHAPTER 2

As all knowlegeable people Nabis went to the “Two Pipes” bar more than once, he
knew when they were going there, - and was following the road, fully relying on Kharon.
The “neutral” was safe in a sense of gitiks and attacks, may be only “shopototams” could
reach a human here, as they have reached the Colonel today. And also everybody was
always having a back thought, scared that the Zone border may move here and
following Murphy’s law you may be caught. Just like under an icicle from the roof. Right
now “shishiga” was moving slowly along the driveway of apartment block number 9.
And number 9 (Volgogradskaya st.) itself was already in the Zone, and its corners were
all covered with mushrooms, looking like the oil bubbles and statue’s eyes at the same
time, watching you, wherever you go. And in the flat number 17 of this house (on the
third floor of the middle entrance) in the middle of a totally ordinary room, Misha
Bulygin, tracker-the Sergeant, had drowned to death. Drowned as he was the first who
entered that living room. As soon as the “neutral” slightly moves, here you are - in the
town Zone. And then almost certainly straight away – it is over. There were a huge
number of different shit of unknown kind, from identified by “risks” still “heavy” and
“light” places to very aggressive, totally unpredictable animals and insects, in Kapustin.
The city was passable, of course, and very rich with loots, but the most of the trackers
who where known by Nabis still preferred to hunt for loots and mark with poles the
tracks, ordered by the army and scientists, only in the steppe. The city was swallowing
the trackers very greedily, and also the following fact was recorded there: the power
and intensiveness of local anomaly in the steppe was going down gradually,
gravitational intensives degraded, shrunk and even became passable through, killing
climate anomalies were slowing down, and you could meet fewer and fewer of vacuum
pockets. But in Kapustin, at the airfield and at the premises of the army divisions, where
civilization and technology concentratedly were continuing to crap the planet, all was
staying the same as on the next day after the Lightning... And village Kapustino, nearby
to which general Voznjuk and academic Korolyov built the rocket city Kapustin (officially
- Leninsk, to confuse adversaries as there was one more Leninsk not far away, but
totally civil) was deadly impassable, hardly a fews were saved from there, and no one
knew what is happening there in the labyrinths of the private households... The only
part the Zone didn’t touch was a small part of the village after the Astrakhan road,
called the “Dogs’ village” since the beginning of times. Twenty thousand people lived in
the town. There were almost six thousands in the village. Almost fifteen thousands
from the city survived. From the village – less than a hundred.
“Shishiga” turned left from the courtyards, onto the actual Volgogradskaya,
town’s external north street. On this road, you may drive half a kilometer almost until
the turn towards the stadium. The car was buzzing softly, you could hear how the
steering wheel is spinning, speeds are getting switched, how Kharon is knocking with
the back of his hand on the cabin ceiling expressing some specific driver’s feelings.

51
Accompanied ones were silent, trying not to look to the sides, not turning their heads.
With his peripheral, the main tracker's viewing, Nabis saw that the vomiting Ensign
aimed his attention towards him not only once or even twice, probably imagining
elements of targets on a silhouette of a new, freshly and sharply smelling enemy. This
vomiting guy seems not a bad fighter, but a total fool. A fisherman.
Near Prostokvashino (unfinished block number 36) Kharon slowed down and
knocked on the cabin’s roof. Nabis coughed. Worth getting a cape. But these don’t have
capes...
- Comrade Colonel, comrades officers and warrant officers, - he said in a guide’s
voice. - The thirty-sixth quarter. Ahead is the steppe. A corner of a housing estate. Here
the “neutral” expands, both climate and time is changing in it. Now we will enter into a
very big air mirror. Objective, it is a barrier, not a hocus-pocus. - They were watching
him with the same face expressions. But no, even with the same faces. Nabis looked
down. - On the other side there is other time and rain, - he continued. - Keep calm. In
the end, there where we are going will be a place to get dry. But this is not the most
important thing. - Nabis was trying to find the words. - Further down the road we may
meet aaa.. illegal guests of the Zone. Practically, all of them are local citizens. We are
going by invitation, comrade Colonel, I am asking to keep your patience. Otherwise we
may end up in a battle. Everyone we can meet here is armed and is very high-strung.
And they all shoot well.
- Talks roundly, yes? - said Shultsev with perfectly tuned hysterics. - Who do you
work for, contractor, who pays you? Where will you turn your gun? He is having a hocus-
pocus here...
- Shultsev, set aside, - Blinchuk announced without raising his voice. No, he is
definitely, not an armchair Colonel. Not a checking type, but a doing one. - So, the air
mirror, rain and illegals accordingly... Well, let it be. Guide, and we are definitely going
to meet some illegals?
- We may meet, - answered Nabis. - I warn you just in case. And, comrade
Colonel. We don’t say here a “guide”. Either a “guiding” or a “heading”. - He shook his
palm in front of himself, looking for explanation. - Well that’s a local specialization.
- Sorry? - re-asked Korostyloyv.
- Specialization. Did I say it wrong?
Korostylyov delayed for a moment, looking up.
- “Specifics”, in short.
- Anyway, a “guide” sounds offensive, - said Nabis implacably. - Politeness values
in the Zone. With all respect. But everyone should remember about this.
Blinchuk cursed. Laughed.
- So informative today, right up to gut-wrenching. If “heading” then ”heading”.
Glyzin snorted.
- For all the times I’ve been here, I’ve never heard anything like this... But well.
Particularly local, - Blinchuk singled out “local”, - illegals? May we meet them?
Seems that these military trackers were not informed that their superior is going

52
to ride on the “neutral”... But Nabis didn’t want to risk. Guiding will be demanded. And
he said vastly:
- There may be contract soldiers. And even professional soldiers. In their free
time.
- Korostylyov, did you hear this? - said Blinchuk with a laugh.
- Yes sir, - the Major replied. - Corresponds to our information.
- So, okay, group, listen to my command, - said Blinchuk. - I am ordering in
advance to set aside any actions to stop illegal slash poaching visits of the Zone.
His group almost in one voice responded with “yes”, and not Nabis, but Blinchuk
himself whacked his fist into the cabin. Kharon loudly pulled the lever, “shishiga” drove
into a huge mirror standing here, into the rain sector of the “neutral’s” Dog’s curve.
The accompanied ones at the same time and in identical manner responded
together “yes”, no worse than ten seconds ago, and cursed. Rain turned into the wall
straight away, behind the clouds the sun from noon jumped off to three o’clock
afternoon. Nabis once again held back his desire to take out a cellophane raincoat from
his backpack and throw it over himself. “I’d feel bad. Somehow it wouldn’t be a Russian
way of behavior.” And to offer to the fisherman-Colonel to cover up together - he also
would rather not. Fuck it. Though... Perhaps, he would share it with the Major.
- Where does all this water go? - asked Blinchuk, spitting, in human voice.
- Into the storm drain, - replied Nabis and managed to point with his finger, and
Blinchuk managed to notice the storm drain grill, which was greedily swallowing clear
flows. The street asphalt was the purest. Even the mud was the purest, washed through
hundred waters, sparkling as new. “Shishiga” crossed over the curb, slid on left
starboard, getting out to the wasteland, and started passionately, snuggling, buzzing to
overcome the mounds and ditches of the wasteland on the site of an old hospital.
Clinging by wheels over broken bricks in wet ground, over leftovers of former asphalt
roads and pavements. Everyone went quiet, clinging to armrests.
- And where to from the storm drain? - Blinchuk asked, when it stopped throwing
them around.
- And this question is for scientists.
- Huh! - Blinchuk said and went silent.
- No question. It evaporates on the dry side, - Ensign Glyzin said suddenly.
The car shook on rails. The group grabbed their wet slick armrests again. Kharon
was forcing it through Astrakhan piece of Privolzhskiy railroad, lost for the world.
Ahead, a carelessly sketched out by a skillful hand in three moves with a wide brush and
a white ink on a wet dark-grey paper, was a gigantic four-story building belonging to
town boiler management. Above it two pipes flaunted in rainy mist. At the empty
parking in front of the facade of the management Kharon turned around, aimed
carefully and neatly passed in between piles of concrete slabs, which were not on
purpose but surely blocking the entrance to the courtyard of the management
“bypassing the checkpoint”. The accompanied ones even stood up on the carcass
watching how many centimeters are left from the board till the plate, armchairs banged

53
by short burst. And straight away they’ve met the first illegal. It was a woman. A simple
Russian woman.
Woman was returning from the a farther mission. To Nabis it was clear as a
classic vodka. Nabis knew this woman. In the “Bezhensk” camp everyone knew
everyone, but in the Zone everyone knew everyone for certain. The woman’s name was
aunt Alise, her nickname was Fisherwoman, and her surname was Rybakova. On earth
she was a Senior Cashier in a village council, her daughters and husband died in the
Lightning, and only a young son-in-law survived, who had cancer from before the
Trouble times. Americans told her, that there is a hope to cure him in Germany free of
charge. There they say, such patients survive, and live long lives. So aunt Alise was
collecting and treasuring cash for an abribe. But not for German doctors, it was for
those who could allow to her son-in-law away from the quarantine. Yesterday its cost
was fifteen thousand dollars from poachers above the river Stoypka. For two large
“rainbows”, which aunt Alise was carrying now on the beam in two bags Petrovich pays
one hundred fifty each, and at the external border of the Pre-Zone, at Tsarevsky
checkpoint, for example, - it could be paid up until two hundred on a good day. Profit!
Aunt Alise was wearing a hazmat suit, her head was tied in a pirate way with a nylon
kerchief, rented AK47 was heavily bending aunt Alise down towards the earth surface,
hanging on her chest in a wrong way. Noticing the car, she calmly and indifferently gave
the way, waited till the mechanism passes, and moved again, continuing her journey,
which began no less than yesterday morning. She will return to the camp by the
evening, will pass the machine gun to a skinner (most probably to the extra-term
Sergeant-Major Palkin), will take back the deposit from him, which he always wants to
keep, will reach the tent, feed her son-in-law, clean up after him, and then, without
undressing, will fall on the bed, into the dream that is stronger than death. And the day
after tomorrow, she will walk for thirty kilometers to sell the loots… Everyone on the
carcass, turning their heads, watched her go. Kharon slid to the warehouses, aunt Alise
disappeared from view behind the corner of the town hall, and then suddenly major
Korostylyov sat straight and began cursing through his teeth, hissing and spitting, and
no one stopped him, until Kharon parked near the warehouse hangar overpass and
switched off the engine. And even then, no one stopped Korostylyov, he calmed down
himself.
- Arrived! - Andreich Kharon prononsed from the cabin his first word for today.
Blinchuk was staring at Nabis unkindly.
- Arrived, - Nabis confirmed. - It’s here, in the hangar.
- What’s there?
- Some sort of hotel with a bar. It's called “Two pipes”.
- Poachers?
Nabis signed.
- “Smugglers”.
- Why so? - Blinchuk asked.
- In America it's “smugglers”, comrade Colonel, - Korostylyov said. - mean

54
contrabandists. Slang.
- Fuck this, - Blinchuk said. - Trackers, smugglers.. Troublers, damn them all!..
Good, and who are the “magacitls”?
- These are for example, you and me, comrade Colonel, - Korostylyov said.
Blinchuk cursed.
- Say, Nabis, do our American friends after all are also illegally treasuring in their
free times? - Korostylyov asked. - Why not to say now? We are already here. We
ourselves can notice it unexpectedly.
Nabis wiped his wet face with his wet palm and jumped off the carcass to skyway
under the tent. He made his deal. There was a bench near the door, cut in the closed
hangar’s gate. He sat on it, took out cigarette case with chopped Astrakhan’s “astra”
inside, and lit a cigarette, thinking that this is the third for today, which means there are
three more left. Nabis was trying to quit, gently cutting his habit step by step. He was
planning to live long. And in America.
Just like they had forgotten about him, all four passed him one by one on the way
to the door. Blinchuk was walking first, right into the battle, Korostylyov was the last,
covering the backs... And still he nodded to Nabis when catching up with him, before
disappearing in the bar waiting room. Yes, the most dangerous of them is the Major.
Especially because he is humane. Time passed. Nabis was smoking. Rain was roaring,
“shishiga” was cooling down under it, you could neither see nor hear Kharon behind the
flooded windshield. Suddenly there were safe steps on the right, shoes were splashing
through the puddles. Nabis looked up. Welcoming him from far by a show of hands,
familiar contractor Fenimore was approaching “Two pipes”. Here Kharon blinked
headlights, Fenimore without even lowering his arm, made his next step to the right
and disappeared in some gap in between the building extensions. Nabis smoked till it
reached his lips, threw cigarette butt into the rain and leisurely went to search for him.
He was glad that he met Fenimore precisely here and now. They had some
business, including one urgent, trade negotiations, where Fenimore was a buyer and
Nabis - a broker. “But the main reason of his satisfaction was in the other matter”,
though Nabis, “not being a reflexive person, didn’t recognize it.” All the morning he had
to behave diplomatically, which was against his nature to the point of disgust. He was a
person of a brood, he spent all his childhood and adolescence in a village brood, where
his speech defect didn’t matter, as well as his intelligence, honor and conscience. Then
suddenly the brood was over, when his friends and buddies started to get arrested and
little later the ones left were called in the army. Nabis didn’t get on court trial for
murder out of pure luck, and didn’t get into the army due to child disability, but
loneliness and suddenly appeared necessity to earn for life crashed him. There was the
only one way to make cash here for people of his level: fish-cathroughr. And a poacher
always is an individualist and a loner, doesn’t matter if the crowd is going for a concrete
deal. And all his poaching life Nabis was tormented by memories of long days and even
longer evenings of sweet, full of sense, adventures, pride from inevitable victories and
glorious defeats in the village brood of the “sixes”. The year 66 was rich for boys in

55
Kapustino, their generation was unsurpassed in numbers, even in Volzhsky people
heard about them. They had been visiting it once a month for a year, to have fights with
locals at the discotheque, squeezing out oil from them, scratching their skins. Brothers’
circle, familiar subjects, health and easiness, search, chase, destruction and triumph.
They didn’t even drink a lot. The loss this lifestyle was painful, as untimely arrived old
age. The Lighting scared Nabis, but also suddenly gave a hope for return of the brood,
adult, long-term brood, as those survived, locked in the strict quarantine, instantly
(from the beginning) became relatives, were holding on to each other as a family. And a
few demonstrations which took a place after the first months of the Lighting, gathered
everyone, who could walk, and there was a power, and there could be a stone thrown at
the head on anyone, - this could well be. Especially, look what is happening in the
country: self-governance, exchanges, joint ventures, self-management. But once hopes
died, military pressed down, and Americans didn’t come to help, bitches, didn’t step in.
He had to get hired as a guide, in order to have more than daily allowance for refugee.
To yield for daily ration. For good ration, though, so that the yield happened to be a
deep one, a breaking one. And then the Zone called, discovering in Nabis an excellent
flair, registered him, beckoned him. The very first loots sold – foolishly over the counter
- suddenly brought a fat take in. Nabis risked treasuring on the black market and in a
few walks – he's not an aunt Alise, after all, to carry only two “rainbows”. So at once he
was able to buy a “zhiguli” car. But was not allowed to buy it. And realized that he
aggravated his defeat, got himself into the army trap so deep, firmly caught in
necessity of diplomatic intercourse, necessity of compromise. He wasn’t stupid, he
managed to live like this, but this was giving him nervous spasms in the evenings, his
professional hatred, his core of a street guy, his memory about the deadly “encore” kick
to the man’s head began to rust slowly, and rust thins out. He was afraid to lose it, and
to lose it with military – his employers – meant to die physically. (The vomiting Ensign
today was, of course, on the very edge of death, but Nabis was at the very same place,
and much closer to the cliff.)
He didn’t understand that time should pass, new life should find its habitual track.
But he was lucky again, he lived through the first months of his nervous breakdown, he
had enough of nerve, he didn’t collapse into drinking, didn’t kill anyone. And so, about a
month ago, some movement in between illegals began, to unite into artels, and
objectively this central purpose had a future, was suggesting some sort of collective,
habitual power of signature in circle. And all diplomacy, all literal squiggles, all luxury of
human communication went at last to hell. Because a gang is a gang, back is covered,
all bitches will die today, and we will never die. Reset your old age, you have reached,
felt the bottom.
Fenimore was a prominent member of this movement, even though yet staying in
the military tracker status. And he was a guy. He could talk and do, and he understood.
So, after the stress from inability to strangle Ensign Shultsev scot-free the very thing
was to talk with some understanding guy, even though not a local one, but without
masks, without decorations, without show off. And with benefit. Long time there were

56
no such opportunity, everybody Is either creatures without concepts, or police people
without a law. Or suckers, ordinary people.
Fenimore settled down in a “hut with green table”. Lots of hidden places like this
were near the bar, some were preserved since earth days, some were made by trackers.
What was there to make really. Putting over a head piece of slate or tar was the only
thing you have to do to climb up in between technical booths or factory walls. And no
one really worried about getting wet, the “neutral” - is not the Trouble. Put a tar or
something similar under your feet, boxes or chocks for a sitting place, and here we go –
a badly prepared meeting room or a room for celebrating the outing of the mission
without extra ears and not under vicious sharp dead eye of Petrovich.
- Hello, Seryoga, - Fenimore said.
- Hi, Vadik.
- I didn’t get it, I walk, and they give me signs.
- I am a guiding on duty today. Brought a newbie. - Nabis threw a broken box
away and took out the new one from the pile. Sat down, moved his buttocks. Reliable.
Put the gun down on the table (piece of wood, top of which was marked by green
paint), close to exactly the same gun of Fenimore. Only that Fenimore’s magazine was
from a machine-gun, the fortieth.
- You mean that Blinchuk?
- Well yes. Petrovich lured him.
- Petrovich’s plans - plans of people, - Fenimore said chuckling.
- Petrovich is smart up to his ass of course.
- Met aunt Alise?
- Almost ran her over by car. “Rainbows” are so huge and colorful, where does she
dig for them?
- That is her deal, Seryoga. I will not cross her road.
- Yes, no talk here.
- But didn’t you go to the bar?..
- I am a guiding, not a fisherman. I am not with them, I'm only guiding them on
duty.
- Clear, - Fenimore said. - In all, Seryoga, we crossed each other at the right
moment. Have you seen your friend?
- Friends like this should be stomped by goats. In school he was always in the
way, that is all friendship. Four-eyed schmuck. Mother from connection point, dad... -
Nabis held himself back. - But here, nothing to say, lucky bastard, with flair, not a
cheater in the Trouble. Have to admit. In short, he made his points. He was there for
real. And he described the red house with no help, and confirmed writings on the
checkpoint.
Fenimore rubbed his face hard with both hands.
- Is the track lags in timing?
- He says, in places. He walked one leg objectively for a week. And it is strange
there also...

57
 - What?
- He was fed up trying to explain, and I - trying to get it. Muttered something. Just
as I said - a schmuck, cannot steal or lie in wait. He still reads Phonics by syllables. Said
that he had sort of to jump on a springboard. And there is a couple kilometers at a
jump.
- You mean, there is a springboard?!
- Exactly. A difficult track. But was given to a fool.
Fenimore thought. Rain was knocking on the tent, like someone was throwing
peas into the pan.
- Okay, won’t be clarifying all particulars, it’s your body. But did he enter the point
itself?
- He says, he got scared. That means he really didn’t enter. What are you
assuming there, Vadik? And how much is for me?
- Slow down for a second. One more question: was he there at daytime? In the
evening?
This was a very precise question, based on the honest answer Fenimore could
buy a Nabis’ guy. That is why Nabis crossed his hands on the chest, slightly leaned back
on the box and stayed silent waiting for the answer to his question, which was surely
more important.
- I am looking for a life water there, - Fenimore said.
Nabis shrugged his shoulders a little, and smoothly (not too much) shook his
head: what did you say? Keep it simple, as for the horse.
- A place where you can collect and take out some health.
Fenimore was talking seriously.
- And my stake in it?
- But don’t you need just some health? - Fenimore asked with an interest. - Pour
into a flask and carry with you. Someone injured you, you take a sip, and here you go –
alive again. Genghis Khan would die for such a thing.
- And then would strangle you. Not funny, Vadik.
- Not funny, - Vadim agreed. - In short, I am suggesting you a artel. I am the head,
you are the main. Collecting people by agreement. We have veto right, all that shit.
Ours seventy percent are always half-and-half. And we are not walking by bumpers,
neither beak nor huz.
- And your contract?
- I promised to Petrovich not to jump off till February. Here he is right, everybody
needs phones in the Zone, and we will need them.
- Am I in the share with phones?
- Next month they will bring honey ointment for your back, Lida Lebedeva told
me.
- Not a shitty partner you are.
- Very much so. Not giving you or me a change to scrounge.
Diplomatic lever got switched in Nabis off the point.

58
 - It sounded ambiguously, - he noticed.
Fenimore was silent for few seconds.
- Well, let’s discuss the work of Stanislav Lemm. You said, Sergey, that you had the
thickest volume at home? - He drummed on his teeth with nails, like in the movie about
“ShKID”1. - Or shall we move directly to women, Nabis? Where to get them from, how to
touch them?
Diplomacy, fuck it. If Nabis was happy to see someone in his brood, that was
Fenimore. Or himself in his, in worst case scenario. He had to sit down at the same
place where he stood up. And to pay penalty, straight away until it became rough.
- Okay, Vadik, sorry. Colonel with nerds got me into political correctness today
from early morning. Yes Sir, happy to serve, thanks, I am so grateful. Just loaded off
some extra dirt, but not to where I should. Sorry.
- Forget it. When are you back from duty?
- And what time it is as on earth? We entered the “neutral” through heat, my
watch is broken. Did you enter from the steppe?
- From the steppe. - Fenimore looked at his “montana”, pressed the button. - One
o’clock afternoon.
- And I have been free for an hour already. Fuck, - Nabis said sincerely, - it seemed
that it is already close to the evening.
- Аh! - Fenimore waved his hand. - I also cannot get used to it.
- And why are you here today at all?
- Here, just for those phone matters... Yeeаh! So, Petrovich decided to appear for
the new one... Didn’t expect such agility from him... One-two, watch, the new
commandant himself came to visit... Invited through the Father, you say?
- Well yes. The Father strolled along Pervomaiskaya. As in a painting. The new guy
swallowed the bait. And where are you going now?
- Well, I’m not going to wait until everyone comes out. I'll go home. Will hang out
with scientists.
- And right there I will get you. There is one...
- And she is waiting for you. Did he mark the track? - Fenimore asked.
- In short, he said, that for the second time he wouldn’t go without poles. He
understood himself that he was lucky. So yes, he marked, we will have to take him into
share.
- Until he guides us through.
- Well, or this way.
- And is he, according to your gut, hiding something?
- Of course. But I didn’t approach him as per the form. In a way this is me, but this
is new me. And told him a story that I am from Academy of Science side.
Fenimore laughed.
- And he has not agreed for less? Straight into Mendeleev’s periodic table?

1
The Republic of ShKID (Russian: Республика ШКИД, romanized: Respublika ShKID) is a Soviet comedy-
drama directed by Gennadi Poloka in 1966.

59
 - For real. And five a grand onto his bank deposit book.
- A deposit book for him, it will warm up his heart. Serge, in short, we need to
keep an eye on him.
- Yes. He is full of shit, and lives at the South... - Nabis stopped. Fenimore, lowered
his eyelids, and looked at him mockingly. Holding Nabis for a few seconds in cold he
slowly, sincerely, even though with a decent grin, said:
- Don’t be a girl, Nabis. I gave you my word already. I wasn’t tricking you, you got
soft yourself. And I will not use this opportunity. Artel is a artel. I am not going to buy
your goat and turn you on my dick. That is not right, Nabis. Seen “Godfather”? A word is
a word, and I am not a Komsomol party member. Keep tracking him down, he is your
guy, you are in chnarge. Track him well, as the South is full of chavs who are very
interested in him. And he himself, as you’ve described him, may go to scientists. He
shouldn't move neither to the Institute, nor to the Zone. It has to be done this week.
And Fenimore offered his hand. And Nabis silently shook it. It looked beautiful, a
handshake above the guns. Nabis knew how conversations with a guys like Fenimore
sometimes even break him into tears, tears he is no fucking ashamed of. He had similar
feeling when being drunk he was deeply thinking about lyrics from song about
submarine, and that he was lying with the guys at the bottom, in American way, and
how it broke through: clot in the throat, as if from the hatred or tenderness he wanted
for these guys in submarine to go under a tank, or, for example, to drub a policeman...
Bashen Sanyok was singing that song, rough, with modulations, hoarse voice like in the
“Guys” about a warhorse. And in the end so very high, almost thin, he shouted. Nabis
swallowed. He believed Fenimore at once.
- He will not leave, bro, or I am a crud, - he promised. He wanted to fix the
moment in some other way. And he asked: - Vadik, and about the life water, is that
accurate?
- Well, it’s not exactly water... I saw it with my own eyes. I had a scar - one rub, and
it’s gone. A clear arm. Not water, more like jelly, but not flat. But with bubbles, small and
big.
- As in “Tom & Jerry”?
Fenimore got it at once.
- Yes! Wiggles like that, moving. But warm. And imagine, I used it not in the Zone,
not in the “neutral”, but in Bezhensk. That means on earth. Understand? A long loot.
And the scar didn’t come back. To scoop up this thing - and you can just sit back and put
your feet up... These are worth millions, Serge. What’s “millions”... Fuck?! This... one
walker took it out from there, that’s certainly.
- So shall we add him into the artel?
- God, no. He is dead. Went on duty once in the evening. To town. And that’s it.
- Fuck, as in the book, exactly. “Gone to the Zone, now in the Institute they tearing
out hair “...
- Is it in your shitty “Picnic by the road”, isn’t it? - Fenimore asked with disgust. -
You got under my skin, readers. Damn, there we are. Young lads are reading it! You,

60
bro, would better be quitting reading, not smoking.
- Well, that’s your opinion... But did I know the dead one?..
- Pasha-Maz.
- Fuck... And no map, nothing?
Fenimore poked his tooth negatively.
- And did jelly also disappear?
Fenimore poked positively. Took his gun from the table.
- I’ll go. Look out, Serge, just in case. By the way did you notice? Not a single soul
within half a kilometer distance near the “Pipes”. Apart from the Fisherwoman. Is that
Petrovich who terrified everyone? He could have.
Nabis replied, that he noticed (you could really feel emptiness around, only some
bodies were warming up themselves in the bar), fulfilled the request, looked out, waved
his hand to Fenimore. No other word was said. Fenimore walked away to the left side in
quick smooth steps, towards Volgograd, and Nabis returned to the bench under the
tent.
He was in excellent mood.

61
 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “Petrovich-19”
A fragment

- Syoma, I had many reasons to cooperate with the new commandant right away. I will
tell you few of them for the interest. Decide yourself, which one is main. And tell me when you
decide, we will have a laugh. First of all, the guard over perimeter was shooting smugglers
without warning, and this enraged everyone dreadfully...

62
 CHAPTER 3

He at once set his watch for five minutes past one. Exact time was not important
here, but measurement of objective intervals was.
He was not forbidden to enter the “Two pipes”, he didn’t allow it for himself.
Approximately at one forty silently and without any notice the Father came out of the
bar. Nabis didn’t move, though that gave him the creeps. Iron floor in the cloak room of
the bar rattled under everyone’s feet, however you try, as if it was made like this on
purpose. He didn’t hear the Father’s steps at all. Was the Father flying? The Father stood
nearby, hanging over, shone with his illuminators on Nabis. Meanwhile Yana was fixing
a curtain against rain on the visor of her basket. And before shutting it down, said:
- Evil boy, Seryozha, If only you had gone to study for a red tree furniture maker
in Leningrad, you would have lived a long and happy life! And would not be killing
anyone.
- Thanks for caring, Father, - Nabis said.
Yana snorted, showed her tongue to Nabis, and the Father took a left turn onto
the overpass, towards the city. Jumped off the overpass at the end, he disappeared
right away, though there was nowhere to turn. Nabis couldn’t resist and spat. You can
get used to the flying five-story house, but it's is not possible to get used to the Father
or eyes-mushrooms in any way. It seems that they found what to talk about at the bar.
He had to wait one more hour, he was about to go after his cigarette case, when the
floor under the feet and the ruffled iron at his back finally started to rattle and vibrate
wildly. Nikolay Nikolayevich Petrovich, the owner, a fence, a bread-winner and, generally
speaking, one of the most authoritative people in the quarantine, appeared first. On
seeing Nabis he pretended to be surprised and glad, putting on according face features
of long big-mouthed snout under American cap with noticeable difficulty. Nabis hated
him, could sense a policeman in him, and as seen today he was not mistaken. Fenimore
hangs around him, of course, but on business. Fenimore is a business dealer.
(Suddenly it hit right in the stomach: didn’t he become an extra witness? Intended
for outgo. And it became cold in his belly, and he regretted, that Fenimore left. But then
the lump relaxed. A flair. Potentially Nabis felt such a meanness in major Korostylyov for
example, but not in the Colonel. And definitely not in Petrovich.)
Accompanied by Nabis went after Petrovich, and not with empty hands. Ensigns
in four hands carried branded Petrovich’s box for loots in large quantity. Petrovich let
them pass him, showing with chopping palm to the car, they headed towards it,
stepping up with care, from heal to toe, very funny synchronously pulled in heads,
when came out into the rain. The Colonel was going after them. He had unlit cigar in his
mouth, a toy gun on his back, and held a half-full glass in his hand. To add ends of silk
footcloths showing off from his boots, and the image of a military officer who has just
received a massive bribe might be considered a classic one. Blinchuk came out,
stopped, took out the cigar from the mouth and sipped from the glass, watching the

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already wet Ensigns are loading and fixing the box at the back of the carcass.
Major Korostylyov went out quietly, and private trackers started to appear after
him, Anasha came out, after Anasha – Shtykov, after Shtykov – both brothers Malinovs
at the same time, somebody else after another, Nabis already was not looking and
didn’t recognize. A whole crowd came out from the bar! Nabis rose from the bench and
took to the right. Right away excited Kostya Malinov, kurkul, pushed through to him to
say 'hello' and ask for a cigarette. Baffled with number of people, Nabis gave one to
him. He had an impression that crowd filled all overpass under the tent. Somewhere
below, at the bellies level, between the bellies, Nabis noticed the forehead and a beard
of Zhenya Turanchox. About forty people, no less! Almost everyone had a drink in a
hand. Nabis didn’t know what to think. Something clammy fluttered in his stomach.
Does it mean a life for him, this number of witnesses of Moscow Colonel corruption? Or
vice versa, and all is worse, and Petrovich is a bitch? But composition of the crowd was
pretty motley, only Petrovich’s nerds and debtors were absent. Then Nabis noticed near
the very entrance foreman Misrukov, his platoon commander, who was a mature
person with pretty strict rules, and the lump finally dissolved. Seems, still that was not a
purchase of corrupted Muscovite was taking place at “Two pipes”, while Nabis was
making friends with Fenimore. But some sort of gathering, a meeting. Appointment of
a new director. Strange of course that Nabis knew nothing. And it seems it was not very
smart that he didn’t eavesdrop at least, what was the subject discussed at the
meeting... And Fenimore clearly didn’t know ...
- Oh, Nabis, hi, Nabis, and I didn’t notice you, - he heard sharp half-whisper close,
recognized the voice, made an effort and distinguished from a crowd a face of the Moor
Kazakov – old before-the-Lighting acquaintance. Senior from the Dog's, a local
notorious legend. He was nicknamed 'the Moor' because of his dark-brown skin, for
harshness in behavior and for a habit to beat up girls as men. (And his father was same
brown and harsh.) the Moor was a real, natural and hereditary poacher and he went to
jail on his fifteenth birthday for killing a fisherman on the water. Ten years, for young
age. He was freed by a call in eighty-seven.
- And why I didn’t track you down in the “Pipes”? - the Moor inquired. - Being a
wall-flower, Seryozha?
- Hi, Moor, - Nabis replied. - I wasn’t there. I am in a guiding role, on entrance
from Volgogradskiy. I am on a twenty-four hour duty, I am not with them.
- Аh, a job, - the Moor. However, he didn’t look to insult, he accepted explanation
to why he hadn’t seen Nabis inside. He worried about it. How did it come, he didn’t
notice someone? The Moor was proud of his flair, exceptional really in its depth, range
and volume. They do not bet “on route” in the Zone, but the Moor hardly ever “risked”
on track, passing twains of gitiks “by cheeks”, that is by gut feeling, reading hardly
noticeable air flows or humidity change with the skin on his face. Apart from that, from
all the trackers he was the only one, who could distinguish by eye passable “Rubik’s
Cube” from impassable. To sum up, he was a God on track, but with a sense of smell for
relations he were not so good… Just like an ordinary person. And through life he is

64
looking only skin-deep. Champion in interpersonal problems stemming from his own
carelessness… Then the Moor seemed to nudge Nabis in the chest, Nabis looked down
and saw a pack of “Inter” on brown fingers, covered in ash, as it seemed. With a
polished nacreous nail on the little finger.
- Have a smoke, buddy, from this old stock, - the Moor said in a friendly way. -
Stop smoking your waste cut ups. I’ll tell you so, boy, that is definitely Mrs. Gorbachyova
who persuaded Bulgarians to hold back the cigarettes. In order to hurt people. She’s
got it in her blood, she is a witch.
The Moor was very interested in politics. Had his own opinion.
- Doesn’t matter - Gorbach, Bulgarians, the Moor... Don’t get offended... What did
they decide there with the Colonel? I still have to accompany him to Earth, - Nabis asked
quietly, striking a match. - Who knows, may be they offended a Muscovite.
- You look at his fat face, - the Moor suggested, though also lowering his voice.
Puffing, they quietly went further to the side from the others. Across the Moor’s
shoulder, Nabis saw the Colonel earnestly conducting using his glass and cigar, talking
with people, who surrounded him in a semi circle, and Colonel Petrovich is watching
this conversation almost with father’s affection. Nabis shuddered, the Moor noticed and
turned around to admire.
- Well, but what you want, - he said through his teeth. - Godfather is a godfather,
he always needs something, if he has an interest is even ready to shut a democrat.
Especially through a thief. To make hucksters happy, feed them…Well okay. Take it easy,
Nabis, we just got to know the main fisherman, so what fucking decisions are we
talking about. Win-win. He found out about us, we found out about him. We, in sum,
are helping to draw the Zone on a map for him, and he is slowing down his paramilitary
so they don’t shoot on sound. He will open the first perimeter a little bit as a gesture of
good will.
- Ah! - Nabis said. - We’ll draw the map ourselves and to let him know where
exactly to put the iron fence.
- Buddy, you don’t have a correct vision of prospects, - the Moor said seriously.-
Listen to me. We are in the Zone for good, Seryoga. That’s certain. Gorbachev and Bush
decided to never let us go outside of the quarantine. As if we are ill and infectious. This
is just a no-brainer. Understand. But no one will allow to dump fifteen thousand people
under a lawn, it’s not the old times, no Africa, no Hitler. Not Afghan. And they need us,
for scientists, for observations, to work, serve, and all the rest. In total, we need to
settle down. What is the difference – Dog's or Bezehensk? Same shit, nothing changed,
apart from the government. So, we can draw a map, useful for everyone. That is not a
problem. And if this fisherman will also cut paramilitary short, as he promised, then
that's awesome. Life is getting better in a way.
- To settle down, you’re saying, Moor? - Nabis questioned.
The Moor’s eyes which looked white on his dark face were not laughing. They
didn’t have a soul, at all. The Moor got closer and lowered his voice.
- To settle around in order to get started, see. I wanted to look for you myself

65
these days, Seryoga, - he said. - I’ve got one deal, I need a partner. Cannot arrange it
again with my Grinya, a schmuck. As refugees now say: an artel is needed. (He
pronounced it exactly: “artel”.) There is a hole in every jail. And we have here the whole
prairie of holes. And I can pass the “Rubic” with open eyes, bro. You only need to take
something unique from the Zone, and leave. I’ve thought over everything. Go to
Muslims. Gaddafi there, Arafat, to those. Emirates. They will not give us out, and it is
rich there.
- Will not give us out, but will cut our balls... What are you talking about, Moor? -
Nabis asked, frozen inside from a nasty premonition.
- Listen, there is one schmuck in Uzhka. And he is a regular at scientists. Sort of
he knows where the cure for cancer is, AIDS, and all. That’s cooler than atomic bomb,
understand? With this you may leave.
Nabis managed to show normal, not sour, but joyful surprise.
- So, - he said, - Valera. Why is that you are loud about such thing?! Let’s not talk in
this crowd.
- Like I did something wrong now? - the Moor asked getting angry at once.
- Valera, don’t push it without grounds, that’s not about it at all!
- I watch myself, Nabis. Always. - He looked around and spat. - Exactly in the
crowd no one will hear...But what, did you hear about this medicine? Seems you were
not surprised.
- And is there anything that can surprise you in the Zone?
The Moor puffed. Grinned. Believed. Nodded.
- That is fact, Seryoga! Nothing will surprise. When they whispered that to me, I
didn’t get surprised myself, sure. Only was glad.
- But who whispered?..
- I’m doing one earth laboratory assistant in the institute, - the Moor explained
without any tension. - Imagine, they all are scared there, that they will be tied forever
here along with us. So, she in a way leaned against me. As if I am a Columb and will
take her out from the quarantine if something. I’ve lied that, of course, I will take her
out, but needed money. So here she's giving me, well, leads. Where and who brought
what from a mission.
- Did you check? Leads? Not crap?
- Yes, I did. Not crap. I took out a “Benvenuta” as per her lead. Scientists poled the
old Closest until Five Roads, but didn’t reach them. Her mistake. And I took “benvenuta”
out from Five Roads. And handed it to Institute, to the factory.
- Why?
- Why handed over? So, the lady will not be identified.
- Ah! Didn’t think about it.
“I should finish Vadik”, Nabis though unexpectedly for himself, “and to enter
share with the senior.” It started itching in the nose.
- And where is my guide? - Blinchuk barked over quiet tracker’s hubbub with
theatrically joyful voice. “If you're not a tracker – you don’t get it, the Father was right...

66
And it’s not allowed to yell, and they were warned. No way am I a “guide” to you, bitch.
Again, I have told you...” - Get into the cars! Comrade Major, lets finish the meeting!
- Understood, “guide”?... - the Moor winked at him. - Behaving with you as an
owner. Okay, okay, I just made a joke, brother.
- And I laughed... I understood your business matter, Moor. It needs to be
discussed. That's your subject. Are you going home, or on a track now? - Nabis asked.
And then a spark of hesitation slipped through the Moor’s head: to lie or not. (Just
not to sneeze.) And the Moor lied.
- Home, - he said. - Don’t know about others, but I came here to listen to the new
cop. Yesterday there was an announcement from Petrovich at the pub, that they are
bringing him.
- Well, I see why I didn’t hear. I went on duty at that time... I got it, you are going
home.
The Moor nodded.
- But first I'm going to watch a cassette tape at Petrovich’s place, they brought it
over there. Something new about Shaolin. And then will go home.
Lies.
- So let’s meet up today at the pub at the time of bottling. That’s it, see you, Valer.
- Okay. Here, - the Moor said, as was supposed to, slapped off and spat out the
butt far away. - So, are you with me, Seryoga?
- Well, no shit, Moor. What’s up with you?! Thank you for giving me this sign at all.
That is a hot deed!
- We grew up in the same yard, running on the same route to a pot. Your dad and
mine made salted cathroughr together. Who else would I call? City guys, as my nerd? Or
tight-ass curculs? No even funny. I wanted to find you in town today-tomorrow... - The
Moor scratched his forehead with a grinding noise, ran his fishy eyes and suddenly in
totally different tone asked: - Listen, Nabis, by the way did you get that a Russian is
starring in “Die hard”? The one who played a medieval guitar player in the “Thirty first of
July”?
“Ah, you are Sherlock, son of a bitch. You Standartenführer.” But Nabis, of course,
was surprised. Not only by his words, but also the point. He liked “Die hard”, even
considering the main character was a cop.
- No way!
- Yes, I myself didn’t believe when I heard, wanted to pull someone’s tongue. But
he saw it correctly, understand? A long-haired gangster, walking there with a custom
made gun. The one who is revenging the cop for his brother. And that is certain, he is
that one from the “Thirty first of July”. We, in short, found out at Mahas’ salon, were
paused for this. He is in titles. Alexander Godunov. In short, Nabis, you watch, we are
giving coal to this world. There is our guy playing in “Nazaret”, our guy playing in “Die
hard”, - our gangsters are all over, in short. And here me and you will conquer America.
Ah, fuck, are we not Russians, or what? Understood, Serge? Like that.
- Got it, - Nabis replied in the same tone. - That’s it, separating now, as mine

67
started yelling.
- We shall meet. Don’t get lost for the evening.
They shook hands. The handshake was weak, sort of fishy. Nabis turned away in a
hurry and walked on, and began to scratch his terribly itchy nose, getting through to
his car. He went through the crowd with his shoulder forward, holding KHM on his side
and unfocusing his attention, so it would work as a camera when he will have a chance
and when it would be needed. People were recognizing him. “Oh, and Nabis here!” -
someone said, someone tapped him on the shoulder, and Zheka Turanchox in half-voice
shouted with his robot-voice: “Hey, curly!” The Colonel with his escort have already been
in the car, Kharon switched the engine on. The Barman, Petrovich, Nikolay Nikolayevich,
resting his elbow on the cabin’s roof, was telling for the last time something to the
Colonel, who was looking out for Nabis. Nabis stepped from overpass to carcass, sat at
his wet seat. The displeased Colonel nodded to him, but Nabis was thinking about other
things. “Search-chase, and annihilation, fucking Moor-Shtirlitz, blue bastard, Gaddafi to
you, where did you sniff me out with my business...” - and all the attention he had, he
focused into the one point, and straightening in his chair, took a snapshot of people at
overpass in his head. He closed his eyes and started reviewing it.
Petrovich, Valya, Anasha, Malinovs, Khlops, Goga... the Moor himself, Petya
Misrukov... but where is he?.. bow-legged, don’t know what is his name… Pshil, Roma-
Pepsicola, Bold… And here he is, the Moor’s bumper. Standing as before an execution.
Grisha Platonikhin. And dressed up like for going out, as is the Moor. And here Nabis
had a flash, it even seemed to him that he has gone into the river with a floating house
for a second. “Cacti”, bitch! “Cacti”!
And the time is suitable – for the Moor, with his flair in this land. The second part
of the day, ashes behind the stadium have already risen, walkers, who has gone to
town in the morning, either already returned, or already not. Now the city is empty. A
mad tracker, who outwaits ashes, or knows how to settle them, as the Moor knows,
might even be let slide under the lawn… It will not come to anybody’s head – to leave
for hospital in the second half of the day! This is who supplies Institute with cacti
through this arrogant rat Olya! The Moor. Crapped on everyone’s heads… But “cacti” -
are totally unimportant, Nabis thought, driving away his anger like smoke in front of his
face. What is important, that they will come out after him now, the Moor and Grisha.
And most importantly – the Moor will buy out Lyova Chikashin. And this means – life
water. This is what is important.
But “cacti” also were not leaving his thoughts.
It should be thought well over… Not just to thought, but to figured out. “Kharon
will now go without stops, I have seven – ten minutes of objective time. What time is
now at the Pre-Zone? I will have to run fast, there will be nothing to ride on, there will
be no time for considering, do it now, Nabis, come on, this is politics, make politics,
hurry.”
And meanwhile Petrovich, not paying attention to rain, was shaking hands,
pushing with his shoulder, squeezing his hand to ensigns past Nabis, he shook Nabis’s

68
hand as well, lastly gave a long handshake to the Colonel, finishing some farewell
speech, - Nabis wasn’t listening. The car took off, the Colonel remembered about the
long-forgotten glass in his hand and managed to give it to its owner already on the
move, Kharon was smoothly driving “shishiga” into a turn, and they went back to Earth.
- Comrade Colonel... - Glyzin started as soon as they squeezed into the gap at the
exit from the town hall. The Colonel turned around abruptly. That’s clear that he doesn’t
want to discuss it in Nabis’ presence. “Interesting, what Petrovich has loaded into his
box there. And most importantly why, if this meeting was just a meeting with public?
And why I didn’t know anything about it, though there were different people,
representing every party... And Vadik-Fenimore also wasn’t aware, even being a
Petrovich's mate, for business matters… Or not any longer? To many people for one
Zone”, Nabis thought. “All in one place.” Car came out into the sun. Accompanied ones
covered their eyes with hands at the same time. “So. Not about this. Let’s go into detail.
the Moor’s explanation, that he decided to take me as a fellow countryman into the
deal – is ok. There are two-three Kapustin’s guys left apart from us, who were agreeable
before the Lighting, Zhenya the Fighter for example, but that’s freaky to bring the
Fighter into the Zone even as a bumper, he's a complete zero as a tracker. That’s fine, he
needs a tracker of my level. But. All the rest is bullshit. I have talked to Lyova yesterday
evening, he didn’t go to the scientists any more, apart from that first time, and then he
didn’t tell them anything specific. Where did it come from? Even though Lyova is a
schmuck, but still not suicidal.”
“Could Vadik-Fenimore be playing tricks?” Here he needs to think hard. “What is
his gain from the Moor? They are different people, just equally vile. The Moor is blue,
Fenimore even though a gangster, but without meanness. If Lyova really poled out a
track to Zhitkur, to the old Airfield, then what does Fenimore needs the Moor for?
Nothing really. And two offers for me at the same time- into two different artels? They
both know that I have a person with the track and pulling me over?” Here even Nabis’s
stomach churned because of the tense of the thought. “Here either I don’t know
something, or this is a coincidence. As in the Zone and near it everything hits into one
point, everyone is in someone else’s way. Misrukov said at his lectures, that we now are
having wild times, when constant random shooting in smoke, and only, maybe, in a
year only smoke will dissipate and some social processes will begin, some of the
agreements will start to be fulfilled, in order not to push until the last man with the flair,
up until Duncan Macleod from Macleod clan, so to say.” (Here! That's why Petrovich
needs Blinchuk! – his brain was hit by the second plan as by projector. An arbitrator! No
one would accept his own local person as a judge now, too much of show off mixed in
the camp, too many deaths overlap, too much of hysterics, misfortune and
opportunistic hopes. Petrovich could do, but he doesn’t have way up there in the
“neutral”... Nabis glanced at Blinchuk. It seems the Colonel was actually napping, as he
held tightly to the armrests with his rake. But he was honestly going to burn out. If he
now pushes on.)
Wait. Not about this.

69
 Vadim doesn’t have any gain from the Moor. But the fact that Vadim and Nabis
were not too much of friends, local with other town resident, also a military one,
something arranging together, people could notice and this could reach the Moor.
- Ah, you are scum, the Moor, you decided to swindle me, - Nabis said, turning
into the beast inside of him. - To play on our countrymen feeling, our parents. And it
almost went through. Nabis pulled himself together, admitting as a man: yes, there was
a moment, he believed the Moor. As now one of them, either Fenimore or the Moor is
like a bad tooth. And there was a moment, yes. To kill off Fenimore and join the Moor.
Practically in one hour after conversation with Vadim.
“Am I really such a scum in this life?”, Nabis asked himself, ”I didn’t pass exams
school, never mind passing off my mates.”
If he was now alone, he would moan from the sharp feel of his own cheap soul.
- Guide, - The Colonel said quietly. Nabis turned up. - Vomiting, diarrhea, this shit
with the eye... are we going to have that... after we exit?
- No, - Nabis said. And continued, letting go off wild pressure of Soviet guy’s
honor, from which his eyes got misted. - No, comrade Colonel, but if you call me a
“guide” one more time, I will break your nose. Regardless. And no one in thirty
kilometers around will judge me.

70
 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “Different documents”
“№ 12. Personal diary of the Head of rear of the Polygon,
General-Major Lyzhin, A.K. Copy”
Last notes, a fragment

12 of March 1989. 23.30. Half an hour ago was called to communication center.
Maxim phoned. He is in Volzhskiy, called from some local military unit through “Rubin”.
Ninochka tried to commit suicide, by hanging herself. She was saved. Now she is in mental
hospital. Maxim swore to her to(crossed out). Maxim was determined to get into the
quarantine, and then to town. As his father and senior in rank I prohibited him to do so. But
how to stop a father from searching for his child?
13 of March 1989. 9.00. All night was working on a summary report, at 8.00 handed it
to the Commander. Main provisions of the report are as following.
1. As of yesterday following a census and record, organized by me, 11.269 people were
registered in the quarantine area. Approximately two-thirds of them are members of military
families from the Polygon personnel, two thousand civilians, residing in town and at the
farm, one and a half thousand officers and ensigns, less than four hundred soldiers and
sergeants of compulsory military service. The most affected part of population - soldiers.
2. The initial stage in creating living conditions for the affected should be considered
complete and satisfactory. The following people should be given special credits in
organization of the camp “Bezhensk”: Severtsev, the Head deputy of Voentorg base, Colonel
Ermakov. the homefront deputy for the seventeenth site, Colonel Ochagov, the homefront
deputy SCMC-11. In the report I would provide recommendation for Сommander Ermakov,
Andrey Stepanovich to take my post. Separately noted sabotage (on brutality and stupidity)
of Lebedev, the second secretary. Drunker, coward and a motherfucker. Kazarkin died, and he
survived.
3. Capital construction. We need to claim extra 12 million rubles from the government
and Ministry of Defense. Otherwise nothing can be finished before winter, we will not
manage to get out from tents. “Blue houses”!
4. Water problem, if all my orders are fulfilled in time, will be resolved before the 1st of
July. Responsible Lieutenant-Colonel Ivanov (Semyon Ilyich), very clever in housekeeping.
Trust, promote.
5. Employment of the population - the main problem in the nearest time and future.
Commotion within conscripts, among them many are to be demobilised. Educational
process! (To express gratitude and award for members of “Time Machine” music band for
performing a charity concert last Friday on the “Timestation” platform. Zampolit Servantsev
got wasted and didn’t even go to stage to shake hands with those hairy guys, didn’t say
thank you, bastard. And ten thousand adults with children were standing in the steppe in the
rain, were listening to hairy guys, and had a good time, even though electricity was cut off a

1
Single control and measuring complex. Military scientific unit as part of a rocket range.

71
few times and the sound got interrupted.)
6. To restrict shootings from towers at the first perimeter. People are breaking into the
city to search for their relatives, but not for looting. But even if for looting. Lots of injured,
two dead in March. Soon they will start to shoot border guards in response. And will be right.
7. Secret service agents are to be allowed to carry guns with them at all times, without
passing them over to the gun’s rooms. In this I positively support the Head of the Secret
Service. Security service for the quarantine is organized terribly, formally! We are not
convicts, not lawbreakers, we are not in jail! Why the paramilitary are securing the
quarantine?! We must protest, contact the minister! Also, I support Fedoruk’s initiative to
enroll conscripts caught up in the quarantine, pay them same as ensigns. At the end of the
day we hire contract military people from all over the USSR, but neglect our own people. To
engage, promise prospects and pay! This may solve the anxiety problem, at least externally,
ease discontent, especially, if at last the question of free calls home and dates in Tsarevo will
be solved.
8. Besides, psychiatrists and psychologists are needed! I don’t know if there are such
specialists in required numbers, but we essentially need them. If it’s possible to call out the
priests - call the priests!
9.40.Astonishing phonogram reached us at the unit. Those fourteen American
survivors will be returned here to the quarantine as agreed with their command. Don’t know
really how it was decided, what they were offered. I thought they had been in the States long
time ago. I gave an order to provide them with housing in the “Scientist building”.
Responsible – Savrasov.
10.00. According to the activity schedule (approved by commandant on the 10th of
March for this working week), a scouts group under the command of Senior Lieutenant
Timofeev is going to the Tolbukhin street area today in the afternoon. They are going in a
tank with a walking backup. Violating the order on non-participation of the senior
commanders of the quarantine in saving or scouting operations in disaster zone, I made a
decision to go with them, to search for Tamara and Ilyushenka. I’ve informed Fedor at night,
he said nothing. Damn that day when I, old fool, insisted that grandson should be growing
up at our place, and not at GSFG1 with parents. Maxim, Nina, forgive me. Dad.

1
Group of Soviet Forces in Germany.

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 CHAPTER 4

The action plan that thickened in Nabis’ mind to tangible vagueness on the rainy
part of the road, unexpectedly received hard ground in the gut on the turn to the
courtyards from Volzhskaya onto 9th May st. And unexpectedly it happened because of
the external interference. Though, if to think - that was not difficult to foresee panic,
which began in senior circles of the quarantine commandant’s office, if this came to
someone’s head to reflect on this matter. After all, the new commandant was missing.
On the first day. Of course, there was a panic, and not weak. Grab guns and to horses!
Whistle and climb on top.
In short, here’s what happened: pro Kharon, driving the car very professionally,
slowed down some more before the turn, and when a second later he hit the brakes
and steered left onto the oncoming lane, he had enough of both space and time – and
the first of two patrol “uaziks” vans, speeding in search for the new Zone Commandant,
broke through an air mirror here right on the roadway, but managed to narrowly avoid
crashing into the driver’s door. They went side-by-side. The first car accident inside the
Perimeter almost took a place in the history of the Zone.
Blinchuk and Nabis were thrown onto the cabin, the Colonel cursed, the seats
instantly slammed and clicked under the asses. “Shishiga” jumped up rough on the
curbstone and halted, with its face into the garden under the windows of number four.
Blinchuk and Nabis were thrown backwards in this rollback, the Colonel cursed again,
loudly and painfully: his leg hurt and he was barely holding on with his elbows, in order
not to slide onto the cabin floor. Dropped his gun. Nabis found his seat, lowered it and
sat, catching his breath. It could be cool. His elbow started burning with pain.
Kharon leaned out through the side window almost up to his waist and shouted
in full voice:
- You, damn, witch, where do you think you are going - for mirrors towards
opposite lane, allocricetulus you fucking curtatus1!
In the opened “uazik” that just escaped “shishiga” turning to the curb, the
Lieutenant Colonel Remezov (crumpled in two fists near his chin paper wet package,
the Colonel’s chest was all dirty) and a couple of familiar majors’ faces were sitting on
the back seat in silence, stoned, and stared at “shishiga”. And the hero of the accident,
driver Vitya the Gate with his nose into the rim of the wheel was staring as from behind
the parapet. He was nervous.
The second “uazik”, full of patrol lieutenants and sergeants comprising no less
than two crews, stood still, on tip toe. Patrol guys came out and almost ranged into a
single line. Nabis' shiftman contractor Fedin was among them, waved his hand to him.
At last, the Gate turned off his engine, sat straight, leaning on the wheel, cursed, and it
became even more quiet. Everyone was waiting, what Blinchuk was going to say. Apart
from Kharon, who jumped off onto the road and was inspecting the cabin of “shishiga”
1
Allocricetulus curtatus (Lat.) - the Mongolian hamster.

73
from outside. Kharon didn’t give a damn who says what, he was concerned about
serious things.
Blinchuk was silent, going through options with reactions in his head, it seemed.
It got stinking with politics right at the cabin, Nabis winced. (That’s the Moor who set off
his flair, smells of people, their thought and intentions were almost physically pinching
hairs in Nabis’s nose.) But the Colonel could even not search for options, all was already
decided from above.
Kharon jumped on the bandwagon and mumbled reluctantly, talking to Blinchuk:
- The tank is punctured.
At this moment Nabis already knew, what he will do further with his business,
and for the Colonel, accordingly, there was nothing to be done. He silently and slowly
jumped off the cabin, came over, limping, to “uazik” with Remezov inside. That one
jumped off inside the car and saluted.
- Comrade Сolonel! Sergey Borisovich! - he said with feeling.
- Do not splash on me with your package, Valentin Vasilyevich, - Blinchuk
suggested. - It is commendable that you quickly rushed to search for me. Impressed
me with your zest. Crazy and dumb! And in general, I have full trunk of impressions
today. You, Lieutenant-Colonel, needed to be said, added accordingly. But we will
discuss this matter in my office, we are not going to do it right here… And right now…
So. Comrade Major, you…
The appointed Major jumped up.
- Spare me your seat, be so kind, - Blinchuk said.
The appointed Major got out of the car.
- Major Korostylyov...
- Me! - Korostylyov said behind Nabis’s back.
- ...finish all in our matter, - Blinchuk shouted quietly, climbing aboard “uazik”. -
And be present by 6 pm in the commandant’s office.
- Yes sir! - And Nabis felt movement of saluting hand behind his back.
Blinchik sat down. All were waiting.
- Well, why are we standing, Lieutenant Remezov? Lets go already! - Blinchuk said
politely. - Lead on!
But Kharon hasn’t finished yet. Kharon came over to “uazik”, looked at the Gate
up close, directly into his shameless eyes, and knocked on the hood with his fist like on
the coffin.
- You’ve got to think, Vitya! - he noted to the Gate. - Think with your HEAD! - The
Gate made a muzzle, and Remezov to his honor said:
- Kharon, my order was... Basically... Ahh!.. - He waved with his dirty hand.
- He should have screwed you with your order, comrade Lieutenant-Colonel! -
Kharon said implacably. - I cannot stay quiet. Because of passengers!
- Lead on, Remezov, - Blinchuk said.
- Let’s go, Vitya, - Remezov said, and Kharon turned with his back to the
contemptible ones and returned to his injured “Shishiga”, who pierced her little paw.

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Vitya the Gate started the car and slowly but surely ruled around and took already
saved commandant away. Nabis’ group stopped its existence.
Nabis turned to Korostylyov, the one in charge, right away. He was going to stand
up, but reacted and sat back. Stared with a question.
- I’m listening to you, tracker, - he said.
- Comrade Major, I’ve over-done my duty by half a day, - Nabis said. - There is my
shift-man, Sergeant Alex Fedin, A Gig-Robot. Allow to change.
- Permission given and what’s next?..
Nabis pointed his hand to the right, into the distance.
- I will leave. I’ll exit the “neutral” right here, at the distance fifty-four tower. May
be I’ll catch a bus to Bezhensk. I'm even sure I will, they go frequently, after three in the
afternoon. Here on the “neutral” two hundred meters and one kilometer till road.
Fifteen minutes. And though the checkpoint...
- I understand, sanitary check and all that stuff...
- It will last until 6 - Nabis said.
- He’s up for something, wants to breach, - the vomiting dead-Ensign who was
listening carefully said.
Observing Kharon, roaring annoyingly, taking out keys and jack-screw from trunk,
Nabis said:
- So what do you decide, comrade Major?
- Go, Nabis, - Korostylyov said. - I am not here to guide you, and what about the
violation... If you are caught, then there is a violation. And that was enough adventures
for me today. Only do inform the shift-man that you have changed.
Nabid did it at once, not loitering in the cabin a second longer. And he was in a
hurry, and didn’t want to overhear accidentally, if Shultsev says something else. Kharon
didn’t let no one touch his car, that is why trackers-lifeguards-scouts, stood in half-circle
in safe distance from the broken tire, already smoking and waiting for future orders
from the senior in rank. Nabis knew everyone, many he valued highly as trackers, and
shook everybody’s hands. He was offered a cigarette (“astra” from a pack, not a rolled-
up), he lit cigarette from Fedin and exchanged a few words with him. “Well, our new
commandant was something!” - Fedin said. “You have no idea, - Nabis said
meaningfully. - But you will. So what, Giga, I passed you the shift?” “And I accepted it?” -
one and a half meter tall Fedin asked. “Enough, Giga, don’t you start, - Nabis suggested.
- I already had enough of politics and other shit of this kind today. Let me go, please do,
I have no energy left. I want to sleep. I will only pop in at the “Two pipes”, smoke and
gobble up something. Gig-Robot sniffed, and stretched his hand swinging it wide. Nabis
shook it. For now he had to wait a little, and asked for one more cigarette. He was given
it. “Cricket” Kyshnov asked: “Nabis, so where did you rush with a new one in the
morning? Really were going out there? With first timers?!” Nabis responded with
negative shush and reproof (what the hell are you doing, Kyshnya, with fishermen
being right there?) shook his head in the direction of Korostylyov. Korostylyov and
ensigns indeed walked up from the other side of “shishiga”. Also lit up cigarettes,

75
watching Kharon’s holy acts. He already took off the tire and now was inspecting it,
clicking above it with tongs. After seeing a thorn, he grasped the tire with his knees,
caught the enemy thorn’s tip using tongs, and grinning as a dentist, pushed, pulled –
and took out large one. Everyone even leaned back, examining. Kharon showed the
thorn to all and everyone, it turned out to be a well-known local instrument – a scary
sturgeon electrode hook, cleverly wounded by dirty nylon string. Nabis has lost the
count of how many of such he has wound himself.
- Hey, here is where children used to play! - Kharon announced accusingly. - So
should they walk on it with their feet in sandals?! Fucking poachers.
Everybody nodded, started talking.
- Andreich, let's at least help you fix this holey tire, - Lieutenant Malskiy said
eagerly. - Not claiming the spare one, but at least holey! Let us contribute a bit!
- Hands off my car, - Kharon murmured, and leaning the tire against the bumper,
went into the cabin for a spare tire. Took away the hook.
- Well, all in all, I’ve come off duty, - Nabis announced distinctly for everyone, put
the machine gun behind his back - to create a vision of nonchalance, fixed the backpack
on his chest a little higher, saluted in a general manner and went in the direction of
Volzhskiy, further on Moscow. Almost right away he could no longer hear the people
behind, because the disturbed mirror was still quivering as American flag on the Moon,
and he entered into the curve of sound-air curtain. But he clearly heard rain roar, which
was about two hundred meters to the right. And it, rain, was under a really massive
mirror. Nabis got a rare session of a special effect… Terrible things happen with sound
in the Zone in fact, but on the “neutral” it also may be interesting. “Strugatsky brothers
got to be here, really, to write their books”, Nabis thought. “Or mine, really, sweet
Lemm, seven hundred sixty-two pages, published in Kishinev.”
Okay. Finished the duty. One hour and a half earlier. Now he needs to walk slowly
and think.
Based on today’s observations, Nabis was assuming highly accurately that after
the lecture in “Pipes”, the Moor together with Grinya (daddy’s boy, son of the missing
deputy Head of Kapustin. Even at school Nabis would get a rouble per week out of him)
will go out to the city, to the hospital area. To get “cacti”. It was shaping well as per
timing of the last appearance of live “cactus” in the institute. It's time to get a new live
one.
Scientists kept absolute anonymity of illegal suppliers especially for extraordinary
loots, cashing in between themselves in out of their extraordinary wages in order to
purchase them, but Nabis didn’t doubt that at last he correctly identified the “cactus
bringer”. How it hit him! They were looking for and trying to identify him for a long
time. Of course, the Moor was in the list of main five suspects, but no one yet was able
to catch him. Last winter Petrovich arranged to tally trackers’ ratings on the school
blackboard above the stand. I wonder if it was it for this purpose. Anonymous line
“Hospital-Cacti” was crowned with infinity sign, free of charge food and thirty bullets in
“Two Pipes” were promised to “infiniter”, but no one confessed in creating the “cacti”

76
track. The former Zone commandant with the Head of Bezhensk police were also trying
to investigate. Also unsuccessfully. Prepared scientists kept quiet to death, and either
there were no middlemen, or they were smart. Trackers did not talk about loots and
secret stash between themselves, not to say with investigators. How can you make,
how to order even a lower in rank contractor to describe in detail the track with many
thousand worth loots at the end, if tracker doesn’t want to share? By no means. The
tracker has just been through hell, who is the boss to him now.
“Even a devil is not a boss for a tracker... In general, that’s the Moor, and I know it,
and no one else. And I am dealing with the Moor today. That’s about time. Signed.”
The decision made, and Nabis was ready to accept it deep inside, so far was
based on emotions, clearly a matter of liking, but you cannot cancel once accepted, a
serious guy doesn’t suffer from doubts, and who will dare to question him apart from
himself anyway, may be only a cop. And for a street guy there is always a way to handle
a cop. But for one secret place with mysterious life water, even if it’s a pudding, even
just porridge, Fenimore and the Moor are way too many at the same time. He liked
Fenimore more as a partner, and as a partner he was more reliable. The Moor could
screw over even his own man. He didn’t give out to cops directly, of course, but could
frame you on the job. He was using his bumpers without slightest hesitation, and it was
believed that he was using them with pleasure, picking totally confused dumb
underdogs from barracks. According to usual practice, no one could charge him, but
people didn’t like to have business with the Moor. In brackets you might add that
people didn’t like to have business with him from long time ago, long time before the
Trouble. He was a bastard under any rule.
But he was a tenacious and brave bastard, and that was not possible to reach an
agreement with him and that is why now the Moor must not exit the Zone. That is why.
But not only because of this, and not just only not to exit... It seemed to Nabis that he
found a justification, he even stopped. It is necessary to contribute to the artel deal with
Fenimore. To make a real contribution, about which Fenimore should find out, but will
not get a stake in. Establish yourself as a partner! The poled track “Cacti from the
Hospital” - that’s a real contribution, not just a casual talk with a childhood friend
Lyonya, not a pure luck. This is such a thing, even Fenimore would lay eyes on it, and I
will reply to him: anything else maybe, jam on it? Just yesterday they delivered fresh jam
to factory, I will say to Fenimore. And he will swallow that and look with respect as per
fact, and not from his own big heart.
Sharing is a conscious business. Decided and signed. Now – the plan.
Nabis reached the roof of a former bus stop at the corner of the never fully
finished Prostokvashino, stood there in the shade and lit up one from his cigarette case.
The plan. First of all, the Trouble as it is. The town. Housing estates. That is not
the steppe where you can walk a kilometer and there will be no gitiks. Second part of
the day is the most dangerous time. Secondly, the Moor himself. Using his flair he beat
any tracker the way he wanted, no one argued that. But he was a spy of the Trouble,
and Nabis was people rescuer. The Moor could read gitiks of the Trouble, and Nabis

77
could read people’s footsteps. These are different things: to sense gitiks of unknown
kind and to sense a trap of a known kind. Yes, for few weeks already the Moor had a
bumper in his goofs who was very attentive for anything human, but as a tracker and
fighter, this Grinya Platokhin was nowhere near Nabis, of course. So, he had excellent
chances to follow them unnoticed along the track and then, remembering the route, to
take them in from the back.
Nabis checked the time, grinded cigarette butt against asphalt and said to
himself: “It's time to go, walker.”
He didn’t enter the rain of course. Quickly, keeping to the right curb, he went up the
Rocketmen roadway street from the outskirts of town to the rear of parking cooperative
“Sunrise”, stepped over the fence, passed the park and only here turned left, to quarter
twenty-six, towards the rain, as if passing around Prostokvashino from the south. There
is one and a half kilometer through quarter thirty-six and thirty-three from the bar
(that means from the territory of a boiler building) to hospital directly. On a “general
state map”, which Nabis as any decent walker had, but hadn’t taken out from his
backpack for a long time already, remembering it by heart and being proud of it,
exactly one kilometer six hundred and twenty meters. That is a kilometer a hundred
and seventeen meters over the Trouble territory from total distance. But this is directly.
There was a sandlot, lying on the distance “boiler – hospital”, over which there was
more or less often poled border of the Zone. It was deadly impassable, and it started
right after the parking cooperative. Now it was a five minute walk until the sandlot from
the point where Nabis was, and there could be patrols. Patrols would not stop Nabis, a
legal visitor of the “neutral”, but the Moor, a poacher, could not go down here from the
boiler at all. That means he was doing an objective hook through the “Broadway” track.
So, we should estimate the time for the distance the following way… Where is the
map?... So, “Broadway” is: almost exactly one kilometer to south-west from the steppe
side of the railway (according to flair and the Moor’s form - about twenty minutes of
walk). Then difficult, but habitual cross over on train tracks near the Steppe checkpoint.
About four minutes. Then a sharp turn of the track to the north-east. Very complicated
nine hundred meters around courtyards of administration buildings and territory of the
auto batallion's second base. Even the Moor needs no less than an hour in the second
half of the day. There could also be ash dumps, and woolies could crawl as well. Even
though track is poled out and open to public, it is inconsistent in situations. Here
“Broadway” ends, more precisely the Moor has to leave it and dive into the housing
area itself. Passing auto battalion (along the northern fence, on Kirov street), passing
fire depot, to the post office number three, till the 9th May st. (No other way for him
here. There he cannot just take left, there is the “Hare lip”, there is also the “Draft” with
its “airless pits” which are active now... No, unreal. And what for? And there is no reason
to go right according to his objective.) So, five hundred forty meters straight line... The
second part of the day. Ye-es. This line is burdensome. But the Moor will pass it, it might
take an hour, but he will definitely pass, and I don’t need to go there from here. But
further I need to think... Well, cross over boulevard on the 9th of May. About ten

78
minutes. It's only three hundred meters from the post office to the hospital checkpoint,
south and south-east diagonal through quarter eight. Passable, but does the Moor
particularly need the checkpoint? Where is his hole to slip through into the hospital?
Where there in the hospital these “cacti” grow? (There were rumors about tuberculosis
department, but the Father somehow sharply didn’t confirm them.) Okay, this is a
quest. I will not understand it until I find out... So further according to the plan... If I
miss him, will the Zone delay me? Means, catch him when walking out from the
mission. There is only one piece of information to define his mission route. At nine in
the evening we’ve agreed to meet in Bezhensk. In the club. Now it is about three o’clock
afternoon. If the Moor went to the Zone as soon as we left “Two pipes” with the Colonel
(forty minutes ago), he is now somewhere at the end of the train tracks section of
“Broadway”. He needs about an hour more to get to the hospital, whichever way he
takes. Give him two hours for road “there” with all business. That is from “Two pipes”.
But he needs to return to “Pipes”, otherwise he will not exit the Zone today. All the
Dog's curve today is on its ears, patrols, legal walkers from scientists, military. That
means he will dive again into the Zone in the Closest side-stream area, will walk along
the common path on the side-stream till the old military cemetery, slip over the western
wall of military trade warehouses and will pop up on Penny in between pillars of the
ninetieth and the ninety-first. The guard on the tower is most certainly bribed by him,
so he will come out easily, on his foot… And if Blinchuk cancels shooting for real, then
how good is that! Well and there, behind the Perimeter there are certainly two or three
Kazakh taxi drivers on their three wheeled “urals”.... No, unreal, I need to leave the Zone
now and sit in the steppe and watch, and everything is very shaky in general. I will both
lose the track and bluff. And anyway, why am I mumbling - “if”, “the Zone”, “delay”?
Nabis got angry.
Okay, back to business: I need now to wait for one hour, and then walk through
Rocketmen street passing the “Union” hotel, and sit in ambush on the sharp corner of
Broadway, and even better, probably, on the corner of auto battalion, under the fire
depot. And wait to the bitter end, but there will not be a need to wait till after seven in
the evening, so definitely not for too long. There I will consider the option that the
Moor will return by other route. Although finishing him in Bezhensk is a sour business,
not in a sense “impossible”, just sour. I'll need to call up Fenimore. And here I will lose
my bluff. No, will not lose. Because I will finish the business before the evening, and in
the Zone. That's all.
He suddenly realized that he was holding a “general state map” and a
commander ruler with compass in his hands. Grunted, hid the map and device into a
backpack external pocket, leaned on the fence of the roadway (he, as turned out, was
doing those insensitive map calculations sitting on the road curb) and lit up a cigarette.
His fifth today. He didn’t count the borrowed cigarettes, laughing at how skillfully he
cheats himself. It was very quiet around. There was about ten meters from here till the
Zone. Its border (discovered by diarrhea and vomiting of poor military scouts and
rescuers) was marked with wooden poles, tied together by a rope and decorated with

79
red rags, so he felt he was in total safety. He carefully watched the time on his
wristwatch, checking sometimes the course of the seconds hand by counting in half-
voice (photo studio - one, photo studio – two, photo studio - three...), he was not at all
bored, as he already was working. Exactly in one hour he stood up, stretched his legs,
drank some water, considered that even it was empty in his stomach and he will not
vomit for a long, and not painfully, but he needed to get out his No-Spa and activated
charcoal meds, and he did it. Checked the machine gun. Jumped for the subject of
sound and did some squats for comfort. Looked around and listened carefully one
more time - there was no one, the ghost town was surrounded by the ghost outskirts,
sun didn’t move from its morning place above the neutral strip... blind windows of five-
storey houses stare, like roman busts from a history book, and if he, Nabis, was being
watched by aliens, who arranged the Trouble-trick for Earth, so they can suck his dick so
deep so their pumpkin green heads won’t swing on their wretched necks. B-itches. If he
ever met at least one, he would have a steady hand, and he would even step on the
blown brains of the humanoid with his heel. For an encore, like that peasant then, on
the beach.
Ahead. Farewell. Thanks.
He went straightly ten meters, stepped over the rope (between poles 152-А и
153-А), made two more steps on the “neutral” and entered the Zone.
General time in the Zone was marching synchronously with the Earth’s. A
November day with good weather. November sun was shining in November clear sky,
everything that was frozen at night got already melted back. It was six-seven degrees
above zero. With no noticeable wind.
Angry gitiks are not here and cannot appear from anywhere: both working loots
and potential ones near the edge of the border were collected and swept away long
time ago. Clean as on a parade square on the 23rd February. But let’s worry about a
forthcoming “greeting”, without even looking where we’re going... and that is not right,
and Nabis corrected himself instantly and switched on all his attention. Not far, near
substation eleven slash one there was a famous bench, and behind it, behind the fence,
there was something like a washbasin, as that American one on the Stand, but this one
was self-made from a soviet milk jug. Inside Mother-Trouble you need to check, press,
smell everything, from far and near, because all can mutate, change, come alive, and
especially a can. Or a cylinder, if even seemed covered from both sides... Temporal delay
of Nabis between physical exit to the Zone and its “greeting” now fluctuated in between
of five-seven minutes. So, he not hurriedly, but carefully observed everything - from far
and near. It turned out that the washbasin, first of all, is still the washbasin, but
secondly, a dry one, although Nabis was not upset with the second, as he was satisfied
with the first: there was no need to retreat. He settled down: dug a pretty hole in dirty
ground under the fence using a knife, put ammunition and KHM under his arm, spread
out newspapers taken from his backpack underneath his knees and palms, got himself
into the doggy position on the papers above the hole, facing exit to the street, closed
his eyes and got ready. It growled in his stomach in a familiar manner, twisting,

80
widening and getting closer and finally gushed out. Emetology is the science which is
getting to be a very important for a tracker. And an act of vomiting conceals in itself
indescribable delights, as rescuer Kirsan, who died half a year ago, said at exactly this
place. He was a veterinary paramedic in life, and that supposed to mean he was a
pretty educated a person.
Then Nabis filled in the hole, rinsed his mouth from the flask, took No-spa and
chewed two pills of activated charcoal, drank some water. Shook the flask in the air, it's
okay. It’s advisable to eat something in about fifteen minutes, but this can be done on a
way. He has cookies. The main thing, that there is still one and a half of water left in the
square re-usable flask.
He didn’t go along Rocketmen street, on the way creating a new end point, more
convenient for ambush: near the fire depot, but not under the bushes, further away, at
the very fence, destroyed by a tank. And gave little to the right, toward the stadium.
This was his personal dive away from the common track, poled accidentally that winter
on the New Years's eve. He was keeping it in his head, though this dive was already
known to him not exclusively, as he saw here fresh butts, and once he saw a fresh shell
casings left behind (he could strangle that messy one), and other traces. But for today
the path has clearly not been trodden for along time. He hasn’t been here for ages...
Once in “Two pipes”, after three liters, he and a company were trying to figure out how
many walkers could be in the Zone at the same time on a good day. Quarreled, but
agreed, that no more than thirty people. Once, already near the stadium Nabis
stopped, feeling some doubt in him, and “risked” with two screw-nuts. Nothing
responded, as usual. Never he saw anything originally from the Zone on this path.
There were no mushrooms here, no woolies ran, no hallucinations stared. Would be a
pity if the path gets overgrown, such a convenient and safe shortcut to the town. If you
clean up after yourself. And objective: distance on a map is the same on foot. Six
hundred and twelve meters, today it took around eight hundred steps for Nabis.
The shortcut brought him exactly to the fire station fence crushed by the rescue
tanks. From here Nabis personally walked to the station square to look at woolies, and
to the hospital checkpoint for fresh mushrooms, and even went down to cinema
“Youth” through the thirty-third quarter. The fire station was a legendary place.
Rescuers were trying zealously and for a long time to overtake it after the Lighting. To
explore it. If that is possible to say so - “to explore”. In fire station lots of people
concentrated and gone missing at the Lightning day. At two o’clock afternoon on the
thirteenth December nineteen eighty-eight, when the sun dimmed above the Polygon
and the town, but first “red circles” flashed in total starless darkness, the fire station
turned out to be the main from known, ad hoc evacuation centers, because firemen
managed to start the generator unit, switched on spotlights into the sky, and people
from nearby houses rushed to light. The ones who came out of the Lightning told about
this, and story of several soldiers from auto battalion was the main evidence. (They
were in AWOL at the birthday party of one local Soldier’s Lady; and when it started - ran
to their unit, but right that time a very large “ring” descended on auto battalion, lighted

81
up its territory, and in this red light stunned absentees saw how alive cars was trying to
climb over the fence as in horror, clinging wheels to the barbed wire and crushing
concrete with bare rim. And then poor guards started to shoot live cars from the
towers, and refugees were running passing those absentees along the 9th May and
Boulevard towards the Terminal Square, disappearing as they were running, and the
absentees rushed with the crowd.) And so, they in one voice claimed that there were an
awful lot of people in the fire station, over a hundred. That is why Ryzhkov personally
(the premier-mourner who commanded here the first month) gave an order to
investigate the fire station, sift through it at any price, demonstratively. Find at least
one person at any price! Find at least one corpse! So they really didn’t care for the price.
Went there by tanks and with on-ground cover, destroyed the fence. One tank
immediately drowned on a powerful “procrust” at the backyard of the fire station (if
Nabis leans back a little, that’s possible to admire a bunch of armor, smeared on the
concrete, green from a gravitational strike), the second one disappeared somewhere in
town, escaping horror “flashes”, that jumped on it from the roofs; later they at least
poled the garage, with losses, on foot, kicked by hysterical bosses, finding no one and
nothing, apart from few piles of clothes, which was clearly removed by people
themselves and even folded on the benches… but no one form rescuers ever returned
from the second floor of the fire station, and there were fights, people downstairs
heard shootings and saw reflections in windows… They were lifting up cameras on
sticks to these windows, even expensive video cameras, then brought the ladder from
the Earth, on which Petrovich, yet the Senior Ensign who was serving then, climbed with
binoculars and a lantern… then it was still allowed to take pictures in the Zone, look
through binoculars, shoot with optics… Petrovich then took an amazing picture of one
rescuer’s corpse - stuck to the ceiling in the office of the Head of fire station, body
without head after half a year of decay in a bright pea jacket under an orange “road”
overall... Shootings on the upper floors of the fire stations hasn’t resumed since then,
sometimes it was crazy and short, sometimes it lasted sluggishly for few days, but you
quickly get used to creepy miracles of the Trouble, if you are not a Premier-minister-
weeper… If you understand nothing in the Trouble - then forget it, leave it, don’t go... If
you manage not to go. But it's not possible to resist. And in the same way to continue
being surprised indefinitely with such things as corpse’s shootings, alive cars,
mushrooms with eyes, and kilometers, stretched under your feet tenfold...
Nabis sat on a concrete block from the fallen wall. The spot was good in general,
and particularly today it also felt safe. A meter to the right, across the line of the former
fence, it was already dangerous, there was something invisible, cutting; seven meters
ahead across empty parking, till Kirov street it also was safe, but already opened…
However! Having estimated, that here he cannot be seen from the road if he lies down
on his right hand from a sitting position, and will not lose the overview, Nabis spread
out the mat, opened the stock, hurting again his thumb against top edge of latch’s hole,
cursing in a whisper, set his machine gun into the position of a half-second readiness,
licked his finger, drank some water, quietly, drooling, so it wouldn’t crunch in vain all

82
over the Zone, ate half a pack of cookies, cleaned around himself, (crumbs, packaging)
and then taking a certain space of the Universe in waiting pose, froze better than a
dead of the Earth.
It was five of the afternoon around on any scale of objectiveness, his, or the
Moors’, anybody’s you want.
Two hours in the “curling up” position – isn't a big deal for a tracker. But this long
wait suddenly was no longer required. Literally in three minutes,in three hundred
meters on the left from Nabis, under the broken but living trees near auto battalion
checkpoint, which was in the lower part of Kirov street, two figures appeared. Nabis sat
even more still than before. Trackers were going up along Kirov to the fire station
quickly and confidently, and already in a minute Nabis probably recognized both. Yes,
that were the Moor and Platokhin, and what was wonderful is that the Moor was
walking in tandem as a bumper. He was moving freely, although stepping even not
widely, but without fear, and also was twisting a “risk” on his thumb. Felt so fearless that
was close to spitting.
So, Nabis was not mistaken, except the suggestion that the Moor sprang out
from the bar right after “shishiga” with Kharon and Blinchuk onboard, and will manage
to pass Kirov before Nabis’ appearance here. No, he didn’t sprang out right away (or he
was delayed on “Broadway”). “To arrive earlier - means not to be late”, Nabis praised
himself. “So, I was not mistaken a tiny bit, based on the result, obviously. To shoot or
not?” Nabis closed his eyes, focusing direct look through a small gap between is eyelids
at a thornbush, left in places on auto battalion fence, following the ones walking with
his side vision. You should not look at tracker directly, dig in, stare. Even if the Moor,
blind for these things, doesn’t sense it, then Grinya Platokhin, even being a silly poor
fellow, can't be easily tricked in a sense of human watchfulness. And in general... He
played well in handball ... a flip jump... (In school.) But he was a sucker - paid for an
unbroken jaw, all you had to do was to brush him off and he was immediately
frightened. He fawned and was the first to come with cigarettes... My hand will be
steady, in all, when finishing Grinya encore. And not more pity for the Moor.
The Moor and Grinya passed almost the whole Kirov street on roadway, just once
- traversing the second guard tower - turned to the lawn towards the fence, getting
around something insignificant. Caught up with Nabis. And stopped, so that Nabis
could still see Platokhin behind slanting concrete slab, but not the Moor. He's gone from
his sight. In the autumn silence of the empty city Nabis heard how the Moor ordered
something to Grinya in twenty meters away, but didn’t distinguish the words, and saw
Grinya shrug in response, and confirming nod. the Moor appeared again, hiding
something in the backpack on his stomach. The fuse removed, the descent is selected.
But Nabis didn’t shoot.
The Moor and Grinya got off from roadway to lawn, crossed the lawn, Grinya took
a rolled sheet from his backpack, threw it on the pavement, wiped his feet thoroughly,
The Moor wiped his feet too, and Grinya raised and threw that rag over the fence, over
the torn part. The Moor shook his head, commanding move forward, and they at once

83
entered a dead for Nabis zone. After moving a few millimeters, Nabis managed to
notice that they hadn’t moved to boulevard Kosmonavtov, but right away turned
around the corner of the fence, to the left, onto the pavement.
But there is only a “springboard” in the eleventh “flip jump” apart from the
impassable “Draft”, the “springboard”, throwing you out onto the killing top part of
Tolbukhin!
“That is why I didn’t shoot”, Nabis understood.
He let go the trigger, shut the safety switch and jumped up, scratching barrel over
the concrete, and even didn’t curse because of this. Everything got mixed in his head.
What if the Moor poled the weightlessness of Tolbukhin!.. That is the hospital, guys.
That is a treasury. That is “Indiana Jones and the Temple of fate”, fuck it this and other
way. Fenimore would hang himself for it. And who would not? Even Petrovich would,
Even Gena the Genious would. But how does the Moor ensure himself there? On what?
Nothing to be attached to, as there is zero gravity for the whole quarter! “I have to see
it”, Nabis said.
Now, make a quick decision. Quick. But what to decide here?! Nothing to decide.
In one giant stride he ran across the front garden and car parking to the road, crossed
Kirov street, which was still warm, and carefully looked out from behind the fence.
No matter how he hurried but they were already approximately on the south
corner, in one hundred fifty meters, crossing the junction. The twentieth quarter was on
left of them: a park with R-11 on a pedestal and museum of the SCITG2 in the park’s
depth. About fifty meters more on the course and the “Draft” smoothly falls into the
“Hare lip”. Vicious impassable gitik. A deadloack if not to open it by a bumper. Of course
the Moor was not aiming there. Exactly opposite the rocket, on the crossroad of the 9th
of May and Vatutin, invisible air pipe of the “flip jump” was hanging not high, sticking
out with its far end on boulevard up until the central alley. Two human heights,
approximately ten steps in length, and in the end of this pipe was a “springboard” with
nonstandard narrow throat, high threshold. The Moor and Grinya were going here,
towards this not dangerous in general system.
Yes, the Moor poled the hospital through eleventh “jump” along Tolbukhin...
The “flip jump number eleven” was discovered and drawn a thousand years ago,
last summer, by the rescue group of captain Negulyaev. And a “springboad” in it was
activated by some civil specialist, old dyakhan3, given to Negulyaev’s group as science
staff. Dyakhan was actually a scientist, either climatologist or meteorologist, or maybe
even a physicist, a professor, - a specialist, in one word. That matters that this specialist
in addition to rocket launches with rockets, required for every civil participator in
walking as per exit list, also had a megaphone. (So the nickname “Mega-curser”,
assigned to dyakhan posthumously didn’t contain any grain of disrespect - only the
statement of fact by a grateful humanity). Okay, good: they went on business. Felt
1
The R-1 rocket (NATO reporting name SS-1 Scunner, Soviet code name SA11, GRAU index 8A11) is a tactical
ballistic missile manufactured in the Soviet Union. Replica R-1 is based in Znamensk city.
2
The State Central Interspecies Training Ground.
3
In criminal jargon means an old man, respected by criminals.

84
power voltage in front, sensed amperages, stopped. Don’t know who was a bumper
there. Stayed, thought, looked around, slowly “risked” by a fan, confirmed a gitik. Poled
its borders, identified. The “flip jump”, that is feeding, it seems, on three most powerful
“seventy sevenths”, that used to be cylindrical urns, randomly piled into a group on that
place. (These iron urns, turning around on iron frame pipe offcuts of three-four
hundred millimeters in diameter were put on boulevard shortly before the Lighting;
before them some monstrous structures from iron and concrete decorated the town,
they looked like eggs in cups cracked and eaten at blunt ends.) Okay, good. Put the gitik
on the route of the “general map”, marking it with letter Gamma with a number two
(double system) before it, underlined it three times (on three artefacts) with a question
mark (requires confirmation), set the poles from the coming side. Then dyakhan
volunteered himself to go and mark the vortex. He came up, sprinkled in the air with
crushed chalk from a bag. Chalk stunk, spin of outer vortex colored the mouth in all its
glory. The pipe was notable, huge, you could stand without bending down inside of it
under axial trunk, and would not reach the top with your head. Pipe of the “jump” was
sagging very low, couple of inches from ground and asphalt. Okay, good. That was fine
to bypass the gitik and continue the route (the “Draft” wasn’t discovered yet). But then
dyakhan suddenly just stepped into the pipe, not listening to Negoulyaev’s shouts in
wild whisper behind him. He tip toed through (with almost hundred eighty degrees
turnover in vector of gravitation near the opposite edge), also sprinkled the rift with
chalk, closing “jumps” from the opposite side, shouted that “springboard” is working
and... and without saying “goodbye”, dived with his scientific head down into nowhere.
His ass also dissapeared pretty qickly. No one even jerked, only said “fuck” altogether.
For fact that was a suicide, but chatter and human bluff required to wait. Waiting of
course was hopeless. Negulyaev gave to waiting an hour to infuse, then ordered to all
his crew to pull back, the route is over now, with the funeral in the group. They marked
the “springboard” also with a nominal landmark, and retreated - somewhere about the
same way Nabis came here today, past the fire station and on shortcut to
Prostokvashino. And only in the commandant office, when submitting their reports,
they found out that seemingly the Mega-curser didn’t die immediately at all walking by
“springboard” , but he managed to inform about himself. Through one-way voice
contact on his megaphone. They checked the time on purpose - another group, that
was walking on Pervomaiskaya street to town hospital on other business (that is where
approximately The Father was strolling today in the morning under Blinchuk’s cameras)
on the border of Komsomolskiy park, heard his voice, strengthened by megaphone
exactly at the moment of suicider’s jump into the “springboard”. Directly, across the
park and the hospital, from Pervomaiskaya to Tolbukhin it is seven hundred twenty
meters, but circumstances and air mirrors were set on that day in such a way, that
dyakhan could be heard very well. “I am above Tolbukhin street!” - clearly and calmly he
said into the megaphone. - “I can see signs on houses, the nearest address is 2,
Tolbukhin st.! I am in the zone of zero gravity! I am somewhere near the fourth floor
level above the road! Nothing to lean on! I can see hospital grounds in full! Inform

85
commanders and captain Negulyaev! The “springboard” from crossroad Vatutin – the
9th May throws you to the point of the fourth floor level above Tolbukhin street! I
observe dry places underneath, can see signs of hard spots, see tank board number
302, stuck with its muzzle in the fifth floor window of number four! I can see the flag of
rescue service on the tank!.. I am getting lifted above the roofs. I’m dropping
equipment, trying to get down! I repeat, “springboard” from the crossroad of Vatutin
throws you onto Tolbukhin street, at the fourth floor level! А-а-а-а-а!” Nothing to guess,
Dyakhan floated out of zero-gravity and fell down. May be with earth acceleration, may
be with acceleration of unknown kind, he was crushed into the dry shadow... Okay,
good. He was given some real battle medal, by the way. Together with a big scientific
pension for his wife. And that is the right thing, decided community. Even considering it
was a suicide, of course. Scientists would meltdown more often than normal people.
In short, no one ever came closer to the hospital alive than dyakhan the scientist.
Nevertheless, there were hospital numbers on glass medical containers, in which
someone mysterious was delivering “cacti”. (This was known for certain.) And so, that
means, that is the Moor poled the track to the hospital, and precisely on top of
Tolbukhin street!
And he, a skunk, is not satisfied with life water. He needs only Emirates with a
harem.
But it is a brave track, nothing to say. How many bumpers did the Moor put under
it? And how is he, son of a bitch, getting belay? Grinya has stayed alive for a long time,
he has been working for the Moor for more than two months... Two hundred fifty
meters between them, bare trees, boulevard fence is tubular, can be seen well, bit small
though. Here it is, the Mega-curser’s pole. No, a little far away. Cannot distinguish
details... Nabis, crouched, took off from his place and almost ran on the pavement
along a brick fence, raising his toes high - in order not to look down where he was
going. They didn’t linger before the gitik, the Moor at once entered the “jump”. Walked,
as in the movie, climbing the wall of a round transparent corridor. He is already up with
his soles facing Nabis. If Nabis was closer, he could find out the Moor’s shoe size and as
if especially for this reason he, can be said, is already rushing to the gitik, mincing on
half-bent legs, and not realizing that he is moving, not turning his direct opened bare
glance from the greedy senior from the Dog's and his vicious Sanchopanza - two
experienced trackers walking through the Zone for their personal stash with loots.
But everything could be viewed and remembered in details only in this way.
Rollover with head down in the pipe, the Moor stopped before the “springboard”
entrance and released, as if with his belly, a cable with a carbine. Picked it up
(objectively towards himself) and shoved the carbine into the invisible barrel of the
pipe. The carbine went there, rope pulled - and Platokhin very skillfully caught this
carbine when that popped out on the cut of the vent and hanged. Nabis stumbled
because of delight. That’s how they do belay! From this side tying to solid air by the
loop! Holding the carbine tightly, Grinya stepped into the “jump”, and the Moor
immediately released a large reserve of rope... Stop. Nabis came to his senses, stopped,

86
squatted and lay down. The fence was left behind, there was a museum park behind
Nabis, the R-1 blue nose was sticking over the crowns of dead trees, covered by grey fat
“web”. It was only seven-eight meters to the mouth of the “flip jump”. Pathfinder, a
master of camouflage, the most careful white ninja in the world. He was lying as on the
open palm. Nabis was living through the following half-minute down on the ground,
aiming from elbows, observing the chased from above his aiming arm in the front sight
lens, with one finger on the trigger and another on the safety lock. With internal
turmoil and preparation for firing, Nabis missed the moment when the Moor entered
the “springboard”, and the moment when Grinya walked to the “jump's” door. And now
the Moor was not there any longer, there was lonely Grinya Platonikhin standing upside
down in sight. He was holding the rope wrapped around the most solid in the world
“nothing” and was watching Nabis with a sad sharp look in the eye. He was shaking his
head. The pipe was hanging low, inverted looks of Nabis and Grinya were about the
same level from the ground. Grinya recognized Nabis and was a king in the situation
because Nabis, being a dickhead, but not an idiot, could not shoot him inside the gitik.
It was not worth it, but Grinya had all the rights to punish the busted snooper and
hence a fisherman with mortal combat. By all accounts Grinya was right. And Grinya
also had a motive, because he, in addition to this, recognized his school abuser. And he
was all the same an idiot. Because the unknown kind created the “flip jump” solid, but
very fragile. Idiot Grinya got a grenade from under his backpack on his belly, pulled out
the ring and rolled it along the invisible wall of the “jump” to the side of its mouth. And
went into “springboard”, the rope stretched after him. (Well right, and there they go “as
cats”…Wires , pillars... Yes, with two people this is possible. Fucking spacemen... But
how witty is getting hitched on this side!.. And there, after getting fixed, just release
carbine, pull it, rope will be sucked after - and no traces, no one will guess... Bumper is
necessary, needed, of course. I probably shouldn’t have repelled Lenya, got to get him
serve, he himself has stuck to me for how many years, as if I am covered in honey...)
The grenade, speeding up, jumped through the pipe joyfully, came out to the god’s
world, and hissing, got stuck in the gap betwelen two shabby-bleached bricks of the
pavement curb just in front of Nabis’s nose. If only he had continued lying.
He hadn’t. All went wrong, he is to blame, but there was still one chance to
survive. Grinya Platonikhin didn’t enter the “springboard” in full yet, his shoes were still
sticking out from outside, and the grenade was still twisting on its last spiral in the pipe,
and Nabis was already leaping along the road towards the “jump”, better than Bob
Beamon’s triple jump - the only safe place in fifty meters periphery was inside the gitik.
And he made it before explosion, he even kept balance, running through the
pipe, and deliberately fell, already near footsteps of the “springboard”, feeling that
something got crushed underneath him in the backpack.
He rolled onto his back, saw the wall of the ground standing in front of him, piece
of boulevard’s pavement, part of draining manhole lid in rotten foliage. Grenade
banged in the distance. Shrapnel whistled and clicked, at the bottom and the side on
the outer walls of this horizontal transparent tornado. White scratches wrapped around

87
Nabis one, other… very quickly and even quicker and quicker, like dozens of glass
cutters were put outside to the outer walls, invisible spin of the pipe the “jump” at once
became visible. Nabis was shaken, he saw the sky below, and not asphalt. Then he saw
asphalt, but not the sky. And he realized that he is rotating together with the tunnel.
“Explosion damaged the gitik,” Nabis understood. “All is fragile here, exactly fragile”,
Nabis quoted to himself from some movie with Geppetto. “The gitik broke off its stand”,
Nabis considered. “In a few seconds I'm just going to be crushed, as if in a concrete
mixer”, Nabis grasped. “If my own gun, which I dropped at some moment, doesn’t kill
me. Here it is, my machine gun is dangerously rumbling nearby, like a bearing in potato
cutter”, Nabis noted. “And then the “jump” will tear me part into small pieces, and each
little piece will be colored by me in red and sticky stuff...”, Nabis imagined.
“Need to get out of here”, Nabis said to himself. Tolbukhin street is better with the
state of zero gravity or freestanding and armless conversations with the Moor.
He was staying in a position with his head towards the beginning of a
“springboard”. He weighed about hundred tons already, but with a desperate spurt he
managed to roll back onto his belly, and crawl, finally crashing everything in backpack,
a long, meter of a kilometer till that gateway, under three layers of clothes with his back
feeling how the madly banging rope of Grinya Platonikhin, torn out from zero space, is
whipping the air inside the “jump” into sour cream, and how his KHM is flying, fatal at
these speeds, fluttering somewhere close... also, already at the very doorstep, but all
the same in advance, instead of rushing on his way, he managed to figure out that the
backpack on his belly will block the way, it will surely get hooked on the doorstep, and
then already definitely he will not be in time. And he again rolled onto his back and,
desperately pushing by his heels, as a tied up person on the ground who is approached
by a killer with knife, he got himself to the “springboard”, and hit the doorstep with the
back of his helmet... But here the scratches from “F-1” grenade shrapnel, after having
streaked the outer surface of the gitik till the state of complete opacity, cut through
inside. The speed of emergency rotation of internal walls of the tunnel sharply
accelerated, - and the “flip jump” was blown off the neck of the “springboard”. The
system of two gitiks, a model of de-virtualization of a particular process, built by the
powers of unknown kind with improvised means in a randomly given area, collapsed.
Having lost both axis and stiffness at the same time, bent in the middle, the
“jump” hit the ground with its middle curve once, twice and after a third hit it burst, all
at once, like a scopa from a scorcher shot. The mouth flattened, and a framed entrance
of the “springboard” disk, almost precisely the size of the manhole, noticed by Nabis
recently, drove sideways into soil. And exploded underground.
At this moment Nabis was still in the air, he was already hurt and scratched, but
yet alive and aware, and his flair was still working, and it was working great! It was
working full on power. Nabis saw the event and himself inside the event, and he was
managing this vision totally freely. By his desire - or out of whim – he could delay the
situation, observe it more attentively, turn it, investigate from the other side, changing
the scale and detalization in any way he wished. And he could identify pretty accurately

88
where the situation has the top and the bottom, points of the compass inside of the
situation were marked with arrows. And he could feel the direction of gravitation and
after this, already consulting with the understood, identified, marked and felt, he had
time as well slowly to think over acquired knowledge, to evaluate what it is possible to
undertake for survival.
But external damage of the “jump” initiated the work of corporate model
protection system, and explosion of the “springboard” determined the adaptive
response at the highest: to destroy survived information, to destroy aggressors and
witnesses, set the Zone inaccessible in the area of the attack. Nabis was suddenly
submerged in water, choked inside huge air water balloon, inflated above the pavement
and lawn of Kosmonavtov boulevard, majestically landing on the ground. Nabis didn’t
get lost here too, at once started to act right, swam in the correct direction, objectively
down, rowing with his left, not broken arm. And he swam and fell from the balloon, it
turned out to be a three meters fall, and he flew down, towards the park’s path, to a
sewer manhole. Grouping before the fall he thought that there is a chance, only three
meters to fly, not to hit the head, never mind fractures - ugf, he will crawl out, not in the
steppe... and also he thought well what the fuck he needed here exactly today... “I can’t
read at all”, the bear moaned...
His suggestions were not taken into account. Nabis was falling, getting dry on the
way. Falling in the middle of a totally dry world, since the special effect associated with
destruction of information, was removing all moisture from the area of five hundred
cubic meters around, sucking it: from Nabis, from air, from asphalt of roadway and
pavements, from lawns’ soil, from park’s trees and bushes, from benches and sewers,
from dead and alive seeds in the soil, from plants living, dead and mutated, that
disseminated these seeds, from the contents of sewer pipes and from shitty metal of
these pipes. And Nabis managed to see through sharp pain in his eyes, how crack ran
quickly and smoothly right under him from center to the sides, so far thin, trembling
hungrily, they were veins of deep dry rough cracks.
Drying out Nabis was falling and falling on these cracks, and then he fell, and
cracks cut him through too, and he began to spin on the ground madly and blindly, -
just like that nameless man on frozen sand of Akhtuba December beach, when fifteen
year old Seryoga Matveev, already after all his mates, being the last, putting a full stop
in the massacre, broke his temple with a kick, for encore... or like that kitten,
accidentally crushed by the uncle of little Seryozha Matveev, uncle Petya, with the door
of summer kitchen?.. This was also similar.
Then the agony ended and Nabis’ mummy, dryness of which would cause envy of
the Moon deserts, got quiet forever. It lay and is still lying there even today,
imperishable, in the center of the gitik the “Mother’s cracks № 1”. Not with color, not
with consistency, not even with form, does the mummy violate the harmony of the
craquelure mesh, thrown over a voluminous city landscape “the Spacemen Boulevard at
the Museum of the SCITG”.
(It is unknown what happened with concentrated water in the balloon. Most

89
probably, balloon flew away and crushed somewhere nearby. Or, maybe, evaporated in
a natural way. But, most probably, the water air balloon was carried away by the wind,
and it crushed on the ground beyond the border of the dry spot, because Nabis' KHM is
lying and rusting, found by no one, in two hundred and eleven meters from locale of
the “Mother’s cracks”, - in the garden of house 25 on the 9th May street.)
Four locales of the “Mother’s cracks” - the number of those equipped with
“springboards” “flip jumps” - formed on that day in the Zone. Interestingly, Nabis’ locale,
the closest to civilization and the first one as a fact, was found much later than the
second, “Milchukovskaya”, located twenty kilometers away from Kapustin. Indeed, it is
interesting but not surprising, walkers wouldn’t visit the dead end between museum of
the SCITG and the “Draft” for months at a time. There was simply no need.
Even for the Moor there was nothing else to do there. And why to climb in vain?...

90
 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “Lyubimov-3”
A fragment, voice recording

- ...without proof. As all this was made up. Well, just as “rules of behavior in case of the
contact” by Strugatsky brothers, or “three laws of robotics”... In the Institute, by the way,
some very serious people had a word, Melnikov himself for example, even Lemm and
Strugatsky were invited for consultation, and Clark from American side, if I remember it
correctly... But dissatisfaction in Bezhenks was growing, and, most importantly, local
commanders of the Pre-Zone themselves also didn’t support the quarantine that much. At
least emotionally. They communicated with people on a daily basis. They felt incredibly sorry
for them. Plus, rumors that business trip to the Pre-Zone, is a business trip for life, - spread
constantly, even among the highest rank commanders. Any accident could exasperate the
situation... Let’s say, there was such a story. One scientist went for vacation, and didn’t come
back, drowned in the Black sea... So they could not convince anyone that it wasn’t us who
destroyed him! Blinchuk called me personally and interrogated. Blinchuk himself, you
understand?! The smartest person... But people from the Trouble are all armed already
without exception! Mental disorder on every step... PTSD1, so called in daily use… All kinds of
enthusiasts flooded here also. Some contractors, tourists. Magacitls, in one word. Just like
you...A total mess. And outside, on the Earth, also who the fuck knows what is happening,
Soviets Union is staggering, there will be nothing to eat soon... gangsters seriously evolved...
In Bezhensk locals already started to get winded up... Even some criminal leader visited, but
got lost somehow at the same day when arrived... In all, thanks God: first, what Blinchuk did,
when he took the office, was to break a neck of paramilitary on the First Perimeter. Shootings
of smugglers stopped.
He said directly: if shootings start - I will chase both sides... Further, he agreed with
Americans, and about ten units with household appliances were brought into Bezhensk,
under some monstrous security. Now it’s funny, but then the tension was really released...
Video, audio. Amazing washing machines. Then real food went in... such sausages, that you
could not finish this damn thing as even the half of it was stuffing your belly full. What else
people need for calm life? Release of tension, in general.
And Earth began honest trade with the troublers... Well, and constructing started,
what is more important, they started to build the town first, and not a wall around the Zone.
Then, in fact, even the borders of Zone were not properly poled… But still – only half-
measures. There was nothing to offer people in perspective, and nothing to demonstrate that
they should not be on Earth, it’s dangerous for the rest! And by then they didn’t stay quiet
solely under machine guns, after the Lightning, and after the First Perimeter... And earth
habitants somehow even started to lean towards negotiations. At least to let people go for
vacations... And then they discovered the “Mother’s cracks” in the Zone.
An “inexorable” gitik. And the most cruel. And first we didn’t realize that it's of a long-

1
Post traumatic stress disorder.

91
range. Only later, after the case of Ruslan Askaturov, after simultaneous deaths of his
relatives, all of them, all over the country, we started to analyze, and all the group got
petrified when learned the results... even identified the first dead on “the cracks” in the Zone
and beyond it...
- Do you mean Chikashin and Matveev?
- Such a hunting fire is in your glasses, Mr. Shugpshuys. Well yes, and there was a
Brazilian soap, just a “Simplemente Maria”. Two brothers, and one of them didn’t know that
he was a brother... In general, it doesn’t matter. It matters that the Zone can fire to Earth at
any distance ... Hey, what's that with you?
- It’s the way you are looking at me, Oleg Fomich?..
- And how?
- Seem somehow displeased.
- But you got so happy. Jumped up joyfully.
- Emm... Anyway, excuse me. I interrupted you. Please continue.
- But that is already the end of conversation, Semyon... Well, after Askaturov we clearly
understood, and saw it with real people, and explained distinctly and conclusively to the
people of the Trouble, why they are in the quarantine and why the quarantine is so strict.
Why they should not be allowed to Earth even for vacation, and even why we still do not
recognize the missing people in the Lighting dead... And people understood, and believed,
and accepted it, and started already somehow seriously settling down for good.
Unemployment has decreased dramatically, then Yeltsin pronounced Bezhensk and Kapustin
a closed territory... Mm - yes. By the way, all contractors from the Caucasus, tribal people,
disappeared from the Pre-Zone after Askaturov brothers' death by some magic trick. They
were trying to get out by hook or by crook. And for good. That was very difficult to search for
them... It's a hard story, Semyon. They were trying to move also those of theirs brood, who
got under the Lightning... We negotiated tough with them. And quarantined Chechens never
again came into the Zone. Most of them took to the bottle in Bezhensk. They were totally
demoralized. Chechens, Ossetians, Ingush, one was from Karachay Cherkessia... About thirty-
forty people. I remember we feared that they will group into one gang, but, very strangely
they didn’t. They stopped communicating even between themselves... Georgians, by the way,
didn’t get scared, God knows why. They don’t know themselves.
- You bring all into one pile, Oleg Fomich.
- That is by chatter I am suppressing my reflex to prohibit the leakage of top secret
information. Safety lock is itching in my case.
- Ha-ha-ha! But I wanted to talk exactly about the Caucasus people in more detail...
I’ve got couple of specific questions here... So, Oleg Fomich, - ORP.
- Well... I see. In fact, I just wanted to warn you... that is why I agreed to meet with you.
Everybody treats you well here, Semyon, many kind troublers asked me to give you a wake up
call at last. There will never be any details, Semyon. The “Mother’s cracks” - deadly and
inexorable by any number of bumpers gitik. Both “cracks” known by locals have been marked
and isolated. Full stop.
- Isolated...Mined! Oleg Fomich, in nineteen ninety-two there already were rumors

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about ORP…
- You don’t get the hints, Shugpshuits. It means, they were asking me for a reason. If
you pronounce this abbreviation one more time now, you, with all my goodwill, will die right
away, Shugpshuits.
- Er-e-e... But we are just talking, Oleg Fomich! You started this yourself, not me! We
are just talking.
- Correct. And you will just die, if you do not stop gabbing and confusing people. See
what kind of pistol I have? That’s why I’ve mentioned Caucasus, Semyon. My dear. And you
swallow it, a story writer... But I see what you have written there, in your notebook. You are a
good guy, god damn it, live long! Don’t push me to follow the instruction. Don’t meddle here.
There is no need to pretend being a Bob Woodward1... or, even more, Shchekochikhin2... Do
not interfere here. And do not get others in the wrong with your questions. Did you
understand me?
- I understood you.
- Very good. Starting from this moment, if even a word about it will come out to
Earth... there will be no more warnings. Well, so many of interesting things are there in the
Zone, even without those stinking “Mother’s cracks”, Jesus! What else interests you?.. I am all
at your disposal. Do you want me to tell about phalanx?
- No. Thank you for the conversation.
- Then all the best. Was glad to talk with an intelligent person.
- I have a qualifications. All the best to you.
- Yes-yes-yes... Anything else?
- And who are they? Well, these... Bob Woodward, Shchekochikhin? Are they trackers?
- Are you serious?

1
An American investigative journalist.
2
A Russian investigative journalist.

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 CHAPTER 5

Fifteen minutes after Nabis’ death, (at 18:14 per Earth time) a ringing phone
rumbled in the Headquarters of Bezhensk police (a construction trailer with a self-made
sign like “carving lake from the back side of window glass”), and the Head of police (the
former officer commissioner for Dog's village with a nickname Aniskin, for addressing -
“Tol Tolich”) Lazarev, Anatoliy Anatolyevich, the Senior Lieutenant, fifty-six years old,
pressed the bouncing apparatus with his four-fingered left hand to boards of the desk
and with the right, also four-fingered hand, picked up the phone.
After listening to the crap from the other side of the line, and becoming unusually
worried, Lazarev put the phone down, quickly cleared the desk, turning around with his
chair, opened the safebox behind his back, hid those police documents that were
classified, got up, moved the holster with pistol from the side to under the belly, put on
a warm grey jacket uniform. And a headwear (traditional ushanka - a fur cap with
cockade) already was on, Lazarev was really afraid to make his head ill from cold. What
was left? Wrap a scarf around, take the folder with paper, and turn off an electric heater
made by local cottage industry. And he didn’t turn the light off in the office. And went
outside, call of duty.
During his absence in the office (Bezhensk citizens however called it a “site”) there
were no accidents. The cracking heater, made from building brackets was cooling down,
and turned cold. In an hour it was the same cold in the office as on the evening street.
In the residential part of the office, radio “Lighthouse” played quietly and sometimes
mumbled the news behind the shield from fiberboard. Around ten o’clock in the
evening someone knocked on the door, but there was no one to open, curtains were
shut tight, and in a few minutes the unknown knocking visitor left. The last to get cold
in the office was the pan with evening portion of oatmeal, wrapped in a blanket and a
big plastic bag on top of it. At half past eleven the phone rang shortly. Some kind of
spark cut through.
Lazarev returned on the next day, at ten past twelve at night.
He locked the door behind him on hook, for the second time wiped clean his feet
in American boots on a mop, threw the folder on the table, accommodated a string bag
with some newspaper roll on top of the folder, and right away turned the heater on,
frowned at the spark that lit up in the socket. In addition to a depressing mood, Lazarev
got cold as ice. The heater was buzzing and cracking terribly. Lazarev was on call for
dead people scenes about a hundred times, but still didn’t get that saving cynicism,
which is inherent for prosecutors and crime police. Because the vast majority of victims
- both criminal and deceased from the natural causes - were familiar to him personally.
All were neighbors - distant or close. And there's nowhere to go from this. He never
accepted wedding invitations, but visited funerals as obligatory, even if they forgot to
call him... Even if a dead man was a bastard, as for example Vanya Kadilo, a darkest
ghoul… And the late-lamented Lyova Chikashin, son of Maria Chikashina, a shop

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assistant from the hardware shop, was running here and there by Lazarev’s house in
the Dog's from his early ages. To school, from school, to mother’s work. The boy used to
buy bread, tea for Lazarev, brought water from the well. A wonderful guy, an excellent
pupil at school, got a place at college in Moscow from the second attempt just before
the Lighting. Came back for holidays to look after the house, Maria had not been with
us for a few years by then. And got caught in it with everybody. And now he passed
away six hours ago, by a strange, a terrible death. Now Lazarev outlived even him, a
polite and smart boy. Lazarev outlived. This family name is over. There is no more
Chikashin in the world.
Though this is how you look at it...
Lazarev unzipped the jacket, scooped up water from fifty liters pan with a kettle,
turn the stove on and put the kettle on spiral burner. He again lost kettle’s lid
somewhere, it was found in the safebox, where Lazarev reached in vain to find at least
one typographical form for “a crime scene inspection”. From all printed things in the
safebox, there was only untouched pack of telegram forms, he had no idea when, how
and why they got there.
But the blank paper was excellent - Americans gave a few packs to Lazarev. And
the typewriter, left over from Ryzhkov commission, was great: electric “Chamomile”,
new, almost silent. They can do things, if for the government. Lazarev took two sheets
out from the opened XEROX pack, put the typewriter in front of him, turned it on, put
the first sheet under the roller.
He stared at the keys for some time. Then took off his hat, put it away on the
nightstand, which was standing on the left of him, in the very corner, behind the
safebox. In the middle he typed PROTOCOL, line below - OF INSPECTION OF AN
ACCIDENT SCENE.
The kettle boiled.
Lazarev brewed some tea. The tea was awful, Turkish, in some poison-yellow
glossy pack, but he had no other. It even smelled like something sweet. A tea from
rotten watermelon. Lazarev took the kettle as far as possible from his working place,
toward the very panel, came back, daring, snatched a liter jar of raspberries in vodka
from the safebox, gifted to him recently by a classmate, Alisa Rybakova, carefully
squeezed about hundred twenty grams into the cup and drank, like hot tea, in small
sips.
- Rest in peace, the soul of the deceased servant of God, comrade Lyova
Chikashin! - unexpectedly for himself he said holding cup in front of him.
Then it turned out that he had forgotten to put the glasses on again, so
uncustomary yet, and having corrected the omission, he made sure that writing on the
list in the typewriter looks as: PROCTIS OF FO AACCIDNTE SCEME.
He pulled the list out and crumpled it royally, threw it into the basket in an
imperial way, put away the typewriter, and started to write quickly on a second sheet by
hand, in remarkably large and clear handwriting.
Protocol of inspection of the accident scene. 11 of November 1990. Place of

95
compiling: village Bezhensk of Astrakhan region (the quarantine zone “Kapustin”), male
dormitory “Southern”, house 4, room 4. Inspection began: 18.25. Inspection
finished/completed: 23.30. The Head of Bezhensk police department Sen. Lie. Lazarev,
A.A. (authority: the order of the chief of Astrakhan Ministry of the Interior Governance
such number from such date). Upon receiving a phone call from the hostel
administrator Lobanova, N. regarding the fact of death, I arrived at the scene of
accident, and in the presence of witnesses Lobanova Tavlina, residing at “Southern”,
house 1, room 1, Mokrousov Zinoviy, “Southern”, 4-4, and Karpatov Vladimir, “Southern”,
4-5, with doctor Vyatkin, Igor Lvovich involved, acting as a forensic scientist, in
accordance with following articles and following sections of articles, I inspected
Chikashin Lev death scene… Then Lazarev stopped and got into the newspaper roll in
his string bag. Dug up a large envelope with documents from a handful of notebooks
and scattered paper. Lyova’s passport, his student card, documents for the house and
land in the Dog's, originals, a rare set for the troubler, the guy didn’t lose courage ... and
he even helped Litvins to carry children away from the Lighting ... So, a Bezhensk
registration certificate, Ispolkom tax reference (redeemed), a checkbook (4.300 USD),
work certificate (receptionist at a clinic in Bezhinsk)... Insurance policy... No insurance
policy. And not a penny in cash. But the guy walked around, actively selling loots on
black market… Lazarev thought. Okay, the cash is okay, but insurance?
This is what I’ll do.
He took a phone, dialed two sevens of civil commutator, and then, remembering
each number, 1-86. He dialed this number only twice this year.
He was responded almost right away.
- Svetlana Vasilyevna? - Lazarev said. - That is Lazarev, the district officer,
disturbing. Sorry for calling at night, but the matter is urgent… Yes, this is Lazarev, Tolik!
Yes! Yes. Me myself. Sorry again. Well, I am glad. Svetlana Vasilyevna, has Zhenya
returned yet? A-ha, but he isn’t in bed, is he? Is it possible to put him on the phone?
“Wait”, wow... - he muttered.
He had to “wait” for quite a while. He managed to find a pipe mouthpiece in his
pockets, clutch it in his teeth, managed to draw twelve people with pistols on the
newspaper piece... unexpectedly, his ballpoint pen ran out of core resource on the
twelfth person's pistol. He managed to find extra ink. Here he was responded again.
- Yes, Zhenya, hello. Well, what can I do. You will have the other time for a good
sleep. Yes, something happened. Listen to me. Immediately take your clever device,
turn it on, and connect me with Petrovich. Zenya, let’s do it without talking. As you know
this is useless. Good boy, come on, I’m waiting.
Saliva slurped in his mouthpiece, Lazarev put it carefully near the empty ballpoint
pen, the used nib and the new one, leveled them up.
- Yes! Hello, Nikolay Nikolaich. This is Lazarev. Yes, long time. Well of course on
business. Who is apologizing here? Was not even going. Here, listen to me. Do you
know a tracker named Chikashin? Lyova Chikashin. Yes-yes, a student. He died today in
the evening. Yes, that's the thing… No, do not interrupt. He died at his place in hostel, in

96
the dining room. Four witnesses. Right in the line, in front of checkout. Something cut
him into small pieces. Well, yes just like this, he was standing in the line and suddenly
fell apart on the floor… slided into his clothes like into a bag. Y-es, looks like the “Rubic”,
but not evenly, as if by random chunks, not by grid… Clothes are intact, I’m telling you,
as into a bag… Only his head was divided in four pieces... What? Nikolay, you didn’t
wake up, it seems. He was home, in dormitory. In Bezhensk. Exactly! No, male
dormitory on the Southern! Number four. Which gitik can be here? Well, this is, of
course, a gitik, but from far away. Or delayed… So there is a lot what never happened
before!.. How do I know, as I am not a walker, moreover, not a scientist. There is a huge
crowd over there now, military specialists, Kirnikov, Molodyi came over from the
summer house, also someone new, Korostylyov or Korostelyov… Yes, now at last
reached the main point. I'm calling you out of my own interest, as a cop, but not for
protocol. For prevention. Yes… First. Is there anything like that in the Zone right now?
Well, in your “Pipe” this evening?.. Silence-smooth surface? Nikolay, here… Yes. Yes. But
when did you see him for the last? And nothing, with no conflicts? Okay… Yes, that is
the point that there was not a single thing with him, near him, or anywhere in
dormitory. We were searching the whole evening, there also was a dog. Only a
“spinning wheel” was standing for beauty purposes on windowsill at the workplace of
that stupid lady on duty… In my view, unreal. All have built up there at once, well, state
of emergency, you understand…Yes. Mystery in total, of unknown kind. Yes, you keep it
in mind, tell... to your visitors there. Horror, who argues… No, absolutely without blood.
Such injuries, you know, like dried out. As if sun dried. But not burned. And bone cuts
are dry. And fresh human meat inside the pieces. That's how, damn this Mother-
Trouble... Yes, and the second. The most unpleasant. Tell me, comrade Petrovich, wasn’t
Chikashin keeping his insurance policy at yours? For a little cash? You, Nikolay, can
burst with anger up there, but answer the question. At least in order to take care of my
rheumatism, so I do not need to come to yours with a group. Damn it, Kolya, I have an
instruction! More than instruction – a law! What? Fucking hell, Nikolay, I am not about
your agreement with him, I am about his official insurance certificate! Exactly. No, not
me, but you. Yes. That is what I said from the beginning: “insurance policy”. I need the
name of property manager and the name of inheritors from there, if there are.
Umghm… I'll wait, of course. A-ha. Listening! Matveev Sergey Alekseevich? Damn it, I
knew it … What? Yes-yes, this is Nabis. When did you see him? Wait, Nikolaich, someone
is knocking on the door, I am expecting a doctor here.
Lazarev put the phone on the table, grunting, stood up, came up to door, and
having opened the hook and turning with his back to the door even without looking
who has come, said:
- Come in, Igor, I’m on the phone…
- Well then you put the phone down, uncle Tolya. We’ll chat.
Lazarev stumbled on his foot. Turned around.
- Such an old fool I am, opened. Kazakov, - he said unkindly. - Hello, since you
came not to joke around.

97
 - Hello, uncle Tolya, - the Moor said, backing the door. - I have got a question here
for you, urgent rate. Will you invite me into the house?
- You already entered yourself, - Lazarev said, - and I won’t offer to sit down. How
can I help you, Valeriy? Talk quickly. What are you stinking of, god? What kind of
shithole did you get through? Tattered, ragged... Is that blood? Are you injured?
- Injured, injured, - the Moor said. - Consider I'm dead. And the the shithole is the
same for everyone, comrade uncle Tolya. But all that is not your problem. Give me
Lyova Chikashin’s papers, and I will leave calmly, will not bother you more. Give you my
word.
- Hey, stay where you are, Moor. Put your gun down. As my knees even bent from
fear. I am afraid my blood pressure will rise.
- Uncle Tolya, there will not be an empty chit-chat, and I didn’t grow the right tool
to scare you, I know this. I’ve always respected you as a cop, as you know, I would
commit, you would catch, no questions asked. All humanely. But I need the papers of
Lyova Chikashin. They are mine. If I have to take you out - I will, uncle Tolya. My day
today went so badly, that I’m not in the mood at all. I escaped from hell today, and that
was a friend who pushed me there. I will shoot, uncle Tolya, God knows. Give me the
papers. Here they are, on the table, for-reals.
- So then take them, son. Come over and take.
- We are just talking... - the Moor started and found himself near Lazarev. Lazarev,
as much experienced as he was, only managed to pull back his head for so much that
back of the gun hit not his temple, but the chin. Lazarev was sent spinning with his back
onto the heater.
- In circles! - the Moor finished.
Lazarev didn’t get burnt, he had his jacket on. But it was a knockout. He slid to the
floor, on his side, wrapped his face in hands, his legs squirming. The Moor was standing
over him biting lips hard, biting them through, weighing the gun in the hands, as a fate
of the old cop. He made a decision. He aimed and thrust his foot in Lazarev’s belly.
Lazarev crouched on the floor and wheezed. The Moor, who lost his balance after the
impact, turned his side to the door, and he noticed that door was opening. Reacting to
the door, he totally lost the balance, his legs caught in and he plunged on Lazarev.
There was doctor Vyatkin standing at the door, automatically shuffling on the mat
and flashing his wet glasses in tune. Vyatkin was holding his ordinary yellow suitcase,
wearing a cap with earcovers, a white robe under the autumn raincoat, from head to
toes as he is - a pediatrician on social work.
- Bitch! - the Moor said, trying to gain support, but fat Lazarev, even laying dead
under him, was all creasing as a pillow, and the gun in his hands also wasn’t helping.
Doctor Vyatkin stopped shuffling his feet.
- What is happening here? - he asked.
- I’ll kill you, bitch! - the Moor said, trying to aim.
Doctor Vyatkin put the suitcase down, took out a pistol from the side pocket,
holding his coat, checked where the safety was, fired. Doctor was a bad shooter. He

98
only wanted to wound a man with a gun in his shoulder, for example, to make him
powerless, to give firs aid, and then, for example, tomorrow, to clarify everything. But
he got the Moor right in the heart.
The Moor straightened out and ossified on top of Lazarev. АК-47 fell on the floor
to the side with a totally bone-like sound.
Doctor checked his pulse, and sighing, pulled the corpse away from Lazarev.
Lazarev was alive. He even had a good pulse. Doctor got to his knees in from of him and
lifted the glasses onto his forehead. Ribs were broken, apparently there is a possibility
of internal injuries around the peritoneum… something completely nasty with his jaw,
but the pupils are good…knockout, but without concussion. Dear Lord, how much
Vyatkin wanted to be home, even not in Chelyabinsk - no, he stopped hoping for this
long time ago - but at least in the hospital flat, on his wonderful coach. For five years
already he has been living this strange, interesting, but terribly tiring life. “Rush is
acceptable only when it is - near the couch”, Vyatkin thought. “Under the floor lamp. In
the worst case until kitchen, but not further. But I have a hell of a rush. All kind of,
continuous rush. All these headless zombies, all these flying cubes, all these stupid
gatherings on a veranda of a floating house, all these Lightnings and children gone
missing... And for the last year, there was even no one to talk to. The boss disappeared
as if he got swallowed by earth. Now have to spin on your own, as if they agreed so…
Earlobes turned pink after pressing.. But the rush today - that is already too much of it.
Excessive rush. He went and killed a man. Here, thank you for such care… No, I will not
risk even to touch the old man, the hit could have possibly damaged his neck”, Vyatkin
thought. He went to get a suitcase. Wonderful thing is this American neck bandage.
Made not only for doctors, but also for the patients… So, carefully, dear… Vyatkin
fastened velcro, turned Lazarev from his side onto his back. He would not rick to carry
him to sofa, even if he could do it by himself. So, the phone.
The phone was lying on the table, he put the receiver to his ear. There, it seemed,
someone was breathing.
- Hello, - doctor said.
- Who is that? - a voice, that seemed familiar, carefully asked.
Vyatkin automatically picked the pen without ink from the table and started
inspecting it, bringing up to his nose.
- And who do you need? - he asked. - This is doctor Vyatkin. Аh, f-fu...
“First say then think, always the same”, he thought. All thirty years in vain - didn’t
gain any brain.
- And who is this? - doctor asked.
- Doctor, this is Petrovich, the Bartender. We have met.
- Yes-yes-yes, I remember! - Vyatkin said. - Did you want anything, comrade
Petrovich?
- What happened there, doctor? - Petrovich asked patiently.
- You see, I probably don’t know. Some smuggler judging by his looks attacked
Lazarev, hit him, and then I came in.

99
 - I heard a fire shot, - Petrovich said patiently.
- You know, I had to... I had a gun on me.
- Is Tol Tolich alive? - Petrovich asked.
- А, yes-yes. Yes-yes-yes. He is unconscious and, of course, I need to take him to
hospital urgently... That's why I am calling! - doctor suddenly remembered. - I need to
call an ambulance, and the phone is occupied. Let’s disconnect for now, do you mind?
- And how are you yourself?
The doctor shrugged.
- Doctor?
- Ah, yes. No, all is fine. I killed a person. I shoot very badly, you know.
- Hang up, doctor - Petrovich said. - Treat Lazarev. Please.
- Thank you, - Vyatkin said, - goodbye, comrade Petrovich. I am putting the phone
down.
And he delicately pressed the switch.
Calling the car (the driver was fast asleep, paramedic was sleeping, and the nurse
on duty in emergency department was tipsy, and while Vyatkin was explaining what he
needs, she was giggling silly), he was staring at little people painted on the margins of a
crumpled newspaper, not understanding, why they looked blurry and uncomfortably.
After making sure that he ambulance is coming, and that it will be exactly where
needed, Vyatkin left the phone, put his glasses down on the nose, checked the pulse
again, and Lazarev’s pupil reaction, then drank some water from decanter and with
regret observed the attacker again - yes, he is a corpse, nothing can be done. Outright.
The slain was not familiar to doctor, except they could see each other in the city, since
the town is small… Gumpowder smoke smells disgusting all the same. Some sort of
acid, rotten, and with pepper. Strange the dead one is dressed as for a mission – a
hazmat suit, so on... And what is that on him - blood! The whole side of his jacket is in
blood, dried, but fresh… Strange.Well, Okay. How much paperwork now…
interrogation.. Ohho, already arrived! That's how we work!
Paramedic Andrei and male nurse Algis tumbled into the house. Algis, Lithuanian,
conscript, got stuck in the Soviet Army by some incredible miracle, not demobilized
neither for any political reasons, nor after the end of the service. Was a local celebrity,
object of special triple-sided negotiations between Moscow, Vilnius and Washington. He
was carrying a stretcher under his armpit, asked: “What is stinking so badly, doctor?” -
“Guess”, Vyatkin said, shaking his hand, “Stinks with shooting.” “Оh wow”, Andrei said,
leaning over the bodies, “But this is uncle Tolya! And this is the Moor! Who put them
down, doctor?” “He knocked off uncle Tolya, and I shot him”, Vyatkin said, “I missed.
Come on, guys, take uncle Tolya. I am worried, his peritoneum could be ruptured. See,
he is bleeding… Careful!” “Air is so stuffy you could even hang an axe”, Algis said,
helping to shift Lazarev from the floor to a stretcher, “That is how you say it, occupants”
“An occupant said it now”, Andrei said, “Occupants, really? Me and the doctor...” “I mean
figuratively”, Algis said seriously, litting up a cigarette, “should not talk about those who
are present. That is how you say it.”

100
 Andrei and Algis carried the stretcher to the courtyard and the doctor went
outside, stumbling and following them. The driver jumped out from a “loaf” van to help.
They put Lazarev into the car, doctor was about to get into the back, but right away
remembered and ran to the administration trailer for his suitcase, he searched but
didn’t find the key from the door, just shut it tight.
The vehicle with the doctor, a team and the injured drove off in the direction of
the hospital. It became very quiet on the lane. There were plenty of buildings, similar to
the police management building, around. That was the whole lane of trailers: police,
the base, residential office of the Northern village, office equipment warehouse, two
renting offices, technical library and the archive of Bezhensk Executive committee,
compiled from five trailers. But no one except Lazarev, lived at their working place. That
is why there was no one to notice when a fire started at the police site. By the time the
first truck arrived, trailer had already burned down to the ground. As he fell on the
heater, Lazarev tore a socket out from the wall together with a plug, and it kept
sparkling under the wallpaper, but doctor and his assistants could not distinguish the
smell of burning wiring from the smell of gunpowder. The Moor’s corpse, plastered with
melted rubber, when they dragged from him tin sheet from trailer’s upholstery, was
unhappily grinning with white teeth on a soot-covered scull. His grave is under number
nine on Bezhensk’s cemetery.
When Vyatkin was visiting Lazarev a week later in the ward, old Senior Lieutenant
kissed him on the cheeks, scratching his nose on the doctor’s glasses, thanked him for
saving his life, but in the end couldn’t help but mention the fire. “You could have
switched off the heather. Well you’ve got to have a head on your shoulders. Ah, doctor,
doctor, the sweetest doctor. Jeez, you are right like a small child. All documents burned,
a new jeans burned, didn’t get to wear them, and stuff the Moor had come for - also
burned. Consider that map of loot island is gone, he would not be so brazen for
something less important. He knew me, I personally jailed him. Ah, doctor, doctor.”
After that, Lazarev was looking for Seryoga “Nabis” Matveev, Lyova Chikashin’s
stepbrother, for quite a long time. He wanted to tell how it happened, that Nabis’ father
once had an affair with Maria Chikashina, how they managed to hush up the scandal,
how Nabis’ mother, Elena, smashed a faience jug on the cheater’s head. How they have
decided for now and forever to say nothing to no one.
But Lyova Chikashin knew, that across the road from him lives his brother. Had
always known, all his life. Officer Lazarev knew this for sure. From a young age the boy
would chase after his brother, but that one would send him away, not understanding
what is the matter, why this kid sticks to him like a glue... Ahh, life... Life isn’t fair...

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 PART II
1988 - 1992. DIFFERENT PEOPLE

Archive of Shugpshuits, manuscript

Simeon Shugpshuits
Book of the Trouble
(A novel about the Zone)

(Some spelling mistakes are corrected by me, grammar and syntax are author’s – S.
Zh.)

The Zone and me

Road picnic
About me
The man in a red shirt

Many on Earth called me a grafomaniac.

Maybe, as if I am a grafomaniac, then as per definition I can not tell if I write in good
literary Russian language or not. Though I have published three books in one year, large
number of copies, went to science-fiction writers’ conventions. Many liked my art. (As in the
text – S. Zh.) In the first book I was considering a possibility of contact between the Earth
civilization and a planet of intelligent robots. I like the second one more, it is a fairytale
about evil magicians. I had written it long before Harry Porter. And the plot of the third one
was even stolen by one very famous science-fiction writer now, a Boris Strugatskiy’s favorite. I
was describing a construction on one planet, where a huge earthly spaceship with colonizers
crashed some time in the past. And they were building a tower to connect with Earth. Doesn’t
matter! Possibly, I am a grafomaniac on Earth. but I am a big fish in the village, the best
writer in the Zone.
There is no one else.
Here, in our place, at QZAI, writing is not accepted.
But I have proved myself worthy in these ten years, they got used to me and talk to
me, know, that I write for the future and don't call the names. Wrote wrong, to correct. I call
all the names, but for the future. And now even if you torture me, I will not give out anything
to contemporaries, neither on Earth, nor here. This is very beautiful – the secret archive,
boxes of papers, maps and tracks, gitiks. If I am as good tracker, as Petrovich is a violinist,
then at least I will write and reserve for the descendants all the unknown world of the Zone,
all we've been able to uncover in fifteen years, and as much more as will be investigated, and
as long as I live in order to write everything. So that they know what was going on. Frankly.
Even earthly fishermen understand this, for example, Korostylyov, who passed away, and
Ljubimov, who is alive. Too bombastic, got to correct it, alhough this is true. Commandant
Blinchuk, the General, he knows me, and many others. But I am not only a secret archivist. I
also give performances in mass media to help the town, and I am writing a blog on the

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Internet.
Carefully, of course. We, Bezhensk aliens, take the talkers very seriously. Earth matter
does not mean anything to us in general and total. But we will not allow anyone to dig in our
dirty laundry even if it is for a good cause. It is very difficult to join aliens, and to get kicked
out – a two second job. They can simply send newcomers like me, “magacitls”, tourists and
alpinists, outside of the outer perimeter because of mercy, understanding humanism
rightfully. And as for the local people, the aliens, the one, who have to live in the Pre-Zone till
death, they can bury those under the lawn.
To bury, and forget. Farewell. Thank you.
And a boycott, ban in modern language, is a sad thing. Terrible punishment in the Pre-
Zone, living in accordance with its own laws. So, I am very careful when I give an interview to
Earth, when I write in a public blog, when I present publications with social significance. My
publications often caused a outrage, and even helped some individuals. For example, when I
helped to re-unite the Karamilins last year. And this story could have ended terribly even by
Russian standards. Danger comes from the side of the supervising bodies. The main one, it
should be said.
I will tell you separately about my radio, radio “The Zone”. Now my radio is banned
again, but we have been there before. We have been there in the Zone for sure.
As we, troublers, say.
I’ve been thinking for a long time, with what to start. (As in the text – S. Zh.) I sat down
in my office and remembered all my life in the Pre-Zone, from 1996 and until today. So many
startling stories, meetings and tales! I've got over four hundred of audiocassettes with tales,
pile of photographs and videotapes, I even have the whole suitcase full of authentic window
panes. I even have the Old Phalanx from garage cooperative “Akhtuba” on one glass, this
picture was taken by Grigoriy Platonikhin in 1998. And he died a few days later, but I will
write about it sometime. By the way, not to forget that I have a meeting with him next
Tuesday.
And this is what I remembered and where I will begin. When I was first called a “man
in a red shirt”. When for the first time many of the most respected aliens gathered in my
presence. This was in winter of 2001, two months after I launched the first repeater of “The
Zone”. This and four years in the Pre-Zone prior were required for me to get invited for a
name day party of Olga Petrovich, the spouse of Nikolai Nikolayevich, our Barman. In those
days he was a Mayor of Bezhensk and a Mayor of all CATU QZAI “Bezhensk”, our first Mayor. I
will later describe story of his election separately.
It would have been a mistake to think that I was invited to some formal reception like
those favoured by the high officials and big wigs on Earth. That was exactly the opposite.
Olga Petrovich’s name day is always “a private party”, as policemen would call it in bad
movies, trying to get into gangster night clubs (Everything is as in the text – S. Zh.)
Now it is celebrated (seems the Name Day – S. Zh.), in “Two Pipes” of course, but then,
at the time I am describing (so as in the text, in the text so. – S. Zh.), it was celebrated in the
city hall, built specifically for Petrovich, Nikolai Nikolaevich’s comfort at his position as a
Mayor. Artels of Zeka-Turanchox and Santer Kentus built it. A decent, newly built three-story

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administrative building with two facades, only a little too much in width. One facade was
looking at the Pre-Zone, the other, naturally, at the “neutral”. It was only ten minutes walk
from “Two Pipes” to his work along such a lovely path, laid from the site of Kapustin’s boiler,
where the bar is located in a large former spare parts warehouse. So, a half of new Mayor’s
lair for Petrovich was located, roughly speaking, in the Zone, and the other half, to put it
mildly, - outside of it. And, specifically, the Council banquet hall, where on 22nd January 2001
the party was taking place, was divided exactly in half by the border between the Pre-Zone
and the “neutral”.
This is where warm but strange crowd gathered on that frosty windy evening in the
first year of new millennium. It consisted of (taken from genuine record, which I made then,
demonstratively at everybody’s presence) following people:
1. Mayor Nikolai Nikolayevich Petrovich, nicknamed the Bartender.
2. His spouse, the celebrating girl, Olga Petrovich, nicknamed the Host.
3. Lieutenant Colonel Oleg Vitalievich Korostylyov, Head of the intelligence of QZAI.
Nicknamed Curt. Tracker, rating “Arnold”. (I will tell separately about the system of ratings
and classification, which was accepted then. In the article “Evolution of ratings”. That’s very
interesting.)
4. Evgeny Polenov, nicknamed “Turanchox”, Petrovich’s bar partner. And generally. A
dwarf. Local, from the Lighting. Knows six languages. Or seven, with Mordothroughn.
5. Linda Fabian, the commander of the US Army mission. A tracker, rating “captain”.
No nickname. There was an interesting story with her when Vika Starostina have fallen in
love with her, but Linda happened to be a heterosexual and was trying to escape Vika all
across the Pre-Zone.
6. Tol Tolich Lazarev, the Head of Bezhensk PD. “From the Lighting”. In Kapustin he
worked as a precinct authorized before the Lighting.
7. Vadim Sverzhin, Fenimore, a family friend. A tracker, rating “king-kong”. A very old
tracker, Yazov’s contractor. Not from the Lighting, but old.
8. The Tail, Fenimore’s friend, “zonbi” or in the old manner “double”. Hides his real
name. But in my view, he doesn’t remember it.
9. Sergey Kaverin, nicknamed Funny. Former gangster, now tracker, Fenimore’s partner.
A tracker, rating “captain”. Not married.
10. Funny’s lady friend called Lena. With a guitar. A “tourist”, ufology girl.
11. John Gorski nicknamed “22”, Director of International Scientific Research Institute
“Zone”. PhD in physics and an excellent administrator. A tracker, rating “captain”. Nickname is
given by
12. Wobenaka, E. Ar. Brolsma, born 1790. An old man about of sixty years old. No one
knows how old he really is, but he came here from 1848. A real sheriff from the Wild West.
More precisely a sheriff deputy. As he insists, he never agreed to take this position (seems, it
means position of sheriff ad hoc – S. Zh.), in order not to write reports and deal with
elections, but he always helped those, who wrote and dealt with elections. (And Gorski
nickname Twenty Two” for some reason means “Alabama”. Apparently, this is an old
American jargon.) A tracker, rating “infinity” or “eight sideways”. The first tracker, who

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reached such a rating. (Fourth. - S. Zh.). Celebrated hero of the “Moon portal”. However,
Vadim Fenimore told me, that before himthere was one tracker, a local, undoubtedly with an
“eight sideways”, who even used to go to the Hospital. But he died in accidental fire outside
the Zone long before my arrival in the Pre-Zone. Drinking related, probably. Not a hero, it
seems. He had one leg. (Wobenaka has one leg. - S. Zh.)
13. And me.
Sergey Krikalev also popped in in the very beginning of the party, not for long. A
spaceman, the first commander of Moon base 1, luckily happened to be on our side at the
moment of the disaster. He was in a hurry, and came round with flowers just for five minutes.
So, I ran into him, already when he was leaving, literally at the door of the banquet room. We
bumbed into each other quite badly, he even cursed unintelligibly. An expression of
instantaneous confusion from a collision was showing on his sharp skinny head with grey
hair. The expression changed to the impatient discontent with an obstacle on his way. I
hurried to let him pass.
So, I am starting to describe that evening, checking up with audio record, which I
secretly made, changing cassettes in the toilet.
I will start right from the first toast.
And to be precise, I’ll let myself start from a zero toast, the very first toast, to which
aliens always drink.
I mean, we drink.
We. (No, this is impossible. Allow me to not allow.
Of course, the life of Shugpshuits Simeon (I always forget his real name) totally
deserves a special biography. But to reproduce, re-type those pages from the “Shugpshuits
archive”, where he remembers that he is a writer, that he has three books, that he’s even been
a member of some Russian Writers Union since the middle of dollar nineties; where he
remembers and tries to let some creativity, to waft a psychology depth to reader’s minds,
illuminate Tolstoy-size text’s expanses with original author’s style… - that is gross. These his
“three books” are worth mentioning only as means of getting Shugpshuits into the Pre-Zone.
(I can already see that I got infected with grafomania.) In that terrible decade when after
seventy years of hunger, a soviet reader would swallow and praise any half-digested
detective/sci-fi mix, coughed up by writing mediocrities with active life positions,
Shugpshuits, naturally, was sold out three times. But on the contrary, he spent the money
with intelligence and talent. He didn’t buy half a flat in Moscow or drink it dry with fiction
writers. Instead he packed, jumped on a train to Volgograd, there he changed trains to the
“funny seven hundred under-Astrakhan”, and with a press pass from the “Komsomol Truth”
newspaper he got off at Bezhensk Tempstation. And he stayed in QZAI forever, not even once,
until the very death having returned to Earth. Even when he was given such opportunity,
even when trackers (all “gentlemen” gang by the way) were persuading him to hand the
legendary unique “Ball” from all walkers and troublers to the Senior Father, Arkadiy
Natanovich Strugatskiy, on his seventy-fifth birthday.
At the first glance, it is difficult to understand why Shugpshuits lived his life exactly like
this. Since in the Zone, not in the Pre-Zone, not in the “neutral”, but specifically in the Zone

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itself he had only been once. But trackers understood him, he entertained them, little by little
he was accepted as one of them, they were honest with him, and protected him and the
famous “Archive”. And finally it gained status both as a lootd Zone artefact, and status of an
epic literary work.
Shugpshuits was a good listener, as far as I understand.
Luckily, a proper novel under the name “Book of the Trouble” practically doesn’t exist:
this, at best, a few dozens kilobites, less than a hundred pages when printed out. The very
beginning is given above. And like “earthly” works of Shugpshuits it is absolutely ridiculous
and illiterate essay, which can not be rescued neither by the implausible reality described,
nor absolutely accurate accounts. Only its incompleteness and suspense will save it. I hope,
that Simeon Shugpshiuts... what is his real name, damn my memory... His name was
Gennadiy Saveliev! That was his name.
In general, I hope, he knew, that he was writing a real novel, when very neatly
decrypted his implausible interviews with trackers and other aliens, when he drew even more
improbable Zone maps, going mad from inconsistency of schemes and plans, which were
bought out, solicited from trackers… when he arranges subscription for the secret purchase
of radio equipment among Bezhensk moneybags … But not when he torments “Word” editor
with three pages description of a zero toast (“For first unknown!”), and where this toast
appeared from and who is suddenly emerged Andrei Makarevich, and what is the connection
of his ancient song called “About first ones and second”, which Shugpshuits brought up in
full, with description his and others' feelings after each verse mentioned… and only with
incredible effort of imagination after three pages of a bullshit and Makarevich a poor reader
understands, that this is just about Tail’s girlfriend at the time, Lena the Spotter butted in
again with her guitar at the beginning of that booze session, and barking and faking, sang
this sad song with wrong notes. It only just pissed off the boozers, including her own lover
and not counting Wobenaka, a gentleman from before the last century. And, unfortunately,
gave to ungifted shame of a writer Shugpshuits unnecessary reason to imagine himself as
our William Joyce, and may be even Thomas, damn him, Wolf...
I hope that he understood all about himself.
Otherwise I would be sorry for him. - S. Zh.)

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 CHAPTER 6

MANTYAI

He felt warm. He has been feeling warm for several hours already. He was warm
for several hours for the first time in two and a half months. He has been warm for
about one hundred years after a hundred thousand years of dead, withering, stinking
like cellar, urine, and bleach cold. And now, floating in a daze, basking, living, reigning in
this warmth, Mantyai wanted nothing more. He did not want to go home, did not want
to eat, did not want to drink, did not even want to kill Captain Barsunbaliev. He did not
even want to smoke! And, the main thing, he did not want the vehicle to stop, as if
exactly the movement was the source of the heat.
The car stopped. And the smells of the vomit, iodine, and nasty shoe polish
immediately arose in the KUNG trailer. Mantyai opened his sticky festering eyelids. All
four, chemists and volunteers, two chemists and two volunteers, creaking their hazmat
suits and tapping with rifle butts, broke away from the windows and sat down on
benches. Adjusted their hats in the same way. The volunteer in glasses, the Corporal,
was chewing on something.
A loudspeaker (copy of the one hanging in the kitchen in Mantyai's shared
communal flat) on the front of the kung trailer, representing a long-gone staff intercom,
made a noise, buzzed and spat out.
- Mabuta, what is your name... Get out. Run to the cabin.
A rapid relay of looks that appeared between the four of them gradually stopped
at Mantyai. Mantyai didn't move. He was the fifth guy in the KUNG, and he didn’t have a
window. He actually didn't need a window. He didn't smell of vomit. Everyone vomited
but him. He didn't know what “mabuta” was.
- You are supposed to be from stroybat1, Mantyaev. So why the fuck are you slow,
schmuck? - said a volunteering junior sergeant who was sitting right in front of him, in a
thin voice. The junior sergeant’s fingers, clutching the barrel of a machine gun tight
between his knees, were white and clammy. A hammered black thumbnail. It was
written on the junior sergeant’s face that he was demobilized. The cap was sitting on
top of his head, his corny glossy forelock was stuck to one side, an old man's mustache
grew, it seemed, from inside the nostrils.
There was nothing left to do.
Mantyai stood up, pulled a rubber hood over his hat, pushed the door and
climbed down onto icy concrete, catching on everything on his way, even, it seems, the
air, with a strange uncomfortable real rifle. Very clear, delicious, smooth frosty air. At
that moment the engine suddenly fired up but stopped, and immediately the Captain's
voice began to be heard from the cab.
- Come on, come on, turn it on, turn it on, Khamid!.. Where are you, mabuta?!

1
Construction battalion (Russian: Строительный батальон, стройбат.)

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 Behind him, the door's mechanism knocked on the floor and the door shut
loudly. Mantyai walked cautiously along the trailer’s left side. It was cold again. In the
army, for all one hundred thousand years, Mantyai was either very cold and chilled to
the bone or very cold and stuffy. But he felt cold and stuffy only under a blanket with
his head also covered. Behind the glass of the KUNG door, the driver's goggled eyes
flashed, framed by thick female eyelashes, as if they were hanging in the air. But they
were set aside Instantly. The window glass quickly rolled down and Captain's clammy
face hung in the empty frame when he leaned over the engine cover and over the
driver. Captain's name was completely unknown to Mantyai.
- Listen to my command, stroybat warrior, - uttered Captain. - So. You'll go ahead
of the car. Carefully look around. Try to walk normally. We will follow. Fucking fog.
- A fog? - ask Mantyai, who actually was going to ask quite a different question.
The question was “Why the hell me?” Objection to the Captain, therefore. Express
discontent. After all, this one is not Captain Barsunbaliev, won't be beating him right
away. But the question about the fog appeared itself, as there was no fog around.
- Fucking fog! - The Captain repeated impressively with a “pronto” intonation. -
Come on, mabuta, don't be afraid. We will pass the fog real quick and that's it, we'll
complete the task and tomorrow you will be demobilized. This is what the General
promised.
- And where's the fog? - asked Mantyai. And corrected himself: - And where is the
fog, comrade Captain?
The Captain immediately started to breathe through his mouth, as if he had just
unloaded the whole freight car.
- So you, bitch, comrade stroybat, decided to fuck with my brain? I'll shoot you for
dissent in the combat situation! Execute the order!
Mantyai looked around. But there wasn't any fog. It was about two o'clock in the
afternoon. No wind. A clear horizon line, the sky twice darker than the snow-covered
steppe. Bright yellow, as if illuminated from the inside, a cap of smoke dome in the
distance to the right on the site of the city, where the road back was leading. Excellent
visibility. What fog? What is he talking about?
- I don't know, don't understand, Comrade Captain, - said Mantyai as if he was
begging. - Everything can be seen perfectly.
Maybe he's drunk? - he thought. This explained everything. Father always
explained this way everything he did yesterday, and it seemed to be the truth.
- Comrade Captain... - said the driver with an accent. - This, ts, might be
happening, again, in brief. We see the fog, that is, and this one sees everything with no
fog, that is.
Captain slammed his own eyes with his huge palm, wiping away the sweat. He
stared at Mantyai again, licked his lips.
- Listen to my command, Mantyaev, - he said. - There's no time to gab. I order you
to think that we are in a dense fog. You go ahead and look if there are any pits or other
barriers. Do you understand? Copy.

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 - I go ahead, no pits, no barriers, - said Mantyai. - order to count.
- That's right, - said Captain. - And don't be afraid. - We checked the air half hour
ago, there's no gas, radiation level is norm. Don't be afraid of anything. It's gonna be
fine. Just go. And tomorrow for demobilization. I swear by the officer's honor. Start the
car, Ataev. It's gonna be fine. - Captain's face disappeared, the glass rose like an owl, the
starter roared, the power in the engine moved. Suddenly everything was quiet again,
Mantyai even didn't have time to move. The glass rolled down again, and the Captain's
face appeared for the second time.
- Mantyaev. Don't forget to throw screws in front of you. Did they give them to
you?
- They did, - said Mantyai. - They gave me thirty. Nuts.
- Well then. You throw one for ten meters in front of you, then go to the nut. You
stop two steps away and throw another one for ten meters. If something is wrong with
the nut - you immediately stop and put your hand up. How did you get it? Copy.
Mantyai copied.
Yesterday evening, after dinner, they stuffed volunteers’ brains with these nuts, so
he copied easily. He also shot with a real rifle for the first time in his life, a bucket of
bullets was given to each of them. But this was after lunch. He got his whole shoulder
bruised.
- Good boy, Mantyaev. Where are you from? - The Captain asked suddenly.
- From Rybinsk.
- Almost a Muscovite. The capital. And when did you get deployed to service?
- In December.
- Ts, he's a fucking goose, that is, - said the driver.
- Sat that aside, Khamid. Do you have a girlfriend?
Mantyai hesitated.
- I see there is. Well, that's great. I bet she's faithfully waiting for you. We will
complete the task, you'll get the personal order of the Minister of Defence, and will go
home. In a week you will be making love to your friend again, the honor of an officer.
Come on, Mantyaev, go ahead. You walk calmly, keep the distance. I'll change you in
two kilometers. Follow the command. Don't you lower the ear covers!
The window closed completely, the engine started, buzzed in an expectant tone,
dashing: forward, they say. One more time Mantyai thought about the fog (“What fog?
All the officers are acting like drunk with these nuts. It is necessary, they say, in the fog,
and out of the fog, it is necessary either. There is no gas, gas is all in the city. Meteorite.
It would be good to find a piece of this meteorite, to bring it home. I want to go home”),
he stood in front of the KUNG's bumper, checked if the winch was directly behind him,
and strode forward from the left foot.
The car followed him on first gear. The windshield glittered as if the truck was
empty. And after a hundred meters Mantiai felt a surge of energy. He forgot about
nuts, forgot about the car behind him, he was alone in the middle of endless snow-
covered steppe. In the middle of the world. Nobody could order him anymore, as

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nobody has the power to order him. And Mantyai felt warmth again as if he never left
the kung trailer. But it would be better to sit at home, in a bathtub, although the
neighbors immediately start to bang at the door, their turn; so screw them all, he won't
feel sorry for anybody. And for last three days, all the volunteers have been fed really
well, there was a huge bowl of grapes on each table. And Americans in some yellow
uniform were walking around, and among Russians, nobody was showing off, not
acting superior. Yes, all ate together, Americans and even black guys. Mantyai had
already seen a black guy in the line to Lenin's Mausoleum, when he was with his third
grade on a field trip, that’s when their bus broke down at night. Somehow, it was
surprisingly fabulous to walk there “me, myself and I“, not worrying, that suddenly
someone will call him and force him to work or will call him and beat him. And there is a
rifle on his neck, a military weapon, if that damned moron Captain Barsunbaliev would
be here, then he would be getting on his knees, saying how sorry he is, but he still
wouldn't have received mercy. And his duffle bad is full of American rations. And it's
warm. And there's no wind, although, before the departure, Mantiay also seized the
moment and tore one of two indivi... indive... individual dressing package, given to each
of them, and thickly wrapped the bandage around his neck, as if he had a sore throat
and the military doctor allowed him. And Barsunbaliev would have made him tear it off,
such a bitch. And the gloves are very warm, with fingers. And he was allowed to choose
the boots, which will fit on the foot in woolen socks, from a big heap. The soles are
thick, so it's warm to tread even on a frozen concrete, covered with untouched, frosty
snow for a long time. Yeah, that's the life. It would be also great to smoke but the
General said that it's forbidden - there's a possibility to set fire to the accumulated gas
and burn to hell. This is what Mantyai understood. Uzbek welders, had a smoke once
near to cylinder full of propane in his town. Rest in peace, bitches. It's possible to last a
day, sometimes you endured weeks until you find a cigarette stub, could get jaded, and
then somebody will take it away... I wonder, did General lie about a bonus? It would be
awesome to get two hundred roubles or so. I'll go back home the day after tomorrow,
hey dad, I'll say. Here's a bottle for you, have a drink to celebrate a successful execution
of the government task. And immediately run to Tamara. Mantyai drew himself up,
walked smoother, like a civilian. I'm a stud, on my way to see a woman. Hey, Tomka, I'll
say, have you been waiting for me? No, this won't happen the day after tomorrow - the
train journey there takes the whole day. So, tomorrow they will sign my order, the day
after tomorrow I'll leave, that means I'll get home in two days. What day is it today?
Toma's daughter will be in kindergartеn and I'll say, let her stay there, but you, Toma,
don't go to work, as your soldier is back. If my father finds out that I'm dating a thirty-
year-old woman, he will kill me. Ah, fuck him! - thought Mantyai. - Now, fuck you, dad.
Did I serve? I did. And did you serve, dad? No, you, dad, you cheated with your time and
with your tuberculosis. So then shut up now. I'll buy you a bottle, but I won't obey you
anymore, that's enough. This exactly I'm going to tell him: here's a bottle, have a drink
for my demobilization, and I have been in relationship with Tamara since I was
fourteen, for four years already. And that's it, dad. The son has served. Now I am my

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own boss. It would be great to get even not two hundred but five. Why not? They are
liquidators. When they were digging a pit, the day they also were forced to peel
potatoes in the utility room, then Letyokha from Saratov said that the money he got
after his assignment to Chernobyl was enough to buy a wall unit, color TV and denim
clothes for his wife. So five hundred, for sure. It's empty here, there are only some
workshops on the horizon, although, they say, it's the cosmodrome. Probably, the
secret cosmonauts had been flying from here. Why, that’s the only way. What a rocket
was standing on a pedestal, and that bitch in the KUNG didn't even let me have a look
at it. But the rocket was huge. Probably, they brought fuel and all the missiles along
that railroad, that's on the left. That's right. He used to serve at the cosmodrome, he
used to kick the rocket with his feet. He saw Gorbachev. He saw Americans, talked to
them. Good men. There were also women, with teeth. Mantyai pulled a screw out of the
pouch on his side, for some reason exactly the screw got into his hand, and threw it
ahead of himself, the bolt jumped on the concrete with a clatter. The main thing, I'll tell
her. I'll tell her this: Tamara, you can do whatever you want, but I can't call you “mum“
anymore, that's it. You can be offended or not but what a mother you are to me now?
And if you want us to continue good relations, I won't tolerate other men from Tech
factory anymore. Enough. And don't you cry, don't you make excuses. You weren't
married so who's the father of your daughter? A holy spirit? Well, it's necessary
somehow to explain to her tactfully that she's not twenty, not twenty-five, and the point
is she has to fight for me, not me for her. Here, I'll say, Lenka will grow up and you'll be
already like the mother-in-law. This will be a joke, but Tamara is a smart woman, she will
understand. And will make a decision. But if no, if those women's... those women's...
well, if whims begin, I'll wave a hand and will say “goodbye, Tamara, take it easy“, love is
love, but you also should get a hold of yourself. I’ve got money, I’m a meteorite hit
liquidator, will be going to college in Moscow on a grant and you are a simple
technologist in a bedsit.
Mantyai threw off the strap of a duffle bag, clenched his mitten in his teeth,
clumsily stretched out the band with his black beat-up fingers, although it seemed to
him in a fit of universal masculinity that he unleashed it in one movement. A wrapper
with English letters flashed. Dry juice, powder, you pour it in water and get a lemonade.
“Zuko”! Awesome “Zuko” it should be said. Back the mitten, open the package with your
teeth and hey! - Mantyai poured the powder into his mouth and made a few steps with
his eyes closed. A Darkwing duck, that flaps in the night, he felt so good. Saliva
splashed into his mouth, his cheeks blew up. In an imperative gesture, he brought the
empty package at his feet. How long shall I keep walking? Isn't it the time to change
me? These bastards are completely insolent. Mantyai stopped, turned around, spread
his legs, and his hand made the gesture by itself. Old man is tired. The car stopped
immediately, and it seemed that it stopped finally and irrevocably, in a jerk.
After a hellishly long minute Captain poked his head out of the window hellishly slowly.
- What happened? - he asked anxiously. Stayed silent. - Is there something ahead?
- Another pause. - Mantyaev, why did you give the “stop“ command?

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 Mantyai forced himself to swallow an explosively tasty mush.
- Comrade Captain. I just wanted to know when the shift is over, - he said loudly
and discontentedly, unwittingly smacking his lips. - You said two kilometers. I’ve walked
it. And threw the nut. Comcap, isn't it the time to change?
Captain’s tongue licked his lips, he blinked a few times and slid back into the truck
with no answer.
Mantyai stepped from foot to foot, put his arm on his hip. And all the outposted
captains can go to hell, he thought. This is what I’ll say to guys. Either Barsunbaliev or
different others. And why not? We are going on a combat duty in the area of the
meteorite fall - that's it, we all are equal. The commander is the one who noticed the
danger. No matter, whether you are a private soldier, a military engineer, a colonel, or a
captain...
In the cab, Captain Alyoshichev lit a cigarette, barely made it to his mouth. He was
absolutely terrified, but he had to keep cool and collected, so the driver would not get
hysterical being even more terrified, like it often happened during former
reconnaissance missions with different seniors. The drivers know more than ordinary
volunteers, however, they don't know everything. Alyoshichev spat out the tobacco.
Fingers of the Senior Sergeant Ataev were white, as he was holding the steering wheel,
and Ataev's face was moving, as if he was searching, where to spit. Suddenly Alyosichev
came up with an idea. “Well, did you get it, comrade Senior Sergeant? - He asked
fatherly. - This is how things are with them, you act with them as all decent humans do
and they throw shit at your collar...” The subject was understandable, and the Senior
Sergeant fell into it with his heart, his fear disappeared. “Here's what I told you! These
geese get sassy! - said Ataev. – They flipping lose their plot, Comrade Captain, ts?! I
mean, how he stands, this moron, how he speaks! I mean, now I'll go there and finish
this fucking skank!” “Stop, stop, Khamid, calm down, - said Alyoshichev. - You must not.
We must fulfill the task. If his eyes are fine, we have to put up with him. In god’s will,
shall we will return, then I myself will whack all his teeth out, by the officer's word. It's
not possible now.” Here theу both noticed that the damned military builder was going
to approach and ask questions. “Fucking shit!” - said the Captain. They both yanked the
doors' handles, leaned out on the sides of the cab and shouted together: “Stop! Stop!”
Mantyai stopped.
- Khamid, get back to the wheel, - ordered Alyoshichev. Ataev slammed the door.
He felt the concrete with the tip of the hopping shoe and climbed down from the
footboard. “A gas mask, I must put on a gas mask.” But he didn't put a gas mask on. He
carefully went to the Rybinsk sucker, holding his hand on the holster. The fog around
was terrifying, the railroad couldn't be discerned, and it was just twenty-five meters
away. And the silence was terrifying.
- What? - asked the approaching goddamn military builder, who obviously
imagined himself as Major Whirlwind.
- You are Mantyaev, did I get it right? - asked Alyoshichev.
- Yeah.

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 - Not “yeah”, but “yes, sir”, - said Alyoshichev sternly. You're still in the army,
Comrade military constructor... Okay, so how are you, are you going strong? And you
don't see the fog?
- What fog, what are you talking about?...
- Calm down, calm down. I'm talking to you now as with a fellow-soldier. You know
about the meteorite, right? The huge iceberg made of frozen gas. And we still can't
determine what kind of gas it is, you got it?
Mantyai nodded.
- Do you smoke?
- I have nothing to smoke, - said Mantyai. - They said it's forbidden, we have to
wait.
Alyoshichev couldn't remember at all where and when the cigarette he lit in the
cab disappeared. He even looked at his feet. And the cigarette was in his mouth. And
stuck to his lip. Alyosichev cursed when he pulled it too sharply and tore off the skin.
- Here, take it, my treat. One is allowed, - he said, chewing the wound. Mantyai
leaned forward with whole his body to the torn pack of “astra”, which Сaptain stretched
it out to him. Captain gave him his cigarette butt. Mantyai inhaled the smoke and
began to cough.
Captain took out the map.
- This gas is distributed throughout the test site in layers, - he said confidentially. -
The concentration is weak. Here, where we are now, gas is almost absent, the gas
detector doesn't determine it. But it is cosmic, and it works constantly for all people,
while we are in it, but for each in a different way. Do you understand?
Coughing, suppressing cough, and inhaling at the same time, Mantyai nodded.
- What is your name?
- Kha... Khe... Khesha!
- Like Smoktunovsky1?
Mantyai nodded. All others usually remembered a cartoon parrot2.
- Our intelligence has a task to reach the Old deuce district, Kesha, - continued
the Captain, spat on his cigarette butt and put it in his pocket, getting out a map from
the inside pocket of unfastened hazmat suit instead of it. - Here, look at this. We are
right here. In half a kilometer there will be a turn to the right to the first “Ten”. But the
gas works for all of us except you. We all, except you, now see everything as in a fog.
This is not dangerous and later will go away immediately. But this is how it is at the
moment. Did you understand?
- Like night blindness? My grandmother has it.
- Yes, similar to night blindness, - said Alyoshichev patiently.
I'll smack all his teeth out with the rifle, he thought. Soldiers will hold him and I
will take the aim and smack carefully, not too hard, just in order to break all his teeth.
1
Smoktunovsky, Innokenty Mikhailovitch, 28 March 1925 – 3 August 1994, was a Soviet actor acclaimed as the
“king of Soviet actors”.
2
Kesha the Parrot is the main character of Soviet and Russian animated series “Return of the prodigal Parrot“
created in 1984.

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And then, during all the hustle and bustle, I'll find these creeps Bashkalo and Kamnev,
will buy all the moonshine, as much as they have, and will drink it all by myself.
- Night blindness... Thing is, you don't have it. Your body is different. Perhaps, I
will submit a report on this, when we are back. That you are phenomenal. Well, that you
are cool, your organism is unique.
- I got it, a phenomenon, - said Mantyai, looking at the map. Then he looked to
the left. – Ah, I can see. There are huge plants and a round tower, right?
It was foggy where he was looking. The fog was solid. Not ordinary, like smoke,
but like crumpled paper. Captain Alyoshichev's throat was dry. How was it in that book
about the Devil3? “Something was sucking my heart!” Exactly. Something is sucking my
heart. But what can I do? A bullet in the head behind the Headquarters for non-
execution of the order is not a joke. This is the reality. And then prove to the armed
General, furious because of massive desertion, that he had killed you illegally. About
thirty people die in the gas zone every day, so including you in the list of losses is just a
click of a fountain pen.
- Well, Kesha, you must continue guiding the car, - said Alyoshichev. - From here
it's a half a kilometer to the turn, and there only four kilometers to the target point .
Combat assignment. Can you handle it? There's no need to hurry, we still have a lot of
time until the evening, it's not even eleven yet. You don't have a watch, right?
- No.
Alesichev took off and gave Mantia his watch.
- There's also a compass, if it's needed. Okay, so you rule us. Your command is the
law. If you smell something different, or you see the fog, or whatever - anything,
puddle, lightning, the snow will rise up in the air from the ground - put your hand up.
We stop, and you are a hero. Do you understand?
- Will do, - Mantyai said in a dull and solemn voice. The captain slapped him on
the shoulder.
- I won't leave you cigarettes, prohibition is in force. Well, in a combat situation
this is okay, right, Kesha?
- Right, - said Mantyai in a dull voice. - It will be done, comrade Captain.
- Call me Anatoly Alekseevich. Wait until we start the engine and then resume
movement. Don't forget about screws. Throw it for ten or fifteen meters and watch it.
Mantyai nodded seriously. He didn't understand anything about these screws but
nodded anyway. The mission is the mission. He was excited. They talked to him, they
relied on him. He is the phenomenon. Finally, they see it, morons.
After finishing the motivating rally Captain Alyoshichev nearly made a terrible
mistake: he turned his back to the construction warrior and even took two steps
towards the car, that means almost returned to it, almost came back. He stopped
harshly, took a deep breath, thought a bit and leaned to the roadside, invitingly waving
with his hand to the driver. The “sixty-sixth” started to move, keeping a low speed,

3
“Something was sucking my heart!” is the phrase from the novel “The Master and Margarita“ written by
Mikhail Bulgakov in 1928-1940.

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Alyoshichev waited for it, climbed into the cab on the move. He was so tempted to say:
“Almostwentfuckingback!”, but he held himself back. He took a few breaths of oxygen
from the bottle, tapped his finger on the remote gas alarm console attached to the
front panel, then turned on the microphone and said into it: “Chemists, take
measurements without interruption, do not skive! Over and out.”
The back of the Rybinsk shitbag, who wrecked all his nerves in five minutes, was
swaying ten meters ahead in white mist. Look at that, he doesn't see the fog, thought
Alyoshichev, breathing in the oxygen. Now there is no time to think about this, of
course, but this, of course, is very interesting, unless, of course, you don't go inside,
into the heart, into the field, and sit, for example, at Headquarters, like a general or
Ryzhkov the mourner. Or that bold academic. But what size was that iceberg? Totally
Arthur Conan Doyle, that's right. But someone has to get inside, it's understood... But
where did the corpses go? That's the question of questions. Where are the corpses?
Thousands, dozens of thousands are gone! They died - okay, that happens, a natural
cataclysm, but after all, a half of the population is missing, and everyone who was in the
steppe! And where is at least one corpse?! Abandoned cars - checked, abandoned posts
- checked, a whole stacks of abandoned things, weapons, - but not a single corpse. And
not a single survivor. Only those who managed to get out of the city between the
beginning, these red rings over the landfill, and the end, with this sinister rainbow of
the Lightning over the whole sky...
And this shit with eyes... What is this? One sees the fog, another one doesn't,
some are vomiting all the way, like on a boat, for others a pneumonia heals in a day like
it was with that private soldier, what's the name of this dog... With private Pyosiev1. No,
it's no wonder a day here is counted as three, and the salary is triple. We will all rot in a
year after this... So at least they could allow relocating families to their relatives, away
from here! No, they deployed a hospital camp and check everyone with their polls...
“Chemists, radio control”, - said Alyoshichev into the microphone. The speaker barked, a
distorted boyish voice came out of it: “It's normal, comrade Captain!” “Keep an
observation log! End of connection, continue to monitor.”
“One hundred meters to the turn, there's a booth on the roadside, I know it”, said
the Senior Sergeant. Alyoshichev put the mask aside and leaned against the glass,
peering ahead.
On the right side of the road there was a small stop, indicated by a small striped
booth for a traffic controller. It was empty. The sign of civilization emerged from the
fog. The hell knows why they were stuck along this road and, most importantly, why
they were installed with unequal intervals. The Rybinsk phenomenon stopped at the
booth and looked back. As if he was saying “here's the booth”. Captain held his breath,
opened the window and waved with his hand: go ahead, go ahead, our dear comrade
Kesha, keep moving!
- These geese are fucking insolent! - Said the Senior Sergeant. He would have
burst if he hadn't said anything now, but there was nothing to say, it was possible only

1
The name Pyosiev comes from the word “pyos” (Russian: пёс) which means “a dog”.

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to shake the Universe with some unquestionably corny truth, reached from withing.
Comrade Kesha started walking. The car followed. The booth slowly went by, got
left behind, and as soon as it had disappeared, such a turning point of events “the
booth had disappeared from sight”, suddenly that Something From The Book About
The Devil stopped sucking Captain's heart. Some kind of emptiness formed around his
heart. Like the first minutes after you found out someone close has died. “This goose
had walked over my grave”, thought Alyoshichev, and corrected himself right away:
“The goose had walked over my open grave.” That was an insight and absolutely
accurate. But overdue.
Not making one mistake, Captain Alyoshichev deep inside was ready to make
another. After all, this is not the first time he's been on the mission, he has already
survived four times, and here's the intelligence by itself: all the strange places with
lightning that selectively kill the unlucky in the chain; increased gravity, wiping out the
frontman into a mess; air whirlwinds, ripping people apart; all these invisible places are
necessarily designated by some products of terrestrial civilization. A box of canned
goods. A bunch of broken bricks. A caponier that collapsed a hundred years ago. A
rusty frame of a tractor engine. Or a striped empty booth like this one, introduced by
Charter’s imperative for refined abuse of a soldier-controller, forgotten by all and raging
because of the May heat asphyxiation, of the wet sheet of the autumn breeze, of the
steel winter blizzard, and because of African torturing with summer gnats.
Captain Alyoshichev - in his past life the commander of the group of
transportation and fueling of “the right start” on platform nine - no worse than any
deminer knew what a combat mistake is and how much it costs. He knew that after
crossing the mistake line (the click of the detonator's ignition mechanism, the clap of
the torn valve at the neck of a drainage main valve), you can certainly twitch, and
moreover, you will definitely twitch because hope is the main human autonomic reflex,
but you better spend this split second doing the right thing: to say “Fuck, that's it, this is
the fucking end!”
Alyoshichev twitched.
- Ataev... - he said. But too late. Something From The Book About The Devil no
longer stood on ceremony and furiously pierced his heart with its teeth. For some
reason, Alyoshichev was expecting a terrifying clap of a giant cast-iron frying pan of the
enhanced gravity right down on the cab, that kills immediately, but he even had time to
wonder, that the front wheels hung over the disguised abyss, and he had time to get
horrified. And then the thought of some river suddenly came in his head, preventing
from giving the hopeless orders “stop” and “fullback”, preventing even from swearing.
Because it's deep. Probably, rivers can be very deep, that's why this is the river, and
Alyoshichev has never seen the sea, this is the way his life formed. He wasn't lucky
enough to see the sea. But he was lucky about another thing: the Trouble-Zone, having
an infinite although still immature power, gave him not half a second after the click, but
two.
- That's it, Ataev, we're fucked, - said Alyoshichev instead of other things, the

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useless things, said the truth, and the concrete jumped onto the windshield with the
speed of death. And Ataev, the man with a very quick reaction, was still screaming,
stomping on the pedals, pulling the gear level. But nothing was needed anymore - no
levers to search, no pedal to bother, no screaming: scream or not, they are trapped.
Since it is necessary to express somehow my attitude I will also scream... My protest.
Concrete (with a huge number of cracks filled with frost, and here the footprints of the
Rybinsk phenomenon, flying right into your face, actually we are flying towards them,
as there is an invisible pit in the concrete, although the concrete is pretty solid, with the
superficial cracks and lots of garbage. It's always like this: even if you lie on the cleanest
floor, there is always a lot of garbage) burst into the cabin without breaking the glass
and both Alyoshichev and Ataev scrunched up in the seats in anticipation of the impact,
as it was like a cliff into the abyss, even weightlessness splashed with cold in the groin,
and that's it, darkness, the pit, no, we are still falling; water?! Not water, but it's
impossible to breathe, we're drowning, drowning, we're drowning in the ground, we are
being buried alive, we are all buried alive, mother, mother, mothe-e-er!
A many-voiced terrible screech burst out behind Mantyai's back.
Mantyai jumped upright, his feet twisted, and he fell. The grunt of the “sixty-sixth”
engine broke off, but the yelping, howling and cries of a few (five?) throats was
intensifying, again and again, gaining power and horror, and breathing - from
somewhere. How is it possible to scream for so long?
Mantyai jumped on all fours and turned around to the left in the same position.
The visibility was still perfect, everything could be seen as it was. But something was
happening and had already happened with the car, although Mantyai could never
understand what was happening-happened neither right now, nor ever later.
Something like a pyramid, one meter tall, was sticking out of concrete (where the
car was supposed to be - or to go). This is one thing. But this wasn't a pyramid, it was a
part of the side, the roof, and the back wall of the KUNG trailer. As if the car had fallen
into (the concrete) the water (the concrete), leaving just its small piece on the surface, a
little triangle of itself. This is one thing.
Both could be seen at the same time, as if, for example, you blink or rub your
eyes, or even sneeze, - the pyramid was still there and the whole car as welll appeared
above it; and this car was on the go, however not moving as if executing an appropriate
statutory order “Mark time, drive, march!”, and the lights were on properly... And then,
if you turn your head slightly - there is no car again, it vanished, and only a piece of it
sticks out on the concrete surface, whitewashed with frost. This is another thing.
And if you blink again - again the whole car is back on the spot. And then just its
back piece again. And - one, and - two. And one. And two. One-two, one-two.
- My-my-mam-ma-ma.
As if they have fallen through the ice... As if someone has hit in the streptococcal
ecthyma with his finger... (Mantyai didn't know such words, but will remember
streptoderma all the rest of his life, pierced the hole in his neck for the whole finger
phalanx.) As if they walked onto the open manhole in the night...

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 Why are they shouting so much, why are they still screaming, they are buried...
filled up... They had fallen underground...
- My god, - repeated Mantyai. An apparition of sleepy, hot, fragrant Tamara,
opening the door in just a nightgown in the early morning, appeared in front of him, he
chased the apparition away waving a one-fingered mitten in front of his face. But I'm
alone, I can't take them out. The KUNG's tail side is solid, they are already under the
ground, the car collapsed as under the ice, and the edges immediately dragged on...
How come they are screaming. Why? And I'm alive.
And how didn't I notice this pit, I just went right through it?! Because I'm a
phenomenon.
He wasn't going to approach the car, n-no. It was scary to even get up on his feet.
When you are on thin ice, you must always crawl... Every citizen of Rybinsk knows it. I
wonder where my skates are? How long haven’t I thought of them, a hundred years,
five years? It's three minutes walk from Korablestroitelei street to the Volga river, we
used to run there with our skates on already. And if you rushed onto thin ice you must
immediately lie down, that's it. Damn, the whole car is visible again, and the wheels are
spinning on the same place. One-two, one-two... Maybe he is seeing double? Oh yeah,
this is that gas! If the gas is heavy it spreads on the ground, I lay down and breathed it
in. And hallucinations as the result. Damn boy! How phenomenally I've cracked it! They
are screaming so bad... I'm not able to help them, I'm already sick because of the gas.
The gas mask.
Mantyai pulled a bulky rifle off his neck and threw it out of the way, it was
messing with his arms, then began ripping the valve of the gas bag on his side. He
stood on his knees, off with the mittens, tried to pull on the helmet-mask right over his
hat, he took off the hat, hurt his nose, but finally pulled the mask on. His whole
forehead was shoved, squeezed, and he started breathing to ventilate and get carbon
monoxide out of his chest and his head. He was protecting himself. And it seemed that
his head really became more clear, the car was no longer jumping out, was no longer
drowning and driving on the spot at the same time.
It had drowned. The pyramid. The gravestone.
But people were screaming. Mantyai even singled out the Captain's voice, who
had just talked to him, fifteen minutes ago, so good, so humanely. The non-Russian
senior sergeant was squealing as if he was cut, like an animal. And the Captain was
screaming, drawn-out, not with words, but it was the voice, not a squeal. The kind
Captain, who had drowned in the damp earth on concrete road, was screaming
humanly. From the gravestone-pyramid.
As if these two voices were remote. And the volunteers and chemists were
screaming in the trailer, closer, but not so loud. Like they were crying from under the
ground. The screams from the cab were intense, sharp, and the screams from the
KUNG were the background.
Here Mantyai realized that nobody, even the General, can't force him to drag
them out. All around and under the car (one-two again, the gas mask doesn't help, one-

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two, one-two) there was death, failure, a trap, a permanent ulcer. No orders, no
personal heroism, no ropes would help, especially since there are no ropes.
Exactly. There is no rope, so it's impossible to approach. I’ve got to get out of here, I
mean, to report. To come back and report. To tell about it. It was ordered to survive. To
bring important information. To warn. About the kind of shit we have here. What did
the General say yesterday at the meeting? The unknown nature of the phenomenon.
Here's what kind of shit of unknown nature that happened with the chemical
reconnaissance group. The only combat constructor, a phenomenon, volunteer
Mantyaev has survived and came back with important knowledge. Feed Mantyaev and
let him go home, the proposal made by the command. Accept the proposal.
The main thing is that he hadn't fired from the rifle, that means he's not guilty.
More or less Mantyai got hold of himself, almost fell on the turn to the workshops
and other buildings of the “deuce”. The roadsides were pretty rough, so he had to
stumble. And when he stumbled so badly that he miraculously escaped the fall, he
stopped and clearly thought: it's time to eat. Because it's getting cold, an in general, I’m
running where my feet take me, but I have to be going back somehow, to people, and
not opposite direction.
He wolfed down half his bag at once, in a few minutes. Tore the plastic, foil, and
cellophane with his teeth. Broke the tooth, not paying attention, the construction
battalion had pulled up his pain threshold right to the Pleiades. He gorged all these soft
juicy biscuits, chewed on pieces of pasta sheets with meat inbetween, squeezing
peanut butter from the pack into the mouth, sucking jam out of the tube, chewing at
once five different chewing gum at the top of all this. He did not have a flask, for some
reason flasks were forbidden. He wanted to drink. Mantyai scraped the snow, made a
snowball, ate it. And calmed down. And calmed down.
He did not hear the screams, or rather, filtered them out. There are no screams,
no one is screaming. Silence. It is always silence after the battle, like in that song.
Everyone has died, he survived. Miraculously survived, no need to brag. Lord’s mercy, as
his grandmother once lamented over him. Fuck it, this phenomenality. It was just luck.
And now he is gaining energy for the return with the report. The clothes are warm, the
boots are warm, the day is clear, and it isn’t the Arctic around, just Astrakhan region,
we'll reach somewhere in the evening. We don't see the hump on the road, we don't
hear the screams, we still remember the Captain's name, but not the rest. And this is
good, that's it.
He remembered the map. He left a whole lot of litter around and with all this
garbage in the background he remembered the map that late Captain Alyoshichev had
been twisting in front of him. It was as if it was flying over the garbage; he could clearly
visualize concrete road, straight as an arrow, marked by Captain's red pencil, and an
indentation of the nail, that was indicating this turn, Mantyai saw as if it was real, still
warm. Together with scraps of memories from the yesterday's speech of the General,
coupled with today's vague personal feelings after riding in the KUNG, and yet not
bothering his brain with azimuths, sides of the world and another geography from the

119
fifth grade, Mantyai managed to correctly define the direction “home”: Straight through
the steppe exactly in the middle between the straight line of concrete road and the the
Old Deuce buildings.
(The Captain's Alyoshichev group drove into the Zone from the Astrakhan side.)
There, beyond the horizon, in twenty or thirty kilometers away, on the edge of the
village Otlogoe Zaimishche, was an outpost, the border of Trouble, where everyone is
either sick or farting, and the unlucky kick the bucket rightaway.
On the watch, gifted by Captain, both big hands touched the Roman numeral XII
above, that meant Mantyai had at least four hours of light time to go.
So he started walking. He fled from the embankment to the steppe and very
strenuously strode along it. It was easy to walk. He had a great mood, and he was not
thinking about anything abstract. He was full and warm.
He did not think of anything abstract, only about walking, about bumps, about
snowdrifts, about snow-covered potholes, about the frost penetrating under very short
mittens, about the wire sticking out of the snow over there, about a piece of some
electronic junk sticking out here. He did not think about the dead and did not think
about the dangers, did not think about the locals of the abnormal intensities that
bravely popped up on his way. He simply bypassed them, as if he could see them like he
saw that wire, those bumps, those pieces of electronics. He carelessly bypassed: three
“procrustes”, one “kudyrga”, one “eraser” and two “bad lucks”. He passed straight
through: the “china”, the “overstrip”, the “mother-and-mother-in-law”, “No. 20”, the
impassable “Rubik's cube” and the “piss-mess” also known as the “road queen”. He
didn't remember at all about the nuts and screws which were issued in the amount of
thirty pieces per receipt. There is a desire to write “wow”.
And he never got off the intended course. By five in the evening, when the sun
was already setting, he had covered almost twelve kilometers along the snow-covered
steppe, having traveled more than halfway.
Without paying attention, he passed also terrestrial objects: three military and
two civilian “points” - hostels. One was abandoned and another one was quite intact. He
passed both without noticing it, over the shaft of some ancient shooting range.
At four forty-five he descended to the ancient tract Mus'kino, where he
immediately hit the wall of the “rapidball” that radiated from within with the summer
sun and eternal love, breaking through the “mirror” hanging here. Later - the most
famous out of the seven known to mankind. (There are eleven of them in general.)
The things that happened to him here are still unknown. Although it's pretty easy
to guess. He spent several hours next to the “rapidball”. He tried to break into it,
shouted and begged to let him in. He banged on the warm soft shell of the “rapidball”
with the butt of machine gun, he tried to cut it with a can knife. Tried to screw the
ramrod into the shell, at least to make a hole. If he’d had a shovel he would have tried
to dig under the “rapidball”. He would have tried to cut the window, at least the size of a
cat's head, however he did not have a shovel or magic jars with inscriptions.
He did not succeed. The machine gun jumped off, the can-opener was stupid, the

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ramrod penetrated into the “rapidball” full length, but got squeezed back as soon as he
eased the pressure. He went round the “rapidball” a hundred times, trampled down sort
of a muddy round path in the frozen earth. It would have been better if he immediately
passed the gig ignoring the contents like he did earlier with an abandoned hostel.
There is a completely tangible opinion that he would have managed to get out alive
from his first mission, and there is a very good possibility that he would be allowed to
go home. Because Yazov's special order was not a myth, several dozen volunteers were
actually discharged early, in the first year of the Trouble... Mantyai, Kesha Mantyaev,
eighteen years and three months old, eight years of school, a half-educated railway
technician in the rolling stock depot at a local concrete plant, who never learned to
drive a crutch into a sleeper neither in two strikes nor in ten; a pathetic man from
Rybinsk's industrial area had not just a good or excellent flair for the Zone. He was a
phenomenon, an unique. Captain Alyoshichev never in his life was as right as he
guessed with Mantyai. Ninety percent of the mysterious mechanisms of unknown kind
of the Zone, the Mother-Trouble, still wild, unstable mechanisms, identified Kesha
Mantyaev as a friend, letting him pass through them, propelling him, indulging and
even healing him. The rest ten percent, impassable, deadly, designated themselves for
him especially, clearly showing their boundaries, frightened from afar, did not allow to
cross the last line.
At the different times of the Zone, there were only six people with the same
psychophysics living on the planet, although five of them have never got into the Zone,
simply living far away; and three out of these five haven't even heard about the Zone at
all.
Nobody had known about his genius, not even him.
In the evening, when the snowstorm began, and the piercing starry sky of the
first real Soviet cosmodrome overcast with an icy mist, Mantyai, taking the aim very
carefully, made a shot from his machine gun right into the heart of the shining world
inside the “rapidball”. Feeling his way from the north, he wandered out of the tract,
covering from the snow with his bare hands and, having swung into a deep rut made by
the launcher that went through the mud a few years ago, he broke his left heel and
ankle to smithereens.
About midnight, never regaining consciousness, he froze to death in this ditch.
After some time, the Mother-Trouble detected his rifle, marked it and installed a
“wheel” gitik on its base. The “wheel” is an easy visually detectable gitik, and trackers,
who go up into the Zone's centers from the Astrakhan side or (later) who go down to
these centers from Kazakh side, always plan their route bypassing “Mantyai's wheel”.
However, nobody called it “Mantyai's wheel”, of course, because nobody knew the
circumstances.
And the “rapidball” and, more notably, Mantyai's shot, had been ringing in the
Zone for the very long time after this. Actually, forever.

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 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “Lubimov-1”
A fragment, voice recording

- “Shakspeare's rapidball”! Of course. It's like a shrine for trackers. And it was open to
public for a long time. From Astrakhan and from Bezhensk alike. Have you seen the window
sketches?
- Unfortunately no.
- And I can see why. Trackers don't like to show them. Although there are a lot, I
personally saw three very good ones. For this, you need special relationships.
- Fill me in, please.
- Please. Well, there is such a place thirty earthly kilometers from Kapustin, in the
direction of the Kazashsky corner.
- The Kazakh.
- Kazashsky. Don't confuse, Simeon, nobody would beat you up for this but nobody
would respect you either. This area has now spread, after nineteen ninety-four a few traps
sprawled there over several hundred kilometers each, but even now it is possible to get to
“Shakespeare”, if you really want to. So, the “rapidball”. Imagine, you've poured the water
into a condom and laid it on the ground. Now, you have this hefty round cake like a head of
cheese. The size of... Well, of a circus arena, give or take. The mature “rapidball” is covered in
gitiks all over, so you can approach close enough just from one side. For today we know four
“rapidballs”, this is the common rule, but not for “Shakespeare”. “Shakespeare“”is an untied
gitik. There is the “Black rapidball”, right on the “Old Deuce” square; there is the “Empty
rapidball” a little short of Ahryomino, and the “Elbrus” right next to Alton. A very beautiful
one.
- But we are taking about “Shakespeare”.
- About “Shakespeare” indeed. I compare it with a condom on purpose. The shell is
soft, can be pressed with the finger, but you take the finger off and there is not a trace left.
There is a piece of Heaven inside the “Shakspeare”. Seriously. A piece of Heaven. An
extentional part of some water body, either a pond or a small lake, or maybe a river creek,
this is unclear from behind the trees. There is also a beach next to this reservoir. And two
people on it.
- Real people?
- Just listen. A young man and a young girl. I swear by God, Semyon, I cannot say
anything about them other than this: exactly a young man and a young girl. They are pure,
uncorrupted, fresh, beautiful, in love - the only way you can describe them. Even the most
stupid tracker will not speak differently about them unless he looks up in the dictionary.
There are two common tracks through the “Shakespeare” now: “Otlogoe - The Concrete” and
“The Corner - The Old Deuce - The Airfield”, the rest are out. And concerning both, the
“rapidball“”is located so that these guys inside ca be seen only from one point. Somewhat
from the hillside, the beach seems to be below you, you see the guys from their back, from an

122
arc of just a meter to four meters. And they are motionless, like a three-dimensional
photograph. The Trouble always knows which moment to choose to pull a trigger, you know.
And, if we continue the analogy, here it pulled a camera shutter. Forgive me this bit of poetry,
okay? And forgive me my stupid smile, I am human too, after all. But this is very beautiful.
You know, there, in this condom, everything is filled with such light, such love, such Heaven...
There is a kingdom, prosperity, the radiance of a hot, blinding, serene... noon. Under the
shade of trees. So, this young man is sitting on the fluffy, soft emerald grass in front of a
sand strip of the beach... Undressing. There is a T-shirt on his head with some inscription and
a number, so he's like taking it off. He's wearing red swimming trunks. The inflatable
mattress, not inflated, just spread out, is lying next to him and... damn, a yellow wicker
basket, which seems to be made of honey, is standing near. And a bottle’s neck is sticking out
of the basket, from under the lid. Very sweet. The basket is square, not like ours. And a small
red Swiss knife with an open corkscrew on the mattress. You can see everything there, it’s just
five or six meters between the wall of the “rapidball” and the guy...
- And the girl?
- Pardon? And the girl, trackers called her Juliet, is going into the water.
- And what?
- And that's it, Shugpshuits! Ask your Bartender to show you the “windowgraph”.
- But the bullet is here...
- Don't interrupt then. Don’t you see I'm looking for words, it's difficult to describe
without obscenity. You see, the Mother-Trouble caught the girl at such moment, where her
pose is very... elegant. Damn. This stays for centuries as... as fucking true purity and
innocence themselves! And we, the men, are especially touched by her little hands. The wrists
pressed against the hips so cute, with the palms set aside. And the fingers also set apart.
There is a ring on her left little finger, must be silver. She literally went two steps into the
pond but it seems to be deep there as the water is more that knee-deep already. And here it
clicked... Light-brown silky shiny hair, right down to her booty, and on the bottom she has
such lovely, not bathing but lacy pink panties with an arched inscription. A “Lucky Friday”,
ah, dear me!
- Oh.
- And there are no more clothes on her. Nothing. At all. And such a... such trust is in
her, such a... ah! She's about fourteen and the boy isn't much older. The sun is above the
beach at the zenith and there is not a single shadow; everything is sparkling - Juliet, and
water, and grass, and sand, and the wire on the neck of the bottle, and there is no feeling of
our stiffling heat... and there are no mosquitoes, you can actually feel it! Above all that
something like paradise harps are playing. “What A Wonderful World”, damn it. And
dragonflies here and there sparkling dark blue and gold. And not a single cloud in the sky,
you got it? Although there is one, in fact. There is a small exotic bush with flowers next to the
guy on the other side, also ethereal, emerald, and the cloud is above it. White, snow-white
dress. Made of chintz, I guess.
- Oh.
- You know, Semyon, it happens that the trackers are sitting near “Shakespeare” for

123
hours. Do you understand? They are not looking at her. Not staring. Not snatching a session.
They are taking it in. Sometimes they go there on purpose. There and back. Do you get it?
- Oh, it seems that now I do understand. I mean it... And the bullet?
Not just a bullet. It has a name. A Faggot's bullet. They say Grinya Platonikhin was the
first who had noticed it. Trackers at first thought it was him who’d fired it, and that he should
pay for it, but somehow he... proved that it wasn't him, that even he is incapable of doing
such an ugly thing... And, considering the depth of the shot, it is unlikely it was him who
discovered “Shakespeare” and had been hiding it for two-three years. After all, he never goes
into the Zone alone... Yeah, this is probably exactly how he had explained it, it has just
occurred to me.
- Considering the depth of the shot?
- Well, yeah, I can't say this a different way. Some sick piece of shit shot Juliet right in
the head. It's easy as ABC to determine the place where the shot was fired. I told you, at that
viewing platform we have only a few steps both ways close to the shell, no matter how you
walk around. As the “Shakespeare” turns together with you. when several people walked
there at once, some got so dizzy they had a heart attack... So, the bullet hit the “rapidball”
and it's still flying. Like that pilot, Antipov1. And the bullet isn't typical for the Zone, a “five”,
five forty-five. This bullet is ancient, made not later than nineteen eighty-nine... All the
community was looking for this moron and always will. You know, nobody compromised
himself right after this happened, neither when drunk nor accidentally, being stupid. And
then, later, nobody would confess when the rumor started going round. Most likely, it is
probable that Mother-Trouble itself got this son of a bitch shortly after his joke, after he shot
our Juliette in the head... The Trouble claimed him and even Death forgot his name as we, the
troublers, say here. But the bullet, the bullet got a name.
- This one.
- Yes. This one... And since then every walker, passing by the “Shakespeare”, considers
as a duty to fire a shot at the Bullet so as to knock it down. So when and if, sometime,
elsewhere, in some worlds or times the “rapidball” bursts. There are about one hundred and
fifty bullets for today hanging on the left. The shooting is possible only on the left side, so as
not to hurt either Juliet or her boyfriend. They shoot not straight at the bullet, of course, but
with deflexion. The guy will definitely turn deaf when the Trouble says “Wake up!”, but what
can we do? More than one shot per person is not accepted anymore, there is already a
crowd, a line had formed... And the view is ruined, but, Semyon, on this side of the glass, not
even the dirtiest and stubborn smuggler can think of passing by and not trying to save this
beauty. Do you understand? Shrine, a real shrine. And it's a very... such... a truly Zone thing.
With love, shooting and trying to escape death.
And this is good, Semyon, that you resisted and didn't say a word about “Lolita“”or
pedophilia... So keep fighting it. They won't just punch you on the face, they'll break your
bones. I mean it.
- I'll take it into consideration.

1
Antipov, Mikhail Nikolaevich, 21 November 1923 - 1 June 1947, was the Soviet pilot, a hero of the Second
World war (The great Patriotic war).

124
- And look at the “windowgraph”, find it. And then you won't have to fight it anymore.

125
 CHAPTER 7

FUNNY

He couldn't believe how quickly everything happened; his mouth was still burning
after a morning pizza in “Volzhanochka”, and everyone who he shared it with were
already dead, and now, it seemed, it was his turn to die. For him, there was not a single
face around that was touched by the slightest sign of hope. Calm, indifferent faces.
Businesslike, unhurried words. Real, vital, serious problems. “Nikolaich, you better
cover your bits, it's scary to see...” “As if you've never seen it.” “I saw it once and that was
enough.” “Fenimore, how shall we clean up the 'seventy-seven'?” “You'll stay here and
watch out so, the Lord forbid, nobody finds it. It will discharge itself by the evening.”
Nobody spoke about him at all, walking by, quietly stepping over him, talking,
jokingly shipping a folding table into the boot of their orange “heel”1, folding and
stacking up chairs; a shortarse guy was putting plates by one in a cardboard box, gently
scraping from them the food remnants in a special bucket... Then one of them,
Fenimore, a tall fellow with slanting shoulders, wearing hippie long hair, jeans and a T-
shirt with robots from the “Star Wars”, demanded the dead man to free the chair. The
dead man, whom they all called “Nikolaich”, was still sitting, frowning in the sun, his
waistcoat hung on the back of the chair, and the dead man didn't even think to fix his
dashingly ripped shirt; and it was impossible to let the terrible holes in his chest out of
sight, as if something was moving in semi-dark of these holes, something reddish,
slimy, as if his dead internal organs were still trying to function. And once Funny
thought he saw how a ray of light had penetrated right through... “If you vomit now,
brother”, thought Funny, “you are not simply dead, dude, you're up for the most
disgraceful end. You'll choke in your vomit. Lived sinfully and died ridiculously2. Who
told the story? Chuka? No, the Brave one. The story about a crime lord, who traveled in
a sleeping compartment, kept sending the train conductor for food and vodka all night
and in the early morning gave him a thousand dollars and ordered to bring a bucket of
water. Closed the door and drowned himself in this bucket, stood on all fours and
submerged his head in water. And on the table, right on the tablecloth, he left a note
written in tomato sausage: like, lived sinfully and died ridiculously. Whether a man was
going to go on trial, after he fucked up, or he got confused, lost the meaning of life...”
And what was the point in seven people driving here to get these non-humans
under our heel, tell me, Swan, you an old and authoritative asshole? And you, Chuka?
These ones - under our heel? It was clear in advance that they are higher than any
power when cops, officials, and the military, all said in simple language: it's your

1
IZH-2715 is a Soviet and Russian passenger car with a body type van, pickup (designed for two to six
passengers in various versions). Produced at the Izhevsk automobile plant in the years 1972-2001. The car's body
reminds a heel by its form.
2
A phrase, whose author apparently is Barkov, Ivan Semenovich (1732-1768), a student of Mikhail
Lomonosov, a Russian poet, an author of “Shameful odes”.

126
business, we’ll have nothing to do with it. So we came here, bitch. Gave a tour. Once
showed up you can’t unshow. Lived sinfully, died terribly. That guy died in a bucket, at
least, and you, Chuka? And you died in a coffee cup.
- The kitchen set is broken, - said the shortarse runt discontentedly, resting hands
on the hips and looking down somewhere from the other side of cosmic square glasses
as it seemed to Funny. - It was the most beautiful kitchen set. Twelve cups. Eleven now.
- Ten, Zheka, - said the dead man, yawned as if he was alive and rose to the feet,
grunting. - I've dropped mine. It's broken. Please don’t yell at me.
- How can I not yell?! - asked the runt, but, however, didn't start to yell. He spat
very humanly and disappeared somewhere from Funny’s sight. A door slammed, the
“heel“ started off and left, leaving a chair.
The tissue, gagging his mouth, got soaked with peppery saliva; the corners of his
lips, that had been wiped till bleeding, were burning; back of his head hurt because of
the knot, tied on the tissue behind and which he was lying on. Death was tightening the
grip. The bastards cleaned up and there was just one thing left - to finish him. Funny
couldn’t feel his arms, his back could feel them, but his arms were numb, as if he had
none at all. Stinking pricks, you raised your hand on the gang, then you better kill me
now. Because if not, then you will pray and crawl at our feet. As far as he understood,
approximately this should be beating in his temples with madly fervent and cheerful
blood pumps, but somehow it wasn't beating. And there was no enthusiasm at all. It
was terrible, and a hope that they will now untie or talk to him or that his negotiation
skills, recognised even by idiot Chuka, who died twenty minutes ago, will save him, was
rapidly dying...
He didn’t even get beaten up and this instilled completely hopeless hysterical
horror. They could have kicked him under the ribs at least once when they walked by.
No, they stepped over, did not touch. I don't want to, I don't want to, please don't kill.
That's it, enough, I'm not playing anymore. I must go home. I haven't called mum for
two weeks”, thought Funny. Have been solving the issues, on pursuit of personal
growth, checking out prospects.
Finally, his eyes filled with tears, and it was very untimely: exactly that moment
they approached him, grabbed his shoulders and neck, and put him on his feet in one
powerful jerk. Funny blinked the tears away, but it was already wet under his mouth,
and there was no pride at all, not even for show, and his feet were weak
- Let's go. - Said hairy Fenimore over his ear. - It's time. Are you seriously crying,
tourist?
- These are the tears of rage, Vadik, - said the dead man in didactic tone. - The
tears of helpless rage.
- Nikolaich, don't be ridiculous, - said the hairy. - This is over the top.
Dead man didn't argue and the hairy guy did an amazing thing: he wiped Funny's
face with his handkerchief, pinched hard behind Funny's ear, and then pulled
something and the tissue loosened. Funny spat it out and coughed.
- Don't you scream, - warned Fenimore. - Or I will stuff your mouth with dirt. So,

127
Nikolaich, are you going home?
- Well yeah, we have somehow resolved everything, - said the dead man, looking
at Funny.
- Are you staying with us or going to the city?
- To our place, Nikolaich, to us, - said Fenimore. - Andrew , the main thing, wait
until “seventy-seven” will let all the heat out, you understand?
Dead man’s third warrior, who did not leave with the runt, a guy in shorts called
Andrew (who also played a prominent role in the negotiations, which Chuka, the
deceased idiot, chose as the reason for starting the attack “who the hell are your
people, came to talk to me in pants, I put the tie on and you put forward the pioneers,
what's that, you old deer”) muttered: “I'll wait, I'll wait, I'm not a kid.”
- I'm serious, Andrew. Who knows, maybe a patrol or strays will notice the cup, a
cone, and will be coming to take a look.
- Listen to the military expert, pioneer! - said the dead man.
- Nikolaich, you cunt! - said the shorts-wearer absolutely freely. - You'd better
throw your chair at me, so that I don't do anything wrong.
The dead man laughed, put on his waistcoat, swung the chair by its back on his
fingers and threw it. Andrew, the shorts-wearer, caught it, immediately sat on it with his
shorts (in the middle of the steppe) and lit a cigarette.
- Well, well, walker, by the way, from this moment you are a Pioneer, - said
Fenimore behind Funny's back. It looked like he was doing something with Funny's
hands there.
- We'll see, - said the shorts-wearer, crossing his legs. - There was the time when I
could shoot well.
- If you only knew how sick I am of your Strugatsky! - Said Fenimore right into
Funny's ear. - That's it, Volga gangster. Forward!
And pushed him in his back. Funny kept the balance, making a few steps forward,
and suddenly saw a deadly cup right in front of himself. The cup lay on its side, handle
upwards and there were no marks on it, no blood, nothing like that, but a cone of
vibrating soil spread out from its funnel, grass with wormwood bushes reached out to
it, lay in this cone with their tops to the cup, trembling to one rhythm with the vibrating
soil like algae on water's surface. Funny threw forward his legs, rested against, was
picked up from behind and Funny grunted, forgetting that the gag was no longer in his
mouth.
No one laughed, although Funny expected a flash of cheer. When guys, taking
part in campaigns, talked about huckster's or strangers' last minutes in front of pits in
forest battalions, there was usually laughter, most likely a nervous one... although the
Brave one laughed sincerely, and he could leave you in stitches describing the details...
so yes, these non-humans could laugh at Serge Kaverin's dying spasms, and if he’d also
wet his pants (and he could wet his pants), then it would’ve been hilarious...
But the non-humans weren’t laughing.
- What happened, gangster? - Fenimore asked irritably and gave Funny a hearty

128
kick to his nape, which he almost did not feel. - Ah! I got it. The cup. No, you're not
going to into a cup. Too late. It shouldn’t eat any more today as it will get wild, dig a pit
in here and we’ll have to deal with it - a week of transporting sand in dump trucks.
Funny did not understand anything, he only realized that he won't be stuck in the
infernal cup after his gangs. He let his body go limp so Fenimore had to drag him by his
armpit, for miles all the way round the quagmire triangle, the deadly triangle shadow
on the surface of the Volga region steppe. He was dragged on and on, and then the
dead man began walking next to them, but suddenly something else happened.
Something similar to the cup, the same terrible, but not quite hopeless, not fatal. Not
killing yet. And Fenimore immediately dropped him and left him alone for some reason.
Funny fell on his knees.
- How about betting, Vadik? - asked the dead man above him.
- Nikolaich, don't play Sylvester, okay? - Fenimore answered in the same place, in
the height. - It's already disgusting.
- Okay, okay... I'm still cannot decide what we are supposed to do with their cars.
They attract attention.
- Well, as for the “Mercedes” we should take it into Zone to get rid of it, and as for
“Zhiguli” - why would it draw attention? Regular “Zhiguli”, fit to ride around the Pre-
Zone. Not bad at all.
- Fish people will get you with their questions. Since these were cleared to pass
through Tzaryov.
- They are outstanding bitches, by the way. I bet they gave more than just one
payola, given-accepted. They certainly have their fellows there, regulars.
The dead man sighed. Funny clearly heard something slosh in the sound of this
sigh, that air passed some parts which are not intended for this. The dead man sighed
through the holes in his chest. The impression it made on Funny was terrible, like after
“Evil Dead” when he would jump up at cats in the bushes in the middle of his own yard.
And this impression almost outshadowed the rage: they were talking about his beloved
car, about the beige “Seven”. They spoke like it was theirs, bastards.
- Give me time, Vadim, give me time. I'll identify them all and pay back everything
they deserved. But the main thing is to discourage stupid tourists from the Earth.
- Well, you may say we’ve done it, - said Fenimore. - How long can things be this
way? The bastards have simply sent these here for slaughtering.
At this point, something tried to rise in Funny’s soul. Some outrageuosly brave,
unbroken nerve jumped up and courageously shouted: “And here you have mistaken,
stinking frier1! You will be crying, crawling at our feet!..”
But this brave last nerve didn't come out. It stayed inside, locked in the soul. The
non-humans spoke too freely for Funny to hope to survive today. Only three hours had
passed since he ate this pizza! For the last time. He went to the toilet in “Volzhanochka”
for the last time either. And I see this grass for the last time. And this rusty lid in the

1
A word from criminal jargon, which has passed into the common jargon, the main meaning of which is a
person who is a stranger in a criminal environment.

129
grass. I wonder it is a lemonade or beer bottle?
They are going to kill me now. Not a perfect time to think about the car. Even if
you went all the way to Uzbekistan to pick it up, lost so many nerve cells and money on
that road. And leather seat cases?! And a racing wheel?!
- You know, Nikolaich, everything is right, - said Fenimore. - This is my earthly
traits. The earthly greed. Got to get rid of the cars.
- You're growing up, Vadim. Any suggestions?
- You go back to the “Pipes”, catch Magadanchik and make him and his eagles
drive all the cars into the Zone.
- There you are. And where to exactly, what would you advise, Vadik? It's been a
long time I have not...
- They should go along the edge of the “neutral” up to Tunin, to the Earth side of
the Middle side stream.
- Yeah.
- Then they walk by the side stream, through the top, along the right bank,
passing the “neutral” right until the Zone. The border there is marked and I'm one
hundred percent sure there are no troublers or fishermen now: the swamp in the
stream has stagnated from Zone to Earth. It's impassable. The magadans shall take gas
masks. And make it perfectly clear, that they mustn't drive inside the Zone in those cars.
They should push the cars off the cliff.
Bastards, the fascists.
- Yeah. I'll explain that. Anything else?
- And push them exactly into the swamp, Nikolaich, don't leave it on the path. I'll
force them to clove the track if they block it.
- That's right, no, sir, glad to serve.
- And forbid to search the cars. If we are done them, then everything should be
finished...
- Permit to run?
- Why are you frowning, Nikolaich? I'm talking business.
- You can teach me about the routes, Vadik, - said the dead man, - I won't say a
word, more than that, I'll ask you myself. But don't tell me about cleaning up, you pale
goose. Get a haircut first.
Fenimore chuckled loudly. And Funny immediately felt he was grabbed by his
hazmat suit and pulled up on his feet.
He straightened up, raised his head and saw the dead man right next to him. The
dead man was looking past Funny very naturally and unrestrained, although his focus
was nearby in the air, literally in a centimeter, and Funny thought that if he could just ...
He wouldn’t get a chance. My car goes into the swamp, and me - under the lawn. Ah
hell, what lawn for Cod sake?? It's much more fun to lie on chemical waste, on a dump
than here...
- Well, then I'll go, - said the dead man. - They also should deliver pasta today.
Look, Vadik, this magacitl isn’t even sick or shaky. It is about time now. But you rule.

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And be careful.
And the dead man walked away. Just turned away and walked along the steppe,
like alive, as a normal person, went towards the outskirts of a cursed banned city. To
receive pasta.
Hairy Fenimore sent Funny to the left of the city with a poke of the palm from
behind. Into the steppe. There, where this incomprehensible Zone is. Security, barbed
wire, abandoned city and settlements. “There he's going bury me. Or will he just leave
me there? If only my hands were untied. He is unarmed, none of them were. I should
have taken a violin1. And what for? Did the violins help Chuka, the Brave one, Makar,
Tub, Gaes or Crym?”
- If you feel unwell, any pain, you tell me, - suddenly said hairy from behind,
addressing obviously to him. Funny couldn’t think what to say to this, so he didn't reply
at all. He was walking to meet his death, moving his legs. He didn’t hesitate, was
moving steadily. His German shoes no longer shone, they were covered in dust and
scratches as it hasn’t rained here for a long time. And in Volzgsky it has rained the other
day. Last week or what? There are three new videotapes at home. I'll never see the third
“Lethal Weapon”, even “Les textiles”. I'm too young for this shit, for death. At least the
guys died quickly.” Funny stumbled, stepped on his pants. “The main thing, if I now tear
my pants, it's no longer scary. It's already what-fucking-ever.”
He suddenly found a reason.
- Listen... what is your name... I want to say something, - he said back.
Hairy Fenimore didn't answer. And by the way, Funny didn't hear his steps at all.
As if he was escorted to death by a ghost. They did about half a kilometer, the dead
man had already disappeared from view, and the silhouette of the city was bathing and
languishing on the right hand side in the summer haze.
- If you want the gang to leave you alone, you’ve got to make known the things
you do to us here, - Funny said chaotically. - We are done with, but others will come. So I
can get the message across. Like, do not mess with them. Tell everyone about the cup.
You don't need to clash, you need to negotiate.
The hairy man was silent.
- Then why didn't you kill me along with others?! - shouted Funny, ripping his
throat out. Losing his face and realizing it.
- Don't stop, - calmly said Fenimore somewhere behind. “Somewhere behind” -
Funny couldn't figure out where and how far hairy was by the sound of that voice as his
ears were blocked from his own screaming.
Of course, Funny stopped. And turned around. And scowled. That's all, enough.
The boy lost, the boy dies.
- Or what? - he asked into the void. He went stiff. He was all alone in the middle of
the steppe. There was no hairy guard behind. Only the sun and light breeze.
He had to run that way: back. To Volzhsky. He rushed off and got a stone kick in
his stomach on second step. Funny fell on his ass. Now, this is the very end of his pants.

1
In criminal jargon a “violin“ means a pistol and other firearms.

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For some reason, there was no pain, he was just knocked down.
- Never turn back, - said Fenimore, pulled together from some air flaps over him. -
This is the law.
- Kill me, you piece of shit, - replied Funny, writhing, pulling his knees to his
stomach. - We came to the point, that's it. Cut or shoot me here, what have you up to,
faggot?
- Hey you, a Hollywood gangster, a pioneer hero. Haven't you realized yet that
nobody is going to kill you?
It was impossible to down a hefty, dry woolen tangle in his throat.
- In fact, I don't feel like explaining anything to you, - continued Fenimore, - and I
still have a lot of things to do today. Shortly, I'll bring you to one place and let you go.
We're almost there.
- Explain to me, - asked Funny. - I'm a thug, okay. I realize that you have beat us.
There's nothing to argue here. We ganged up on you, you've beaten the shit out of us. I
admit. If you had led me here to kill, I would understand. But be a human... After this
cup, after your dude with those holes... Is he really dead?
Fenimore stood on his knee next to Funny.
- I'll give you some water, - he said. - Do not move.
From a fancy small bag, which hung high under his hand, he took out a beautiful
glass bottle of “Evian”, unscrewed the lid and let Funny drink, putting the hand under
his temple. Then drank himself. Funny was waiting. If I get out and go back home, - we
will return here with hundred cars and grenade launchers, he thought. Or I'll tell
everyone to go to hell, go back to Polytechnic school and will forget about this
movement forever.
What is characteristic is that in the end I'll be finished anyway. And a hundred
cars with grenade launchers will calmly rust in this swamp, and he will not be able to
forget about the movement, most importantly, the movement will not forget about
him.
- You are on another planet, - said Fenimore, for some reason putting an empty
bottle into a linen bag which mystically appeared in his hands. - I can't explain it
simpler. Look: a coffee cup can suck in six people. The man without pulse and blood
pressure but with four holes in his chest walks, lives and talks. You're on another planet.
Got it?
- I don't get it, brother.
- I'm not your brother. - Fenimore thought a bit, lifted his sad eyes. - Yet. This is
okay that you can't get it. Here a tourist like you, especially straight from the Earth, can
never get things like that. But this is your problem. You don't get it - then you don't. But
then something will get you. Something like a cup.
- But it didn't suck me in.
- It didn't suck you in because the “seventy-seventh” was too large. Capacity
cannot be determined in advance. We had to stop it while it was possible. And you also
contributed. We'd warned you, dumbasses, not to bring any iron at least. You were the

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one who listened. This is what saved you.
- I cannot understand anything!
- There is no gold or weapon on you. And nothing metal in your clothes. So
“seventy-seventh” allowed you to pass through in the first run. We were impressed, we
immediately noticed that you’re not wearing neither chains nor bolts, is that just your
thing? Or haven't earned yet?
- You don't know me... - began Funny, but Fenimore crumpled his long, calm
stinger into a grimace of disgust and interrupted him very sharply: “Shut your mouth,
gangster. I'm asking you, an idiot, serious and important questions and you're starting
to play Heracles. What is your name?”
- Sergey.
- I am Vadim. They call me Fenimore. I live here, I'm a free troubler, not because
of the Lightning. I'm a high-rated tracker. Thirty-one mission. Is it like I'm speaking
Chinese, or something? - he asked sympathetically.
- I'm Funny.
- Didn't get it. Is it a joke?
- The nickname. Fu-n-ny.
- Whoa. You mean one is funny, the other is dreary?
- Ye-es!.. - said Funny, deeply amazed. This is the first time someone understood it
at once.
- Favorite book, - said Fenimore. - Actually, I don't really like reading, but I love
that one1. I brought it to the army. It saved my life. What a surprise, another reader!
One more. Seems like there is a magnet here for you all, what the hell. So tell me what
do you know about the Zone, Funny, my friend?
- A secret American base, duty-free supplies. Equipment, cars, cigarettes, alcohol.
Everyone here is searching for the meteorite. Juicy business. People summoned us to
put you back in your place as you guys got fucking insolent, rolling in dough here.
Something like that.
- Well, I see. Dumbasses.
Fenimore tightened the ribbon on the canvas bag with the bottle inside, put it on
the ground. A black, grim, designer knife appeared from somewhere in his hand. Funny
tried to move away. Fenimore, with a precisely measured movement, smashed the
bottle in the bag with the knife handle.
- We've been chatting too long, Funny, - he said, smashing the pieces into tiny
specks. - I don't have time for this. There was no gold on you, the neutral greeted you
as a fellow, and you didn't even notice it. That means you aren't worthless and the Zone
is interested in you. And we don't argue with the Zone here. You saw, we didn't even
discuss what to do with you. Here's what will happen next. I'll guide you to the Zone
and let you go. These are the rules. We will talk if you come back and find us. Here, see
the chimney sticking out right there? That's an old city boiler room. People sit there. You
can't miss it. But if you don’t come back then you don't.

1
The author implies “Peter I“, a novel by Alexei Tolstoy.

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 - And what's in the Zone?
- There are lots of things in the Zone.
- Shao-Lin dungeons, or what? The path of the dead?
- Thousands of death paths, Funny.
Funny was biting his lips. It seemed that everything that these non-humans
prepared for him was much more serious than just a shot at the back of a head.
- I won't go.
- Not an option. I'll haul you.
- Kill me here.
- I don’t have a choice, Funny. You'll understand if you survive.
- I will survive, I will get out of here, and will come back with the lads with
hundred cars, got me?
- Oh, yes, please. Of course if you find a hundred cars. Do you really think your
delegation was the first here? Muscovites ordered to run another check on you, you
Volga suckers. To find out if you have any chances to come back. Like, maybe you are
lucky enough. You’ve been raiding us, the military, even tried to take scientists
hostages. And even our Americans. You’ve tried to do it here, in Moscow and even in
the States. You were greeted very humanely today, we decided not to terrify you, Funny,
my friend.
Funny was listening. Fenimore spoke, digging a pit with a knife, pressing the
broken glass with a handle, and filling the pit up. The hell knows why. He wasn't
showing, wasn't acting, but was committing some absolutely sensible, absolutely
necessary action burying a broken bottle in a special bag he kept on him.
- “Seventy-seventh” is quick and almost painless, - continued Fenimore. - We
pitied you because we knew that you were written off a week ago. You were warned
yesterday, didn't you? Did your chief that our representatives met with him yesterday
and strongly advised to rebound?
- No.
- If so, then it’s not we who are hangmen but he is, this your Swan... or what was
his nickname? This blue old man.
- Swan? Swan wasn't with us. He sent us today.
- So they also betrayed you. Jackals.
- Tell me straight, who is behind you? Who patronizes you, in short? What's the
fucking deal?
- In short? In short, the sky is our patron, Funny. The blue sky. - Fenimore stood
up, brushed his knee. The knife disappeared like magic again. He trampled the bottle's
grave with his sneaker (original Adidas) and beckoned Funny from up above with his
fingers. - Get up, tourist. The Mother-Trouble is waiting for you.
- Damn, are you all here a part of a sect?
- If I drag you half a kilometer you’ll get badly scraped. By the collar through the
bumps... I don't really care actually. I'm not going to carry you in my arms, after all.
- I'm not a tourist.

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 - Exactly! This is exactly what are you going to find out. First of all for yourself.
- Help me to get up, - Funny said morosely. - And untie me.
Fenimore helped him. And he did not untie.
Now side by side, they walked along the steppe for another half a kilometer. From
time to time something like a cobweb touched Funny's face. He frowned, tried to wipe
off those touches with his shoulders but he didn't ask hairy, a tracker with high rating,
to untie his hands any more. The whole steppe was messed up. Under the grass, still
fresh wormwood, there were scars and ruts everywhere- people had been driving big
cars here through mud, snow and dust for decades. But the same time there wasn't
much garbage. In general you can say there wasn't any garbage at all. As well as any
sounds of life. Funny wouldn't bet on it, as he hadn't been out of the city in a place
without trees or a beach for a long time, but he was vaguely remembering from his
childhood and it also seemed logical that there must be crickets yelling and larks
swirling in the steppe. Nobody yelled or swirled, actually all Funny heard was his own
stumbling on bumps. Fenimore was moving next to him absolutely noiselessly so Funny
even started to look into how he is doing it, maybe by putting his feet in some special
way? He didn't understand anything and made a conclusion that it's all about designer
sneakers. The tirade about fake and original almost slipped off his tongue, like, you
guys are getting very comfortable here, you must share the pie.
Although it was already noon, it wasn't hot, July hasn't yet got savage. Suddenly
he sensed the smell of a fire.
- There's a fire somewhere, - said Funny.
- Yes, you have a flair, - said Fenimore in some very casual tone.
And he reached out his hand in front of him and drew aside an invisible curtain.
Ahead of them, a still life appeared out of nowhere: open fire in a pan, three
bricks standing on their sides around it and a group portrait of three armed guys sitting
on these three bricks against the same view of the steppe, bumps and fresh air in the
background.
All three were some kind of black and green. They had hazmat stockings over
their shoes, dressed in unprofessionally, but reliably and carefully made dense black
jackets, almost identical, so to say, sewn on the same machine, different only in the
degrees of wear and undone. Each of them was carrying an oxygen breathing gas mask
on his stomach. All three went with no hats and their hands bare. All three were looking
at the newcomers (had we also appeared from nowhere to them like they did) in
absolutely the same way. Three peas in a pod, damn it. Their mugs, of course, were
absolutely different. However, the way they were holding their bare hands above slow
yellow low flame on a pan was very much alike. They might be feeling nippy, thought
Funny hopelessly-ironically refusing to understand anything. And pepper flavor from
the pizza was still in his mouth. Just sixty kilometers from here to home. I wonder,
what's in their backpacks? What do they snatch from there? They say, nobody here saw
rubles for about five years. They say, twenty bucks is the smallest coin here. I mean the
smallest note.

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 - Hey, walkers, - meanwhile said Fenimore. - Seems that you are on your way back
from there?
- Each on his own way, - said one.
- Independently, - said another one.
The third one said nothing although Funny already fixed his eyes on him for the
cause.
- Well, I'm passing by, - told them Fenimore. - I'll bypass on the left.
- Good luck, - said the third one.
- Thank you.
- Vadik, can I ask who's with you? - asked the second. - Why am I asking: you don’t
seem to be wearing a uniform.
- Right, I'm just going down to the springboard. Won't even go out.
- Ah, is that another magacitl?
- When will they stop coming here, - said Fenimore.
- Seems that soon, - said the first. - Well, good luck, magacitl.
For some reason, there was a silence.
- What are you staring at? - asked Funny.
- Ts, useless, - said the first and hung his hands over the pan again. The fire was
outlandish. It burned like water under the rain, in that shape. Suddenly Funny said:
- Thank you.
The third grunted.
Fenimore escorted Funny on the left side passing the fire, and he took left
entirely perpendicular to their previous direction. They went further along the curve,
unknown to Funny but obviously existing. At last they reached a thicket of reeds in a
very shallow ravine, gradually increasing from a short boyish buzzcut to a punk
mohawk along the ravine. Fenimore stopped very resolutely. For the last time today.
- As for me I'll stop here. And you'll go further. Stand still.
He literally romped for a few seconds behind Funny's back and the freed arms
suddenly fell on the sides of the body.
- Stretch and rub them. Stay where you are.
Funny obeyed.
From the look of it, even the wrists didn’t swell up, pins and needles almost
immediately ran down from elbows. The fingers of his left hand were scratched, and his
hands were dirty in general. Fenimore was behind him all the time. Five minutes later
Funny could already crack his finger knuckles.
- Don't do this, be so kind.
- Or what?
- Not “what”. So, Sergey, here's the deal. There is a manhole in grass three steps
straight ahead. A hatch. There is a box is buried inside, a chest. Here we call such things
“a dead man's chest”. You'll take one machine gun and three magazines there. You'll
take one gas mask. You'll take one empty shoulder bag and put one food ration in it.
You'll deal with it later if the mission gives you time. You'll take two or three pouches

136
with risks. I mean with nuts. Your boots are crap but there's nothing to do with that.
After this you'll reach the end of the reeds. There you'll see a pole. A piece of iron with
flicker on it. You should pass it on the left.
- And?
- And the adventure will begin. Shao-Lin dungeons.
- I'll take a machine gun and finish you, bitch.
- No. You cannot go back.
- And if I will?
- No, I mean you can try whatever you want, feel free. Go back or shoot me if you
want. Here's the freedom you've never had before. Take as much as you can. Use it...
Here, take this also, put it in a pocket on the chest lid. Funny turned around. A cap was
clutched between Fenimore's teeth, Fenimore was screwing a pen into it. Funny took a
note held out to him. “One beggarly standart is taken by me, Fenimore, on the morning
of July 5, 92. Will be returned until July 7, 92.” And the signature.
- Beggarly? - Funny asked bitterly.
- Under other circumstances, I would even apologize, - said Fenimore making a
the pen disappear like that knife before. As a magician, damn it. - It's bad to send you
on a mission not being fully equipped. But to be fair, you came here to kill us, Funny, my
friend? Huh? So that's it. Well...
- Wait. Give an advice. How, what, what should I watch out for? What should I do
actually?!
- Come back. I can't say more. I'm afraid I'll meddle with your hunch with my
advice. Seriously, it's experience, don't look at me like that. Keep the nuts in front of
you. Listen and watch. Don't run when you don't have to. And when you have to - run.
That's it. Come back. Good luck.
- I appreciate, asshole, and remember, I'll come back and find you. Bury you and
tear you apa-art! You'll remember me and my car!
A large steel box was really dug into the ground three steps ahead and
everything that Fenimore listed was really there, plus much more over it, covered with
cellophane. For example (above all), there was a note on the cellophane. It read the
following: “Took a lot of guys, came back alone and torn. Diathesis turned into the
stone on Piglets, Malov fell into a puddle in front of the Rocket (the pole 15-201). I
dropped the loot on Mezh near Five Roads at the top, didn't hide it. The one who takes
it – is cunt, it was washed with blood. Two whole “pince-nez”, yellow “77-Ivasi” and half a
kilo of “dancing men” are in a gas mask's bag. I'll be back for the loot and Malov in a
week. Will replace the taken by the end of the month. Went out on July 2, through P. I
don't know what day is today, it's night. I think it's 4th. Khomach“.
After reading the note Funny looked around for Fenimore. Who was already long
gone. Day was slowly ending, reeds were rustling peacefully. The horizons was getting
overcast by haze and two grey chimneys of the old city boiler plant were coming out of
this haze with sunset in the background. The red light on the right one shone bright,
and on the left one it just glimmered, seemed that something could be eclipsing it and

137
it looked like a giant squinting his eyes ironically.

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 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “Anton Urazaev, the second consert in “Chipka”, 1.1.19”
A fragment, voice recording, the transcript 2.1.19”

“...creation of an authentic, detailed and responsible story of the Zone was and will not
be possible, brothers, and the reason is simple and common to humanity - it's secrecy, it's
also greediness, it's also stinginess. (Laughter, cheer in the audience) Neither individuals nor
dozens of corporations, my brothers, that after nineteen ninety-six Memorandum are feeding
on the well-known to us territory (screams) affected by the abnormal intensities of unknown
kind, could boast having a near full database of chilling miracles and incidents. It was
impossible to bring together huge data volumes with different degree of quality, reliability
and order into one compilation. Defragmentation, brothers, was not feasible: too many
small and identical interests, too much ignorance, too much disbelief, too many
chatterboxes, and too, too many officials on feeding. (Screams, laughter) Everybody watched
everybody, everybody did their little things, guarding their chicken, golden, even rubidium,
eggs, my brothers, carefully sorting them into different baskets, hiding even from themselves
without writing down coordinates, addresses and observations.
Thus, any large movement for the consistent selection and sorting of these really
massive information layers inevitably meant that someone too smart wants too much.
(Screams “Exactly, brother!”, “Death to fishermen!”) And the poisonous noosphere
surrounding the Zone, my brothers, reacted explicitly - with the instant awakening and
insurmountable aggression of bureaucratic-corporate golems of democracy, brotherhood
and freedom in their modern ontology. (Silence. Definitely Funny's voice: “Are you stupid?”
“He's not stupid, he's brother!” “And what's the difference?” Laughter.)
You will not offend me, brothers! There are still a lot of good people on the planet, but
they strongly distrust each other. Up till mutual destruction, brothers. Which, however,
cannot surprise us as we know the humanity. (“Do you really know it?”, “Does it knows you?”,
“Have you lost the plot?”) On the contrary, we get surprised by rare, but incessant acts of
trust.
But exactly these acts of trust are even worse if we judge by results! It's always the
total destruction of the subject or object (or objects), to which the trust is applied...
(“Сonversely!” “Those, why apply!”, “Death to fishermen!”, “Brothers, we are out of beer!”)
(Laughter)

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 CHAPTER 8

THE FOX

Korostylyov woke up right at half past one AM: like a cat, waking up and sitting
down on the bed, he immediately looked at the glowing clock. The girl who was
sleeping next clearly muttered: “This sweet cherry is from Polynesia, not from Lipetsk.”
She didn't wake up, didn't move, just muttered about Polynesia and took a deep breath.
The floor was warm; not worrying about the noise, Korostylyov switched on the light in
the kitchen, put the kettle on, poured Black Jack instant coffee into a cup, sat down in
front of the cup and started to wait for a call. Once again he thought that if his intuition,
for example, did not just wake him up, but also pointed where to run and what to do, so
then it would have been priceless. Of course, he could just dress up immediately and
leisurely walk through the March frost to the bureau. This “walking leisurely”, the
advantage of waking up beforehand and presenting himself to the subordinates and
bosses always as a watchful and practical man was exactly the most valuable thing in
his gift. But it also was the last. This and its accuracy. Korostylyov stopped hoping for a
mistake long ago. The phone thundered simultaneously with the rattling of kettle’s lid.
On answering the phone, Korostylyov listened to the duty officer's message
accompanied by rattling noises. The Fox was on the run and something happened in
“Two Pipes”.
Coffee remained dry, the lid continued rattling. Dressing swiftly, Korostylyov
shook the girl by the shoulder. Being a true alien, she clearly new what an alarm means.
Her dream was gone as if she wasn't sleeping at all. She was beautiful and juicy, plump
and warm, but Korostylyov couldn't remember her name, and later, there was no
reason to remember it. Or to know it. “Money is on the table, check the house, shut the
door.” She nodded.
He walked fast to the Headquarters through March frost. A year ago he refused
to take an apartment in the General house, in half a cigarette walk to the Headquarters.
He settled in standard lodging at Arkanarskaya street five blocks from the center, that
means a whole cigarette from work. Because of this he always remained in the center
of refugee life. Therefore, he determined the size of the second part of the incident
(“something happened in “Two Pipes”) already along the way: too many, irregularly too
many windows in the beams and houses closer to the center were illuminated, and
many lit up, and not a single went dark, and fully awake and equipped walkers were
appearing here and there on the streets. No one lit up flashlights, street light hasn’t
been cut off since the New Year. Some walkers greeted Korostylyov. They all were
moving in the opposite direction, towards him or across - to the Corner checkpoint.
When he turned from our of “Chip” to the central square (almost all the troublers called
it “parade ground” in some ineradicable old habit), suddenly some boozy, wet snow
started to fall.

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 Two Hummers and two “Gaz” vans were idling next to the Headquarters' portal,
the drivers were smoking standing in circle. Korostylyov hadn't worn his uniform for so
long that he lost the reflex of military salute; however, he was saluted neatly by four
palms. It was warm in the lobby. He went straight to the office, just waving hello to a
duty officer at the controls. The office and, most importantly, the waiting room had
extra heating. His aide, Senior Lieutenant Firsova, couldn't stand temperatures lower
than equatorial. Because of this Korostylyov almost collapsed, stumbled over another
heater, confiscated from someone and henceforth doomed to stand directly at the
threshold of the waiting room. It was useless to dispute or express displeasure, he only
kicked the machine, stinking of burnt metal, far into the corner and made another
mental note on the map of the area: it's dangerous here, I need to make one more step
forward, and only then to the left, to the office.
Firsova came to the post five minutes earlier than he did, but she had already
managed to take off all her furs and skins, to get information and to make a coffee. An
excellent idea with titanium in the lobby, but Korostylyov didn't like the coffee from
praised dripping coffee machines – instant one was much better in the field conditions
of the surrounding life. Firsova was standing before him with a folder while he smelled
a hot cup, added sugar in the way he always did and stirred it.
- What about Marchenko and Semyonov? - he asked.
- The General hasn't arrived yet and Semyonov is on the raid.
- I saw that the raid is being organizing on the streets now. For us.
Firsova chuckled.
- Bring Marchenko here immediately.
I still couldn't say “to me”. Subordination.
- Done, - she said. – They are getting him out now.
- Lena! - he said. - Not now. Do not impress me right now. Speak in plain Russian,
please. What exactly happened on the “neutral”?
- Now raw information. Fox was being transported after a training mission
through “Two Pipes”. According to the agreed plan, I've checked.
- I know that. Learned two weeks ago.
- And that's all for the moment. They entered the bar about 1 am. Something
happened there. And now Fox is officially on the run according to the alarm from the
control panel. He cut off the bracelet.
- Seems that this is one trouble, not two.
- Seems so.
- I want all the intelligence on the Fox, the police, paramilitary and the perimeter
guard on my desk. I order to deliver Marchenko in any condition. Has Blinchuk called
yet?
- Not yet.
- Deal with him yourself, Lena, the way you can. I have other things to do now. He
can take his time, to finish his business in Moscow. Everything bad will have already
happened by morning.

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 - Chocolate, - said Firsova like she was a troubler.
Korostylyov smiled.
- Turn left, march, Senior Lieutenant.
There is a trusty half a minute till the moment four out of five phones on the
telephone table will explode, estimated Korostylyov from his own experience. During
this half a minute he managed to drink some coffee and laid out the imaginary folders
in his memory. I really hope it wasn't a murder. Muscovites’ idea with prisoners was
regarded as imbecility by the whole internal command of QZAI. But Grachyov and Yerin
lobbied this idea in the Committee last fall and the Grandfather signed it and made the
decision. Blinchuk was fuming when he returned from session that time, he was
drinking in “Chipka” for two days trying just to calm down. There was nothing to do, the
process was launched, a bunch of Interior Ministry magacitls, mad about a chance to
use bottomless American warehouses with special vouchers, arrived in the Pre-Zone.
Everything was happening very quickly. The problem of the 17th platform was a really
big problem, nobody could get close to the 17th, it was absolutely impassable, evil
place. But as it turned out, Moscow minds really decided to carve a new track out using
a squad of life-sentenced prisoners. They called it “March to a new life”. This is what
Korostylyov heard with his own ears, and later even asked Blinchuk if he heard it for
real. It means what it means - you pick up a prisoner right from a station and take him
right into the Zone through with convoy on both sides. Korostylyov didn't want any
flashbacks of last November and December, which he spent in constant scandals with
Muscovites, and he was sure that he would not ever want them. He managed to
convince them about some things. But “half a trouble less is still a trouble”. Even when
Kororstylyov's version of executing of heavenly Grandfather's resolution, though
hypothetically real, was miraculously adopted (Blinchuk explained that something
seriously distracted Grachyov and Yerin that moment, something with the Caucasus,
and that was the only reason this mad March to a new life wasn't implemented instantly
and indisputably). And two echelons with convicts, all this time standing on icy passing
loops of Bazaar-Terminal, went back. Upon inviting him to his smoking room, smart and
sober Blinchuk said: “A tiny incident and we have a riot, Oleg Vitalievich. Did you ever
dream about trackers' riot? Not senseless, but ruthless?” Korostylyov had dreams about
trackers' riot at least once a week. Half a trouble in the Pre-Zone is no less than a
nuclear explosion. The Trouble. Mother-Trouble. Forbidden to speak out loud. Don’t jinx
it. And cross yourself: both ways.
Phones exploded. The second, the first, the third, the second, the third, the
fourth.
Semyonov: paramilitary is kept under, acting chief, Leutenant Maloroslikov, is in
control of the outer perimeter. A reliable man, border guard, not red. Semyonov is
covering the steppe. Personally.
Malkov: Anatoly Anatolievich Aniskin is on his way to “Two Pipes”. In person. The
information is provided by the police officer on duty.
Kororstylyov's personal attendant informed him sullenly and calmly that about

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fourty trackers and frequenters had passed the Corner before the unit blocked the
road. Same number of citizens at the Corner are gathering in a crowd at the moment.
Korostylyov ordered to open the passage immediately, announcing this to the troublers
loud and clear. (While giving the order he began to improvise the text of the general
announcement for city loudspeaker, writing it on the old envelope sealed by the Head
of the GID1)
Firsova knocked on the selector. All our people are on the ground. And a watcher
in charge, Major General of Internal Service Marchenko, has just been brought into the
Headquarters. He's high as a kite. That was the point when Korostylyov made an
ultimate decision to cut off all Muscovites from this case. He dialed Tatarin, his “chief of
protocol” (a happy man in the past) from the third phone, waking him up with
astonishment, and ordered. And in fact, he occupied the line tight, keeping ahead of
incoming calls. Taking the lead.
Before half past two he completely organized the search for Lisovoy2 the Fox
(more precisely, he dug deep into the current situation, making sure that mechanism
was working autonomously and effectively). Lisovoy the Fox had nowhere to run, there
was only the Zone. Korostylyov made a bet himself: the bastard will be caught before 5
AM if he's somewhere on the “neutral”, and before half past three if he dashes to the
outer perimeter. Loose into the wild, so to say. However, it is possible that the bastard
will give up himself, although... no, not this piece of shit. He will run as long as he can
just because of his completely infantile meanness, thinking: I'm the only one and
unique, the Minister chose me personally, I'm free to do what I want and nobody can
touch me. The first was bullshit (when Guinovites spread the word about total amnesty
for those sentenced to life, there was some meeting and the Fox was put forward by
the thieves themselves, like he was a locomotive, like they wanted to test him. They
chose him either as the most worthless or the most annoying thug.) But the second
was real. Nobody could touch the Fox. The order was extremely clear and the 17th
platform was an extremely dangerous splinter. That’s the reason Sam Piena unofficially
stated: human rights are important, of course, but unattended nuclear weapons in the
Zone are much more important than the rights of some assholes sentenced for life or
for long term. So, Oleg, we cannot see, cannot hear. We are like those monkeys.”
2.40 PM. Finally the fifth phone rang. Before answering, Korostylyov pressed his
nose bridge with his fingers. However, it wasn't Petrovich on the line, it was Anatoly
Anatolievich Lazarev-Aniskin.
- So, Oleg Vitalievich, here's the shit of unknown kind. Yana and the Father Kalitiny
were killed.
Korostylyov's jaw dropped. This was the information he didn't expect to hear,
even as the last on the list. He thought something happened to Olga or to Petrovich. He
whacked the table top with his palm. Thank God it was plexiglass.
- Who? - he asked, pressing the hurting palm to his cheek. He missed out the

1
General Intelligence Directorate.
2
Short form of the surname Lisovoy – Lis (Russian: лис) means “a fox”.

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phrase “But this can't be true!” which tried to get out. Death here is not a joke.
- Seems that your Moscow thief did it.
Krorstylyov was silent. He wasn't thinking, he just was waiting for the shock to
pass.
- You keep silence? - Asked Lasarev understandingly.
- What about you, Anatoly Anatolievich? Are you safe? - he asked.
- Not sure, - Lazarev said calmly. - Everybody here keeps silence too.
- How many?
- Everyone is here. The bar is full, and even civilians gathered outside. I've never
seen so many women on the “neutral” before.
- Careful. We're searching. Now I will go through the city announcement and send
it to the speaker.
- I don't know what you were thinking there in intelligence, but it was just
incredible stupid idea with the prisoners, Oleg, - Lasarev said with emotion which was
rare for him.
- We did what we had to do, Anatoly Anatolievich, - said Korostylyov, because “It is
not your business” now would sound even more stupid than the idea with prisoners.
- Well, nobody is messing with my murder investigation so far, so I'll report by
morning. On my line, - Lazarev said with a little sneer. - I hope. Over.
- Wait a second, Anatoly Anatolievich. How did it happen, for this moment?
Korostylyov asked, doing away with two calls at the same time. - You do have a
preliminary version?
Lazarev did not argue.
- At half past one Yana appeared at the backyard of the bar. She was crawling
along the ground dragging her father's corpse behind her. The rear gate, she crawled
out of the Zone, you got it?
Korostylyov didn't say a word. Lazarev also kept silent for a few seconds.
- Yana was screaming so loud, that even woke Kolya Petrovich and his Olga up.
Olga, however, wasn't sleeping, actually because of this your thief. So they found Yana.
Yana was... how should I say... Yana was smoldering.
- Burning?
- Smoldering, like coal. As she predicted. “I will smolder and fall apart”. Lazarev
obviously crossed himself there, in the bar. - It's clear now what smoldering she... Ah!
It's just a skeleton in a pile of ashes. The bones are breaking. And the Father was shot.
Several bullets in the chest and the head. And the cloak is missing. Yana pulled him out
of the Zone, the prints are clearly marked. There are both in blood and... - Lasarev
searched for the words. - And Yana. Trackers went on the trail, I don't know who exactly.
To locate the site.
- Holy f... I heard you, Anatoly Anatolievich. So that means my convict is a
suspect?
- He's not the suspect, - said Lazarev. - Yana named exactly him. Specifiсally. Both
Olga and Kolya Petrovich heard it with their own ears.

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 - Yes, today he went on a training mission. Under convoy.
- That's right. - Lazarev coughed. - About one the thief and his convoy were led
into the bar by SWAT. Just over a half of hour before Yana. Do you know who took him
to the Zone?
- He wasn't supposed to go to the Zone today. The training is arranged on the
“neutral”. With convoy. There are three people in escort.
- Well, all in all, it is clear that it is not clear. They obviously had been to the Zone,
judging by their state. And SWAT - I still don't know who exactly - the patrolmen, they
anticipated them on the border in Yangel area, as they said to Olga. And the thief was in
a very bad way. He was in hysterics. He got into something, crapped his pants. He
couldn't walk by himself, SWAT had to drag him. His convoy was a little better. Olya
Petrovich claims that he's either wasn't faking unless he was Stanislavsky at acting. And
what do SWAT care? SWAT left them at the bar and immediately took off without sitting
down.
- Were they drinking there? Reds?
- They drank like a fish. While Lyuda Okhrina and Olga were carrying for the thief.
What is his name? Oleg?
- Anatoly Anatolievich!
- Damn! So reds drank a bottle each while the women were bringing the thief
back to life. Olya and Lyuda gave him an injection and different powder, he seemed to
feel better, asked for a drink and food. Olga went to her room to get some sleep, and
Okhrina, she's on shift today, went to the bar to find something to eat for him... And at
half past one, they heard Yana Kalinina scream in the backyard. And Yana said firmly:
“Old Lisovich killed the Father and took his cloak. Make him give it back, to bury the
father”. This is what she said. And died. Lisovich is the name of the thief. Right, Oleg?
Korostylyov didn't answer.
- Okay. Don't answer, my fellow Lieutenant Colonel. And as for a cloak... The thief
had a sack with him. Olga said so. And now this sack is missing. So...
- And of course, the thief is also missing, - said Korostylyov. - I'm saying
rhetorically, Anatoli Anatolyevich.
- That's right. He ran off at the same time. Kolya immediately went back to the bar
but he wasn't there. Only these three were sitting, finishing the fourth bottle. They were
so drunk they didn't understand anything. Okhrina also didn't see how he rushed since
she ran out on the backyard, towards the screams.
- They alive?
- So far. Nikolay is here, next to me. You should thank him. He's a great guy. He is
calling for peace and calm.
- And no one from trackers was in the bar?
- It’s Monday.
- Uh-uh-uh, - said Korostylyov laying off another call - from a Moscow number.
Someone has already informed them. (A blessing in disguise, this time it will be easy to
determine who exactly did it.)

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 - And what next?
- And next, red alert and massive assembly begins. The Kalitins are killed, Oleg.
The only ones.
- Tol Tolich, there was a radio wrist strap on the thief, - said Korostylyov. - He got it
off. The alarm went off, that's why we were all called up. Have you found it?
- The wrist strap? No. I haven't found anything yet. Do you really think it's possible
to find anything here right now?
Korostylyov nodded.
- I got you, Tol Tolich, thank you. If you need anything, you know.
- I'll figure it out here. They won’t hurt me in any case, so... I’ve lived. But I cannot
speak for the reds. I mean, will they hurt them or not. Of course, I'll do what I can. But
without enthusiasm, Oleg. I grieve for Yana so much, that everything inside is just
numb. I grieve for both. They were the ones!
- You said that trackers followed Kalitin's trail. And did anyone set off in pursuit of
the thief?
- Yes. Count everyone who didn't follow the trail. Nikolai is here with me, did you
hear him?
- Put him on the phone.
- Hello, - said the bartender. - That's me. What's going on, the Lieutenant Colonel!
- Nikolai Nikolaevich, no lynching please. Or we will have a fight.
- Who will you fight with? - said Petrovich sadly. - With the whole Bezhensk? Do
you know that the whole town is astir?
- No lynching. The military administration will investigate death of the Kalitins.
Scrupulously, Nikolai Nikolaevich. Military men should be returned immediately. Alive.
And if the trackers catch the fugitive, they should bring him back. Also alive. Otherwise
we will act according to the quarantine laws. And we will have a fight.
Something knocked in the phone tube, Lazarev started to speak.
- He left, Oleg, - he said. - What, you had to threaten?
- Oho-ho-ho-ho. You know, let's call it a day, Tol Tolich, - said Korostylyov. I have
information here. And I need to think.
- Over, Oleg. That was stupid. That was a stupid idea with thieves! You'll get so
much shit. Your administration made a mistake. Off now.
Handing up, Korostylyov spent the whole precious minute sitting motionless.
Then the light of the second line flickered, and at the same moment Firsova popped in
knocking at the door. Korostylyov held back the hand that was about to pick up the
phone.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel. Negulyaev wants to see you very much.
- Was he the one to take Lisovoy from?..
- Yes. He is with a report. Says if only he knew...
- Lena, tell him that he can submit his report and apologize later, and now he
better go search. Or into the Headquarters' guard. It will be better for him if he
redeems his guilt working. Is there a crowd outside?

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 She bit her lip and nodded nervously. Korostilev also nodded. Calmly.
- That is all, Lena, I have a call. Go back to work.
Firsova dissapeared behind the door. Selector clicked without asking illuminating
the first key with white light. Semyonov's service line. He forgot about hanging call and
grabbed an ebonite smooth and slippery phone receiver and with his finger pressed a
slippery button, under which the flashing light went out.
- Comrade Colonel! - A manly (calm), youthful voice which was clearly Lieutenant's
was heard in the speaker. - Lieutenant Gubarev, mobile post sixty, which is opposite to
twenty one. Allow to report.
Korostylyov stood up, pressing the phone into his ear.
- Listening to you, Gubarev.
- A bloke with a machine gun reached out to my post about five minutes ago. He
handed over the weapon and asked for a shelter.
- Well!
- He's old. The name is Lisovoi. He said that goddamn cops set him up. Is he the
culprit of the fuss in the steppe?
- Gubarev! - Korostilyov thought that he barked into the phone instead of
speaking. - Cuff him, put him in the car and bring him here to me at the Headquarters
at full speed! Is there any threat around?
- A lot of cars and people on foot. Some kind of a raid. I thought they are ours, but
they are all troublers. So, yes, sir. There is threat if they came for him, nothing else.
- Bring him alive and make it alive yourself! I appreciate your service, Gubarev!
The bloke should be handcuffed!
- Done, sir!
- I allow to leave the post, all of you should escort and protect him. Try not to
shot, I repeat, try to break through without shooting! Persuade them! Now, perform!
Good luck!
“Such an order you gave to the guys, comrade Lieutenant-Colonel of CID General
Headquarters”, he thought. “Do not shoot. Armed them to the teeth.”
- Will persuade, sir! - responded Gubarev without surprise, surprising Korostylyov,
and hung up.
The clock stroke 3 AM. Korostylyov knew the guard patrol's map as well as he
knew his toothbrush. There were four kilometers straight from the bar to mobile post
sixty. The old bastard didn’t just escape. The old bastard tried to save himself, he was
looking for a military force to surrender. So it wasn't a thief showing off, and that means
that the incident wasn't as simple as it seemed: as if they clashed in the Zone,
conversation started to heat up... No, everything is obviously more difficult. Or simpler?
Although... who will care how it started? Nobody in the Pre-Zone will care who started it
and why. Everybody will care how long the killer of Kalitins spent in “corrector” before
he drops dead. Actually, he will get into “corrector” only if trackers suddenly feel
humane. Why the hell they left the route and went into the Zone? I'll strangle the
convoy with my own hands and dump their corpses in the city.

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 All his work is down the drain, all relations, all contacts... Well. There are ten
kilometers from the city and the Headquarters to mobile post sixty. The can be here in
thirty minutes if they go straight through steppe without fighting and accidents.
Korostylyov now was tremendously hoping for the troubler's composure which
impressed him more than once, they had it. At least, there wasn't anything else to hope
for. For almost four years not a single conflict happened in the Pre-Zone between the
state and the aliens, which would end in a shootout. Such things happened between
trackers both in Bezhensk and especially in the Zone. It could end with murder, and
everyone knew who killed, why, what for, who is right and who is wrong. But ever since
Blinchuk personally and routinely, on the square executed a paramilitary for firing at a
man from tower, since he started to expel the guards of MIA Criminal executive service,
signing contracts exclusively with border patrol, all the serious conflicts involving
military guard of QZAI stopped completely.
But what happened today had never happened before. And here you go again.
Staying in the office doesn't make sense, even though all the communication
goes to his selector and his phones from the duty officer's controls without any special
orders. Once you don't praise yourself – you’ll offend yourself thrice. With no admitting
that he simply cannot stay alone now, Korostylyov finished his cold coffee and wiping
the mouth with a handkerchief went down into the lobby, to the controls, to his people.
He needed this: to see his people, to be among them physically.
The lobby was packed, right from the corridor, from the stairs, he realized that
everyone was there. People gave him the way, pulled themselves up, saluting. Even
militaries. Especially militaries. Passing the first aid station, he noticed the swollen blue-
grey meaningless mug of General Marchenko, an imazingly beautiful man in normal
state, like a MAT1 statue. But even doctor Oganesyan didn't put on a white coat for him.
Korostylov noticed this too. So he also didn't stop, didn't enter the room to find out
about the condition of this dear guest, widely proclaimed Yerin's favorite, sitting on
tiled floor in wet pants with stripes and a wife-beater shirt.
Someone shouted: “Attention!” Korostylyov instantly allowed everyone at ease, to
do their job, everyone knows their duties and the situation, and he is just observing.
“One day there will be a monitor here, like in a cinema, and a thousand cameras around
the city and surroundings”, he thought, settling behind the duty officer. “I will actually
observe and give beautiful orders, according to the specifics of crimes on air like a God
in the sky. A dot of patrol car will be moving on TV screen, and I will know exactly where
Gubarev is, armed with weapons and obscenities.”
The duty officer was working in headphones, spoke quietly into the microphone.
People in the lobby were relatively quiet, there was only a low-key rumble of fifty armed
men and women exchanging opinions. Talk was concise, everything, like actors say, “not
into an audience”. Americans on duty also went downstairs from their attic: analyst
Linda Fabian, very young first Leutenant, and Babba Ragner, “scary ass nigga”, a
notorious frequenter of “Two Pipes” by the way. Suddenly Kororstylyov realized, it hit

1
An abbreviation for Moscow Art Theater.

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him with a bat, that one third of his people are original aliens, the “lighting men” and
the citizens of Kapustin who were restricted to leave. And the rest, including him, are
already Troublers de-facto. That Negulyaev, shifting from one foot to another at the
entrance. He has been here since the '88, one of the first scouts, a man from the time
when every second walker died or disappeared in the Zone... He can't be a magacitl as
he stopped going on vacation to Earth long ago. He helped his mother and his sister to
move here... “And what about me?” Now Kororstylyov needed a handkerchief to wipe
his sweating face. “None of my people would shoot at citizens”, he told himself very
clearly, as if he wrote down it with ink. “This is why there is such a united atmosphere in
the Headquarters. And this is the end of the Earth intelligence of General Headquarters
in QZAI.”
All our staff needs to be changed completely. Immediately. And we need to be
isolated. And all the military administration of QZAI should be completely re-staffed in a
year. If unconditional loyalty of personnel and the quality of intelligence information is
demanded then continuous rotation is the only way. But what will we end up with? A
high security prison for those ten percent who will survive.
Bustle broke out outside as headlights gleamed through the doors and windows
glass. Increasing his speed, Korostylyov walked sideways to the exit through barely
dispersing crowd and he almost ran out through the portal. And rooted to the spot. You
wouldn’t believe it until you see with your own eyes. Lieutenant Gubarev arrived with a
cargo, and, apparently, arrived unhindered. But Korostylyov was knocked down by an
unprecedented spectacle that opened in front of him: the square was completely
packed with people. As if extremely packed lobby behind his back suddenly got wider,
longer, with the same density of the crowd. (Under the yellow lanterns bordering the
square, under the acid-flashing sign of “Chipka”, against the background of houses,
fully lit from the inside, without a single dark window.) The whole city was here. A fresh
steam of a human warmth hung above the square, cut by fading, before they reach the
ground, snowflakes. People were waiting, speaking quietly, accidentally touching each
other with weapons, a few were smoking. Women, children. Hummer with number 60
on the hood was parking with its starboard at the stairs of the Headquarters very
carefully. People moved out of the way carefully too, giving him space, and a scar in the
crowd after the car's passage was filled the same slowly and carefully. Lord forbid to
accidentally touch anyone. Kororstylyov read this understanding on every face,
including children's. The endurance. The Headquarters' guard was in full force on the
stairs but their weapons weren't at “ready” position, they hung low with safety locks on.
Here are the things here. The Mother is the Mother for everyone. The Trouble is
the Trouble for everyone.
Hummer's engine stalled, the doors opened. A little square Lieutenant jumped
from the front passenger seat, reached his arms in the car and pulled out the chained,
disheveled Fox, in a mask-cap back to front.
The crowd stopped moving at all, and everything became so quiet that
Korostylyov could hear the snow falling. Two more patrolmen jumped from the car,

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Lieutenant handed Fox to them. The patrolmen pulled up his shackled hands and drove
him up the steps. The Fох whined but didn't say anything, stepping with his huge feet.
They skipped past Korostylyov without stopping. Lieutenant was romping in the back of
the car, getting something out. He suddenly stopped, stood up, looked at the citizens
above the car, standing on one foot, moved his helmet to the back of the head, slowly
jumped off the footboard and slammed the door without getting anything out. And
soon he came up to Korostylyov, saluting in advance. Kororstylyov greeted him.
- Delivered, - said Gubarev.
- Well done, - said Kororstylyov. - What did you leave in the car?
- Ah, his cloak. Black and pretty creepy. And the weapon, - Lieutenant replied
quietly. - I think I saw it before.
Korostylyov swallowed.
- Well done, Gubarev, - he said fervently. - take the detainee to the basement. The
duty officer knows everything, ask him. Perform. When you're done - stand down, get
some rest.
Gubarev took his hand from the temp and ran away.
“I have never spoken in front of a crowd before”, thought Kororstylyov. “Even in
bright komsomol past when beautiful girls highly appreciated the oratorical abilities of
handsome guys. Cannot describe what a great job Lieutenant did. If he had just pulled
out the Father's cloak in front of everyone now... And one more: I totally forgot to hand
an announcement to the broadcast. That's might be a good thing. Or bad?” He felt
sharp pain in his stomach. It was as sharp as was the need to make a step towards the
people of Trouble and tell them the only right words right now, right here. Not a
second, not a moment can be delayed; there is no moment to think and concentrate.
Kororstylyov made a step forward (down one step), he straightened himself and
shouted loudly:
- Comrades!.. – having no idea how, in what words he will say that he will not
allow any Lynch trial, there will be nothing of the kind as long as he is alive and can
shoot. And especially not knowing what will happen in a minute - no matter how he will
say it.
But God exists and God is Lybov1.
The loudspeaker on a cornice board of the Headquarters made a noise, whistled
reverberating in resonance with all the other seventeen alert loudspeakers around the
city (Korostylyov clearly remembered that there were eighteen of them, he also
perfectly remembered their location scheme), and cutting off whistling, a naturally
beautiful voice of the Trouble radio network speaker and today’s duty dispatcher of civil
defense HQ Lyuba Poletaeva spread over the night.
- ... uck, Elena, I don't understand a single fucking letter out of all that your
darling Korostylyov scratched here with his chicken paw! Rewrite it or read this shit
yourself. Here, take the microphone!..
The loudspeaker whistled and shut up. Korostylyov shut his mouth with a clang in

1
“And God is Love”. Name Luybov (Russian: Любовь) means “love”.

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a cartoon rhythm with it. Even the snow subsided. “It would be cool if I shot myself now.
It would be just perfect.” This is the kind of thing you can't think of, it just happens.
Firsova found the envelope with the announcement while clearing the desk. She can
read doctor’s handwriting of her chief like a printed text. The situation is tense so she
ran to the radio room. She disrupted Poletaeva and shoved her into the studio not
allowing to finish her tea with mint. Quick-quick-quick. Here, read this. Some poor guy
pressed the wrong button in operator’s room. He's now being slaughtered, by the way,
he's being cut into straps by twenty varnished claws. And so. “God helped me to joke
subtly. Helped Darling Korostylyov. At the very right moment. I even managed to get
some air in my lungs at that millisecond. I wonder what would I said?”
It is now here to stay. Darling Korostylyov. “Korostylyov” will even drift away later.
Here, the Lieutenant-Colonel Darling. No, this is not his surname. The military officer
with a Darling rating. I'm going to report to Darling. The Lieutenant-Colonel Darling
made a presentation. I'll send a report to our Darling. And we will start from the
beginning.
- I even feel sorry for him, - a rough male voice from the center of the square said
out loud. – Crapped his pants in front of honest folk. Like in a circus!
- The communists didn't allow themselves such a thing! - said someone from afar.
- Comrades! - said Korostylyov firmly.
- Speak to us, Darling! - said a little woman from the first row with Shukshin's
passion. She was wearing a knee-lenght officer's burnous, her arms in sleeves, she
works in the institute. - Spill it, sweetheart!
Someone started to push people aside and stepped out from the crowd.
Korostylyov recognized him - that was a very respectable walker, a walker with rating,
nicknamed a Chinese messenger, or just Chinese. Chinese stood next to Korostylyov
and raised his hand.
- Troublers, - he said. - Okay, It happened. Let's give time to fishermen. And we
won’t do anything rash ourselves the same time. Let's go back home today, brothers.
Korostylyov, keeping his face manly, swallowed melted saliva. The crowd moved
in a single movement, like a common being (this is what Korostylyov also saw for the
first time), it shook off tension, relaxed charging muscles, took his finger off the trigger.
The Chinese said with the corner of his mouth:
- You'd better give that bitch to us, Colonel.
- Lieutenant Colonel, - corrected Kororstylyov. - No, I won't give him, Ivan. It's
impossible. When you discuss it among yourselves you’ll understand that it is
impossible.
- We'll quarrel, Lieutenant Colonel. Right now you are just incredibly lucky. Just
incredibly. This incredibility is the reason everyone believed that this is not fake.
Goodbye for now. Think about it.
He didn't say “Darling”. Rating makes a difference.
Korostylyov couldn't let himself talk to Lysovoy right now. At least, he should put
his gun in a safe box first. Subordinates met him decently, as always. The tension in the

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Headquarters didn't disappear, but the uncertainty did. The duty officer was already
receiving some fax that wasn't relating to the incident. Both leafs of the door to the
buffet were open, a clinking could be heard from there, people were taking seats.
Firsova was typing on a marvelous electronic typewriter. Her nose, her personal traitor,
was a little red and swelled up, but generally, she also looked decent, as always. She
straightened, looked at him with her eyes over the oval glasses. What will be the orders,
comrade... Darling, goddamn you!
- Is the radio operator alive? - Kororstylyov asked her suddenly.
Her face fluttered.
- It looks like you and Poletaeva saved my life, - Korostylyov told an absolute
truth. - And not just mine, Lena. Thank you. - Her lower lip started to pout as if she was
a child. - I'm serious, Lena. Later many people will tell you how it was. And I'm telling
you now: you saved my life. That's it, set aside womanish grimaces. Pour some cognac
in my coffee.
Five minutes later instead of the usual two, she brought overwhelmingly aromatic
coffee. He already managed to give a call to Blinchuk who was rushing with his mobile
telephone box to Domodedovo. Already managed to explain to him that riot hasn't
started yet and there is a hope that it won't start at all, so there is no need yet to bring
troopers from Pskov. She put the cup and immediately left. In general, Blinchuk was
aware of events, the only thing he didn't know was who from Semyonovets group
exactly caught Lisovoi, and he was intensely interested in the persona of this Senior
Lieutenant. Whether he has his own place to live, for example. Finally, just before the
loss of connection and subsequent announcement of some absurd English-speaking
young man about this breakage, Blinchuk managed to say that he had bought a
surprise gift for Korostylyov, a “pagor”, and guaranteed that he would be surprised.
- I'll be suffocated, not surprised, - muttered Kororstylyov. He was slowly but
surely falling asleep, adrenaline rush declined, exposing the city beach on Akhtuba
filled with tanned and cool... no, tanned and warm lyubas poletaeva, lenas firsova and
birdies from the first row in the officer's burnouses on their naked bodies... aaah, how
sweet these yawns crunch sound behind the ears, what a pleasure this sand in your
eyes is... what?
- Oleg Vitalievich, Nikolai Petrovich is here.
- What? - asked Kororstylyov, waking up with the cup of coffee in his hand. Fisrova
was standing in front of him, dressed, with a folder at her belly. - Nikolai Petrovich who?
Surname. Is this how you report, Firsova?
(How do you report to your darling? The dream instantly faded away. “Ribaldry-
bawdry” as Penya Blinchuk, the Zone General says.)
- Nikolai Nikolaevich Petrovich is here, comrade Lieutenant Colonel.
- Is he on the phone? I don't understand.
- He’s requesting a meeting in person.
- Where? Firsova, concentrate.
- He came here and is asking you to meet him in person. Here, in the

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Headquarters.
- Petrovich? The Bartender?
- Yes, sir.
- Here?! Asking for a meeting?! The Bartender Petrovich?! I didn't understand,
comrade Senior Lieutenant!
- He's in room two, - she said, turning around, flipping gently with her boots, and
went out.
Kororstylyov put a cold cup on the desk. It was ten to five. He’d been asleep for
almost an hour here, on the combat position, with the cup at the ready. He went to the
window, limping on a stiff leg, pushed back the heater with a broken wheel. Opened the
curtains. Thaw had begun, it was dripping behind the glass. Darkness of the sky has
faded a little, half of street light had already been out. Korostylyov was surprised that
both sign “Chipka” and its windows were also dark and cold. The citizens literally went
home. The square was generally white but the tire tracks both in the Headquarters
parking lot and across the square were jet-black cut out, wet to asphalt. In the parking
lot there was an off-road GAZ69 on duty, with a signal antenna on it, and right under
the window, half-blocked by the terrace's roof, there was a familiar “ambulance” Rafik1
from former Senior Ensign Petrovich's artel (with a picture of a naked woman on its roof
wearing a horned fascist helmet, not many people knew about that). And a “heel” 2715
pick-up from the same artel. Korostylyov turned around and ran.
Certainly, he walked gracefully along the corridors and stairs. Firsova didn't
accompany him, violating the protocol, of course, but so what? The Headquarters
returned (For now! For now!) to the leisurely nightlife, vigilant but muffled. The second
conference room - a common room in which instructions were held, or “briefings” as it
is now fashionable to say - was on the first floor, next door to the stairs behind the
canteen. A duty officer, chief of the guard and a couple of Semyonov's bouncers were
standing beside this door. It was cool in the lobby, there was a breeze. Two unarmed
trackers in civilian clothes and Zhenya-Turanchoks were speaking with the duty officer.
The trackers were Magadantsev and Andrew Korobets, both were Petrovich's close
associates. Korobets was also a very sensitive, a good tracker. Korostylyov was noticed
and everyone went silent. He went closer, his people greeted him and moved away.
- Hello to you, trackers, - said Korostylyov carefully.
- Oleg Vitalievich, we came with Nikolaich. - Said Turanchoks quietly. - We have to
talk about the situation. In private. As the situation is quite difficult.
- I don't understand, Evgeny. Is Nikolai Nikolaevich really here?
- Well, yes. - said Turanchoks.
Korostylyov pointed his finger to the conference room.
- Well, yes, - confirmed Turanchoks. - There. Oleg Vitalievich, we're not being
funny here. Everything is very serious. Talk to the chief. I can't see him like this any
longer. Talk to him and we'll go back. He's there with his wife. If you don't understand

1
The RAF-2203 Latvija (nicknamed Rafik) was a cabover van designed and developed by Rīgas Autobusu
Fabrika from 1976–1997.

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something – talk to her. And with him. Vadim Svezhin is also there.
He added after a pause but without smiling, without scoffing, seriously:
- But don't come close to him, he flings. - Most intelligent Zhenya said “flings” in a
wrong way, which sounded like filth from his mouth. - He flings at us as well. It is eerie.
And dangerous. What if he's contagious?
Kororstylyov looked around. His people had dumbfounded faces. Not severed,
not detached, they were dumbfounded. It was muddy from footsteps on the granite
floor, it was wet from the exit doors to the conference room door.
- Comrade Lieutenant Colonel, seems that we organized everything in a quiet
way, didn't make a lot of noise, - said the duty officer, coughing. - We only asked Elena
Petrovna in half-voice to call you. But in general, it seems to be okay - the trackers from
“Two Pipes” came to discuss the Kalitins’ case. Like representatives.
It was easier to come in. So Kororstylyov entered the room and immediately
closed the door. The audience smelled strongly of some kind of cemetery odour and
cigarette smoke, and there was a lot of smoke. All the lights were on, the curtains on all
the windows were closed. Chairs and tables were moved to the windows and walls.
There were four people inside. Olga, an incredibly beautiful thin woman, Petrovich's
wife, was sitting cross-legged on the closest table, slouched, and smoking. A little plate
at her hip was filled with cigarette butts. In her hand which was resting on the table,
she was crumpling a blue pack of “Gitanes”. She crumpled it first, then tapped with it on
the table. She was biting a thumb nail on her other hand, in which she was holding a
cigarette. And the elbow of this arm leaned on her knee. A half-finished cigarette was
burning right by her eyes, which were filled with tears, perhaps, because of the smoke.
And her eyes were bright green but bloodshot, and the mascara was smeared. She was
wearing old “banana” jeans, yellow hiking boots, and a jumper. Her warm yellow jacket
was lying on the floor, having slipped from the chair on which it was put first. Behind
her, at the end of the conference room on the pedestal, the stretchers were placed on
two stationery desks for speakers, standing next to each other as always. And on these
stretchers a body was jerking and twitching, tied to these stretchers with some kind of
fabric ribbons. Ribbons covered both the body and stretchers completely, the person
was wrapped and swathed like a mummy. Only boots with constantly tapping and
palms, writhing palms with crooked fingers, scratching fingers, searching fingers, were
visible. The stretchers were gentry trembling as the swathed body was trying to get out
of it. Vadim Sverzhin,sitting on a chair at the feet of the swathed, was holding the
stretchers, and Korostylyov immediately remembered a story in “Neva” magazine when
a man was burned in a furnace1. And the fourth person was transmitted on a huge TV
screen human size width and which, for some reason, was standing on the floor on its
side, leaned against one of the tables next to the lecture podium. Some kind of very
flat, huge and rectangular TV that Korostylyov had never seen before. He had a square
TV and video player in one. Bartender Petrovich, a military expert who died on the

1
A partly autobiographical novel by Viktor Suvorov “Aquarium” was written in 1985. Was published in “Neva”
magazine in 1991.

154
mission in 1989, was looking at him from the screen through the crap noise. “Afghan”
veteran, the Senior Ensign, a legendary intelligence officer from the “first hundred”,
who was brought back to life by the Zone and since then has not been away from the
Zone further than the “neutral”. The owner of “Two Pipes”, an indisputable authority. A
smuggler and a trader. A millionaire. The Father's close friend and Yana's godfather.
- You should all burn in hell, - Olga said near him. Korostylyov came back to his
senses. She was looking at him with hatred but also with interest. A vile interest with a
touch of irony. As if she was saying “What will you do now, fisherman? Will you soil
yourself, Darling? Have you seen “Night of the Living Dead”? And here's a rise of a living
dead for you, fisherman.”
What Korostylyov could say to her? Although she didn't need that.
- I only looked into his eyes once, - she said. A flick of ash fell from her cigarette. -
How will I now look into his eyes, knowing what's there? Go quickly, talk to him, I can't
stand it anymore. Little Yana burned down, and Valya was killed, and now husband is a
zombie. And we must lie! Burn in hell.
Korostylyov nodded to Fenimore, came closer and realized that the screen is not a
TV but the Magic Table's top surface. He wanted to ask aliens a thousand questions but
he also realized that this is not the right time for these questions. The Trouble didn’t
start yesterday and will not finish tomorrow. The only thing he understood was that
some wires were soldered to the corners of the screen. And that these wires went
under the bandage on twitching corpse's head. And that corpse's ears were open but
the lower jaw was firmly tied up and his eyes were plastered with patches. It was also
clear that the Bartender's image on the screen does not see him. Well, at least
something not paranormal.
- So, Lieutenant Colonel, you have to shout loud as Nikolaich is only able to hear
you through the corpse's ears, and he's not able to see any fucking thing. And we can
hear him through this, - said Fenimore and pointed his finger at the station speaker
“Gzhatsk” made of plastic, grey because of its age, which was standing at a chair next to
the screen.
- Nikolai Nikolaevich! - shouted Korostylyov.
The corpse started to twitch as if someone send electrical charge through it.
Fenimore grabbed the stretchers' frame with both hands and even stood up. From the
loudspeaker came the following:
- Is that you, Korostylyov? I cannot see any fucking thing.
- Yes, that's me!
- It’s no good talking on the phone. So I arrived in person. I don't have much time
and the Table’s battery is dying. And I don’t feel very well. The city has a big claim
against you, Lieutenant Colonel, but I don't want to fight. In this case nobody wins. You
are right. We have to make a deal, to apply diplomacy. And I have a suggestion.
Korostylyov bent down and turned up the speaker volume to the maximum.
Petrovich’s voice sounded absolutely in sync with his image, and the clicks and hissing
noice coincided with image delays.

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 - I'm all ears!
- If you give us the blue bastard, as people demand, then you all go to losers. All
the magacitls: both fishermen and scientists, all of you. I understand. And this is
correct. And this is very bad as we have only earth supplies and both the Zone and the
Pre-Zone need protection. We cannot ask Yeltsin for independence, how much we can
take. We can take nothing of it. Beshensk cannot be self-sufficient, and, anyway,
nobody would allow this. All don’t even count that damn 17th platform. We are also
tired of this platform, it has to be defused, absolutely, and there's nothing to argue
about. So, Oleg, this is not the right moment for a tremendous uprising. We have to
keep the status quo. I don't want to expose personally you and Pinya. I remember all
the goodwill. Hey, are you there?
- I'm listening carefully, Nikolaich! - shouted Korostylyov.
- Do you agree with me?
- Absolutely!
- What?
- Ab-so-lu-te-ly!
- And you also cannot organize a murder trial yourself as he's like the winner of
the race, right? And now you have to protect him under the orders. To the bitter end.
- Yes!
- Can you tell me who actually came up with all this? - asked Petrovich. - I just
want to understand. For myself.
Korostylyov answered instantly:
- Grachev! This all his missiles, approved by Yeltsin.
- Well, I thought something like that... So, this is my suggestion, Lieutenant
Colonel. Don't answer straightaway, think about it. I brought you paramilitary. They are
alive. They are in the car, tied up. And you will give them to us. And they will answer for
the crime. Let's say, they met the Kalitins in the night and paramilitary said something
nasty, then Yana answered in the best way she could. Like that, word by word and the
firing started. People will believe that.
- And Yana's words?
- What words? The ones I'll tell the people? About the cloak?
- She said the name.
- No, she didn't. She only said about the cloak. Me and Olya heard that. I said
something like that to Tolya Lazarev, he could misunderstand. I have already asked him
again. He's also in the car by the way. Sitting on top of your paramilitary. He's informed
- And the thief ran off?..
- And the thief ran wherever his feet took him, as he always gets all the blame.
The police will cover their wrondoing if there is a thief at hand. And he took the cloak
because it was cold.
Korostylyov's head rolled back by own accord as if he was hit in his jaw or he bit
his tongue by accident. Fenimore was watching him with some indecent, greedy
curiosity. This Fenimore is a very dark horse. Petrovich's suggestion was very good. It's

156
impossible to describe how good it was. And Korostylyov had to decide quickly, while
Lazarev was not done playing Sherlock Holmes, and while the troublers are still
captured by that common spirit so they would easily believe Petrovich's version. And
the doubters will believe after they quench their thirst for revenge.
But he still had one argument.
- Nikolai Nikolaevich, I got everything, - he said. - But the Father was killed in the
Zone. There are no rules in the Zone. This is the rule. And that means that my thief is
not under any jurisdiction. None of them are under the jurisdiction.
- Wrong, comrade Lieutenant Colonel, - said the dead man. - First of all, the
Father and Yana are not trackers. They are the ones. But I don't need to tell you that.
And secondly, our guys found the site of the murder. That's in the “neutral”. The corner
of Yangel and Astrakhan streets. The “neutral”, comrade Lieutenant Colonel. The holy
land.
Politics.
- I'll give you one, Nikolai Nikolaevich, - Korostlyov said loudly and slowly. - I'll tell
you which one in an hour.
Fenimore looked at the corpse as if it was alive. Then he leaned over the
stretchers to look at the living, depicted on the screen of unknown kind. Petrovich
looked thoughtful on the screen, familiarly rubbing his chin with his fist when the
corpse suddenly farted. But that wasn't that noble smell of methane mixed with vomit
tones, that was the smell of some terrible formaldehyde mixed with formalin. Fenimore
coughed, pulled away but didn’t stop holding the corpse. He only quickly put a powerful
respirator on his plump cheeks and a snub nose with one hand, as by habit.
- Good, - said Petrovich. – It’s a win for both. That's fair. Give us a call and say the
name. I will explain everything to my artel, of course, to those who are informed.
Lazarev agreed. I mean he... Well... Never mind. He has the shells from the place where
Vasya was killed and also convoy's weapon. Figure it out. And put your people on heavy
statutory duty for a couple of weeks. All right?
- Yes, Nikolai Nikolaevich.
- Can you make sure that not a thing leaks from that bastard?
- Yes.
- And we will never see him in the city? And none of your suicide squad convicts?
- Yes, I guarantee it. No more encounters. I will change the procedure.
- Excellent. The procedure is above all. Anyway, whoever you choose will not leak
any information. Leave it with me. Well. Seems that we've made a deal, I didn't come in
vain. Have we made a deal, Lieutenant Colonel?
- We have, former Senior Ensign. Just one second. The Father's body.
- We'll bury him ourselves. Don’t need your people.
- I meant the bullets.
Petrovich thought a while.
- Ah, where is Vyatkin when you need him?! - he said with annoyance. - Okay, I'll
elicit them myself. We’ll get them delivered to you. I meant to Lazarev. And don't you

157
tell anything about Valentin's body, shut you scientists without delay. Lord forbid.
- I understand that, Nikolai Nikolaevich.
- Then we drink a round1. Call Olya and you can be free. I can't stand it anymore.
Vadim, let's get the hell out of here, I feel awful. Did you tie my jaws well? I won’t bite
through it, will I?..
Kororstylyov didn’t say goodbye neither to him nor to Fenimore, nor especially to
milky-pale Olga. Five minutes later, a guard let him in the interrogation camera where
Lisivoy was chained to a table. Nobody has spoken to him yet, nobody has explained
anything and Lisovoy was hit with the same electric trembling as Petrovich's corpse.
And he was blue pale, scarier than Olga.
Korostylyov sat opposite deep in his thoughts, totally forgetting about the thief.
“To choose whom to execute is essentially your job as you are the officer of the main
Intelligence Directorate”, he thought. “However, one of its aspects. One of the totally
forgotten, unfortunately... Probably one of them is single or doesn't have children. Yes,
that's probably right. Will Blinchuk cause any problems? No, he will not. What?..”
- Comrade Colonel, I am kindly wondering where comrade General Marchenko is?
- repeated Lisovoi. - As I remember he is my supervisor.
- I am Lieutenant Colonel, - said Kororstylyov.
- My daughter is married to a Lieutenant Colonel, - said the Fox convincingly. - I
know these Lieutenant Colonels! And you are a Colonel, this is clear as day! So what is
with comrade General? I need to report to him how the poachers and maniacs almost
killed me.
“And you can't get past it. You can’t give him away or sentence as Kalitins'
murderer. If we convict him, we convict ourselves. Everything is in vain. And here we
are, back to square one.” The Fox continued to mumble just changing the tone from
fawning to impudent. But he was shaking terribly. The saliva spat out of the corner of
his lips, dripped along the stubble, and Kororstylyov felt that a living dead is not as
disgusting and fearful as a living thief. He stood up (the Fox shut up immediately),
looked out to the corridor and asked the guard for a cigarette. Lit it, made a few whiffs,
came back to the table and put out a cigarette with its end in the Fox' eye, who raised
his eyebrows in amazement.
- Don't let anybody in, - he said to the guard, stepping into the corridor. -
Especially Muscovites. How do you get it, Petrov?
- Yes, sir. And a doctor?
- Nobody. And pass on it to next shift. Now lock it up.
- Yes, sir, - said the guard Ensign Petrov, pushing the bolts. - How great the
American soundproofing is, isn't it, Comrade Colonel?
- I am Lieutenant Colonel, Petrov, - Korostylyov answered, licking and studying his
burned finger. - The soundproof is great, I agree. Don't violate it. Keep your watch.

1
An ancient ritual of fraternization, when a jar with a drink was transferred in a circle from warrior to warrior.

158
 Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)
File “From my moleskin number 17“

November 5th, 2029. Yesterday Wobenaka Jr brought an artistic recording of one

gathering in the bar of Brussels Department of International Commission for the problem of
QZAI. Every time the boy writes better and better in Russian, although his writing is too
flowery. I pointed it out to him. And he's also an excellent source of information. I copy the
informative part into a notebook. Pity, that he crossed all the names right in the file. Of
course, the old man Gorsky is the main character.
“After the third round (...) he suddenly proclaimed with anguish: we’re breaking the
custom, walkers, we should drink the fourth toast not to a success of some separate event
but solely to the life and power of our boss, our Putin, Lenin, and all four Kims; our dear and
beloved chief, the H-Ment1, von Baron and the defeater of phalanxes, let all the strontium
dust off him. Everyone at once became silent and stared at him collectively trying to
comprehend the reason for this rush. The old man blushed because of this attention, sat
pretty upright at almost empty Swedish dastrakhan and began an intellectual attack of this
reputable group, approaching the target from different angles at the same time.
“History is geography”, said Doctor (M.D., C.S., G.M., and many more)(...) the former
and the future director of QZAI Research Institute. (While speaking, he showed with his
fingers that he is not just quoting but almost creating a new trademark.) “Our Mother-
Trouble could have been useful if it hadn't spread on two shards of the great evil Empire,
which so inconveniently and untimely slumped half a century ago for next forty years
bringing joy to all people of goodwill. Unclear? Fools, fools, and fools, do you understand
me? Pour more drink. And the international community had disturbed it with its
internationalization three times already! That's why exploring the Zone is inevitably doomed
to fail! This just can't be effective in general sense. The only one, I repeat, the only one way to
get the humankind benefit from the Zone, from this incredible gift to the dumb... earth
civilization from the unknown kind - is a sovereign state for the Zone. Huh? Yes! With a
government, an army, the Ministry of Commerce, and, the main thing, with sluts and the
Academy of Science. Still unclear? I'll explain. Ezrah, pour me some, my old compatriot.”
“My little, pathetic opponents, continued (...), rinsing his throat with the fathers'
“Prime”. The problem is that the Zone still has no indigenous population. Do you understand
me? So you’ve got to learn, if you don't understand. Yes! The indigenous people are officially
necessary. Not those visitors that comprise Russian salad from magacitls, the military, wild
cowardly scientists... and other trash... Tourists!' - said (...) with contempt. - At best, the Zone
will be explored by tourists! Everyone keeps his own little record... Don't argue with me, I am
right, and you all are... - (...) stumbled but deftly grabbed the fleeing sense of rhetorical
period by the tip of its tail. - Population... Not population! I'll call it 'nation' and I will be right.
Do you understand? The Zone Nationals should arise and immediately attend to the
conquest of sovereignty, my international trackers, sirs. We all are Brussels cabbage,

1
Ment (Russian: мент) means “a cop”. Assumedly, it is hello to “The H-Man”.

159
cosmopolitans and magacitls!.. People must arise, up to a declaration of war to anyone...
War to humanity in the name of happiness of humanity! If there is no other way to develop
science in the Zone. Japanese... International Expedition... Private walkers... WASA with the
Moon... I also was a private walker, and I know for sure: this all is bullshit. All except
nationally centralized exploring!”
Then (…) set aside his glass and grabbed the bottleneck.
“The trouble is not in the Zone, gentlemen”, he said bitterly, pouring and drinking. “We
are the trouble, do you understand? We all sighed with relief, my little scientists, when it
became clear to us that the Mother-Trouble is not going to give away anything. We sighed in
1988, in 1994, in 2010, always, after every cycle. Because going to missions is dangerous.
Because digging in your own feces is sour. Because we want to steal from the Mother but not
to cooperate with it. Because we do not perceive Mother from a view of contact. Because it is
more profitable for us to divide a bear skin, without even planning to hunt. Like that disgrace
with AIDS, exactly.”
(...), a woman who even seemed to be sobering up, muttered something in Swedish.
(...) heard her. “Were there enthusiasts? Were there heroes? There were. Good luck. But
failures are not worth gratitude, and the dead do not write refereed publications, and the
Nobel Prize is not awarded posthumously. What is not recorded is not observed. My dear
Ingrid, all our Big Science has degenerated into a series of sci-fi action movies based on true
events... Here is your science.”
Dr. Gorsky, abruptly sitting down and almost hitting his chin, put the bottle under the
table and took the unfinished glass from (...).
“Silence!” - he barked in a reverent silence. - “I have the largest number of publications,
so shut up and listen, since you asked me to shoot from the hip and without... without these.
The Mother has been watching our equipment for forty years, it doesn't pay off,
communication network still isn’t working, and we cannot tie our dear (...) with his
pathological intuition to each drone. I'll tell you now. Now you will hear the truth. It reached
the boiling point.”
“I feel so sorry for the Soviet Union of Socialism Republics! I feel so sorry that this
terrible geopolitical cadaver of German Frankenstein fell on its face and choked on its awful
beet salad... Listen to me! I'll tell you. I also saw a dream. I dreamed that the Mother is still
Soviet, my pathetic opponents. So I emigrated to Russians! I signed up as a security officer!
And I started searching for an ultimate weapon in the Zone to establish the world
domination of communism. And along the way – along - the - way! - I was engaged in the
fucking mathematical modeling of gravitational intensities of limiting magnitude. I tortured
political prisoners and sent them... and also children, the conscripts... for data and
materials. And they ran! And some returned. And brought me loots and data. They installed
my scientific instruments and recorded their measurements! They even returned dead with
notebooks of observations! And on Saturdays, after drinking spirits, I fucked the mustachioed
Soviet Corporal-telephonists... and, believe me, I was absolutely happy. And listen! I was
really moving the fucking world science forward. I kicked it forward with seven-miles boots
and never even in my nightmares did I uphold the goddamn author's rights of some fucking

160
sponsors and trustees of the university... And Generalissimo Stalin granted me... what did he
grant to his unknown heroes?”
“He had been granting life”, said the newcomer (...). “What else can be granted to a
slave? Freedom? A sheep doesn't need a damn freedom.”
Dr. (...) sat down as if he got deflated all of a sudden. However, the attention of the
audience did not diminish even a jot.
“Don't be ironic, my dear Russian Ivan, he said with sadness. I do not fantasize. I'm
crying. Roughly speaking, we have a time machine, a space machine and a wish machine in
one unit right next door, and we have been playing war games for forty years, just not to let
our neighbor explore it... I’m generalising, of course, and exaggerating', Dr. (...) said directly
to (...). 'Don't you sparkle with your respected kidneys stones, illuminating the baseness of my
mental crime against humanity! After all, I am desperate, and despair itself is abnormal
intensity of unknown kind... And I am desperate because we are in trouble. Not in the
Trouble, not in the Mother, but in trouble. And I repeat, this trouble is not that we still don't
know how, why, what from and what for the Zone appeared; why the localization of
intensities is so insane and why it's not replicable in the scope of our experience... we don't
even know the particular configuration of the Zone, my dear (...). We still don't! The altitude
of anomalies detection is sometimes ten and sometimes three hundred kilometers from
surface, and sometimes the satellite burns at highest point of ten thousand... And none of
habitable stations burn! Why stations with people don't burn?! Explain this to me! And our
heroic digging?... Shame! Just once in 2010 we've captured an outside influence on the Zone.
Thanks to this new... What was that?... This trouble, our comrade new (...), is not that we don't
understand why it turns out that the gravity can be poured into buckets, and we cannot
figure out what is the nature of abnormal electrical memory, and how the psychomatrix of a
concrete person can be recorded into a stationary genome and then be reproduced on a
clone... And at least, how come time machine is possible and exists... And how did that idiot
get from Kapustin right to “Mir” in 1993... And why Vadim Fenimore, the Fix' tricks and other
long-livers don't age at all?! This is annoying! I am already 72 and I also want that!” (...) kept
a bit silent. “This trouble, dear (...), is that considering the present state of things we will not
be able to learn that... to understand... to dance and to sing. We hadn't even started yet. And
we will not start.
Ne-ver.”
So here's a very intelligible script of the record. Well done, boy, getting at home in the
writers’ circle. He's the best in my club. I wonder who this “newcomer”?

161
 CHAPTER 9

FEW AT THE SAME TIME

A GIRL

You are very cute, no, really, it’s a little uneasy. I want to kiss you. Like that. No-no,
keep lying down and I'll bring some water. Never seen this water before? So strange.
This is “Perrier”, here you can buy it in a simple convenience store, don't you know?
Here in Bezhensk we have awesome supply. We’ve had it almost from the very
beginning. I remember myself a little girl, I was in the second grade. My dad brought a
chewing gum from Riga. It was in form of cigarettes so the whole school was following
me. Even the elders. I was like the belle of the ball. And it was totally forbidden to visit
those democrats, Germans, Bulgarians and Czechs who came here following the
Warsaw Pact for target practice on a shooting range. It was also absolutely forbidden to
approach them, if you're caught - that's the end for your parents, both for their career
and party membership. The democrats had a lot too, clothes, watches, chewing gum,
different trinkets, porn and celebrity magazines and posters. Then ours brought this all
from the range. But this was also forbidden in the city, the chief of the range was a
formidable man. Since the dry law was declared even buttermilk disappeared. That was
in 1986 or in 1987. And my dad told me that before, until 1984, in winter, grapes were
served in the canteen even for soldiers. A bunch every day. You don’t open water bottle
like this. Turn the lid. Right, it's nothing special but it's very clean and somehow it really
quenches the thirst. So, there also were Hungarians, and the Romanians never came.
And after the Lightning we lived badly just for a year and a half until everything settled
down. And do you know what? It settled down when everybody realized that it's
impossible to leave, that's we're unable to. That we did get contaminated and can pass
the infection to the rest of the world. Exactly then we began to settle down, to think.
And here the presidents first signed the Memorandum and the Americans, the
Germans, real ones, the French with their devices and food tumbled down to us.
Actually Americans were here from the beginning since their expert panel got right in
the Lightning and none of them came out alive, no one. People saw they were locking
doors in their hostel from inside. That was during the panic. No, they didn't live in a
hotel. In a hostel that later became one of a “flying Khruschev houses”, you know. So,
they had it renovated first, made some serious improvements, and then generals,
congressmen and different scientists began to visit us. They cut rockets and my dad
was absolutely mad about this. Later he befriended one General, of Mr. Spyne. I'm not
kidding you, General Spyne. This means the same in Russian, like a spy, don't laugh. So
then my dad stopped being mad. That was the committee for the implementation of
rockets class agreement. Then dad had to go to America to observe how Americans
disposed of their rockets the same way. So, that's why Americans appeared here at the

162
very beginning. They helped a lot. And we helped them. Our guys walked them into the
Zone. They were looking for survivors, but nobody survived. I remember I was very
surprised how many American women arrived. Not telephonists, not chemists but real
combat women. And they opened an airport last year. Not that Airfield which is placed
in the Zone. Don't confuse them or you'll catch a lot of funny looks. It's a new one, it’s
called just airport. And a lot of things appeared at once. We could even buy a car right
from America. You know, nobody forbids us anything. The administration includes only
military men but they are very sympathetic to the ordinary people, to trackers. You're
wrong when you say that there is no prospects. You see... First of all, what prospects did
we have before? We had none at all. To get to study in Moscow? Don't make me laugh.
Right now there is hunger and fighting everywhere and here we have International
Institute, and scientists immediately organized good patronage; and there's a school at
the institute, and an evening school. The same scientists teach there. Although, to tell
the truth, I realize that they are watching us at the same time. Everybody realizes that.
So what? No, I won't smoke these cigarettes. Why don't you try mine? Take it in my
handbag. Please be careful, it's loaded. I don't like cigarettes with menthol. Am I an
Astrakhan's hooker or something? I am a girl from the Trouble. So, where were we? The
prospects. Well, it’s not important that we don't travel around the country, there is
nothing to see anyway. Starting from this year we have regular tours to Hawaii. That's
one of the U.S. states, you know. There's an agreement that the Institute pays for a
hotel and a part of the beach, or gets a long lease. So they bring those without visas or
permit to leave to Hawaii, to the seaside all year round. So everybody gets there for ten
days. Moreover, we had a large piece of floodplain on the outer perimeter. There are
also Akhtuba, beaches, forests with no strangers at all. We clean all the shit there
ourselves. And we keep an eye on this all ourselves. Have you noticed how clean it is
everywhere? And there's a lot of work. Here, look. The airport, city maintenance, trade,
the Institute, administration, all the services, all the construction. And one of our
'Trouble' guys works in the Institute. He's very talented. He has an own laboratory. Isn't
it a career? Well yeah, restrictions. But who doesn't have them? Where don’t you have
restrictions? Take me for example. Now, as I'm studying design engineering, urban
design, I work with people, you are only the third for me today. Everything is clean,
everything is by consent. And if someone tries to hurt me the whole city comes for the
offender and lays him down the lawn. And now we're going to go to bed, nobody's in a
hurry. And salary, health care, and pleasure is all official. Absolutely everybody
understands. After all, there are not many of us, so we care of each other and we
understand each other. Will I be married or not, the one thing I know for sure: I'll never
be alone. Should I fall in love with a man eligible to leave - surely he'll be a military
expert or a scientist. And if they come here once they stay for long. We never say
“forever“. And tourists... Well, that's clear if a tourist lives here for a half of the year, alive
and useful, so then he's going to stay for long. Come on, stop it! What sex tourism?
What perverts? They are free to come try us. Don't be silly. Really, we won't even ask our
guys to help, we will smash such tourist ourselves. So, you know... Many of us have

163
relatives on Earth, so we have something to compare with. Where is better and why?
There's no better. And you offer me to go with you. Where? Where?! Of course, you are
so cute and today you loved me divinely. I won't take money for this, no. I'm serious. I
feel like I'm flying after you. But starting a serious relationship is a different story. I
have to look at you, what kind of man you are, how do you can hold on here, would the
Mother and the neighbors accept you. So don't you tell me empty words. Fill them first
and then tell me. And more, you say you found a woman of your dreams? Each woman
is alike here, you even can find better. What do you mean I'll get bored? Why? The
whole city is full of restaurants. We have our own musicians. Even stars try to get to us.
We even cannot call all of them. “Time Machine“ is like native here. Oh, you know, I was
twelve when the Lightning burst out. And we were sitting in the steppe in our tents. The
spring just began, it was still cold, not all tears had dried, we still had hope. Such
anguish. A friend of mine hanged herself because of this anguish. Although her mum
and dad came alive out of the Lightning, she hanged herself. That was such a period, a
shock. And suddenly “Time Machine“ comes to the Tempstation (A temporary station?).
They played for us under the rain right on the platform for three hours. We all like woke
up because of them. I'll never forget it. Then Sting, Michael Jackson, Mariah Carey and
that funny guitar player Mark, I don't remember the surname1 visited us. All them got
here on direct flights. Here and back. Not many people know about it. Quarantine is
quarantine. Calls to relatives are taped, letters get opened. But that's okay. A gas
meteorite doesn’t fall on everyone. What do you mean to believe you or not? I told you -
a gas meteorite - and it means a gas meteorite. Ah, yeah, right, I'm talking too much.
Let's continue. And what are you going to do? O-o-oh. You are so cute. That's right, yes,
yes, yes. I'll turn a bit now. O-o-oh, well hello, let's go.
Thank you. Come on, go to bed, I’m going to read a bit. What? Ah, no, that's a
normal question, it's allowed to ask it here. My dad was on combat duty on the 17th
platform. And my mum disappeared during the panic. That's okay, but thanks for
asking. Sleep well.

1
Knopfler, of course.

164
 THE NIGHT AT THE CAMPFIRE IN THE ZONE

- Don't be an arsehole, bury it.

- Don't teach a skilled one to divide and multiply. So what happened to this
correspondent? Come on, Phase, go on.
- “The Red Star” if shortly. He was such a Major-correspondent. All in mustache, in
acne, his peaked cap was larger than a general's one. You won’t be able to drown him in
any toilet. What can I say? A Muscovite. And he, Fenimore, was one of the club's staff.
He lived in a batalion and worked in the club, as a photographer, that’s is why he saw
this story with his own eyes. They say, that even other units called him out, apparently,
he was a talented photographer. But that's not the point. So he got an order. He needed
a handsome captain on the front page, who excels in everything, with all possible
achievements for the year. With a photo. So the Major arrived for the center's task. He
checked in a hotel - they had a hotel in the unit, a training center, I'll show you
tomorrow if the Mother allows us to reach. Of course, they had been drinking for three
days. He usually showed himself to the Commander in the morning, talked to him, and
beginning from midday the elite quietly sneaked to his hotel's room. Remember, we
had a dry law, the year 1987! And he had two suitcases with him. And here he is setting
up all the connections, away from his wife. Since I’ll be time to go back in a few. Then,
the head of Political Department and the Commander finally determine who goes on
the front page. Captain Negulyaev.
- Wait a second. Our Negulyaev? A military expert?
- Exactly!
- Damn! Such a small world.
- Just listen. Exactly that time there was a shooting training period. And they
made some schedule corrections so Negulyaev's company could be held out of the line
and shot grandly while the correspondent was there. And this correspondent was
begging to be present at the start in order to feel the atmosphere, he kissed everyone’s
ass and got what he wanted. And he was picturing Negulyaev standing against the
background of a launch platform. Or at least against the background of a boundless
Kazakh steppe.
- Why the hell? Cut and paste!
- Those people had been drinking for a week. Don’t be a child. A muse visited him,
torment of creativity, journalistic conscience.
- Ha-ha-ha!
- Exactly. And considering that the correspondent had no concept of photography
as he was a writer, they took Fenimore with them. They agreed with the head of the
club, persuaded a counterintelligence employee, and so they sat Fenimore in the
launch platform in the evening, then sat themselves, retrieved the last cognac and took
off. The start is scheduled for tomorrow so the whole evening is ahead, ration doesn't
interfere with the cognac. And Negulyaev paves the route so that his company can visit

165
one right hostel.
- A lamb?
- No, they decided to eat some pork.
- Pork. I do understand, by the way!
- Yeah, who wouldn't understand? So that was a state farm hostel. There lived a
Kazakh who run piggies of some military unit according to the agreement. The night
was just like this one. But here we have two half-moons and they don’t get one, it’s a full
moon. Along the way, comrades officers finished a liter and reached the place being not
just tipsy but severely intoxicated, completely ready for a commercial transaction. And
Negulyaev sit behind the steering himself, because that's about the responsibility of a
soviet officer and a knowledge of the route, you know. And now imagine the hostel, a
lonely small hut, a kerosene lamp is the only sign of civilization and you are a peacefully
sleeping Kazakh. And a ghastly rocket launcher with searchlight in the forehead jumps
out of the steppe and almost demolish your house, it stops with a rocket into a wall.
- Ah, come on. I have seen Kazakhs at the farm points. One Yusa is worth
mentioning. You tell the story, not your fantasies.
- Ask Fenimore when we're back.
- I'll ask Negulyaev.
- Don't you interrupt, walker! So, the Kazakh jumped out of the house wearing
just his underpants with a double-barreled gun and immediately started yelling.
Everybody got out, the correspondent climbed down to Kazakh with his ID, Negulyaev
offered a glass. So they calmed Kazakh down and started to bargain. Then Kazakh,
realizing they are drunk, decided to prank them.
- To rip them off?
- Why? Better. He took their money and a bottle and brought them a beat-up boar.
- Ha-ha-ha!
- It was up to Negulyaev's waist at the withers. A monster about two hundred
kilograms, but sleepy and amiable, so he came out, sniffed around and fell asleep
standing up. Here Negulyaev said to Kazakh: “What the hell? We need meat, not a pet.
Cut it!” Kazakh answered: “No, I sold it but I won't slaughter it. I bad for it.” “You can’t
feel bad. You're Kazakh, you must be cut rams for breakfast, lunch and dinner!” And
Kazakh said: “I won't do this, I want to sleep. Take it and go away from here.” They
scratched their heads, looked at the pig and stiffened. How do we slaughter it? It's
scary. We cannot even approach it. So they said to Kazakh: “Give us a gun, we'll shoot
and go away.” Kazakh answered: “I’ve got one shot left. You are the military, you have
machine guns.”
- So?
- The ammunition was counted and nobody had a stray bullet. There was one for
the MP1, but what is the MP for this boar? A cherry bone. Try a sledgehammer? We are
drunk and should we miss in the night boar will maul us. Fenimore said: “Everybody
was really scared stiff. All the soldiers packed themselves back in the car, and others

1
Makarov pistol.

166
were already getting sober as the shooting training should be started in the morning
and at that moment nobody knew what to do.” And suddenly there's a knock on the
side and Negulyaev said: “Get out mechanic, and drag along an armored cable.”
- A-a-a-a-a-a!
- Did you get it? And they didn't. They got stunned and went outside. But as for a
driver, there was nothing to be done, so he uncoiled the cable and gave it to Negulyaev.
And this all was happening right at the side, they were all standing in a small group.
Negulyaev said to Kazakh: “Hold your pig.” And said it so authoritatively that Kazakh put
his doubled-barrel gut to the board, took his pet by its ears and stared at Negulyaev.
Negulyaev exposed cleats and said to a driver: turn on it the. And the driver
automatically turned the power on maximum. And Negulyaev poked it at the boar's
snout.
- A...A...A...A... Wait, I can't... Ah... And?
- Nobody even moved. Fenimore said only the smell of a disciplinary battalion
appeared in the night. Kazakh was being tossed like a spinning top in the air, at one
point, above the pig and then he hit the ground with all his bones - b-bam!
- And the pig?
- And the pig ran into the steppe, grunting.
- A-a-a-a-ah!
- Negulyaev said: “Fuck, I missed!” Here Kazakh jumped up and aimed at
Negulyaev from all barrels: bo-o-om! And missed. Negulyaev asked: “What the fuck?”
Kazakh unlocked the chamber, took two more bullets from his underpants, loaded and
fired again: ba-a-ang! Negulyaev shouted: “Calm down! Are you insane?!” So Kazakh saw
that he won't get the aim today, so he threw his gun away and went back inside the hut.
And correspondent stood up and said thoughtfully: “And this is what kind of
people we protect from the world imperialism. Not only can't he hold a pig but he can't
shoot at the close range either.”
- Phe-e-ew... What a story. If he’s not a female sexual organ, which the Red Army
is. And what happened next?
- They ate canned meat. But that's not the point. I like the way Fenimore tells the
end of this story.
- Well?
- He says: “As I walk through the Zone at night just like now, and I imagine a fierce
electrical boar prowling somewhere here for many years.” What, Sergeant-Sergeant,
isn't it impressive?
Pause.
- Go to hell, Phase.
- Ha-ha-ha.
- There are no monsters in the Zone. There are phalanxes, and mushrooms and
cars in the city. But there are no mutated pigs.
- It's funny.
- What's funny? You’ve spoiled the mood, damn it.

167
- It's funny how easy it is to spoil the mood in the Zone. Especially at night.

168
 INTERROGATION

- Listen, you are a chief, I am a fool. How can I know anything? You caught me
red-handed, okay, I admit that, but I don't remember how I got there. I don't and that's
it. I agree for a term, you give it to me, I take it and done with that. Stop tormenting my
soul, fisherman.
- You have to draw a map.
- A map of what? What?! I have absolutely no idea how I got there! I jumped aside
from one gitik then from another, got in a whirl and then some robot mongrel came at
me from the gateway, damn this furry box. I started to shoot, panic began, I don't
remember anything! A decent cop would give me a medal after I went all the way from
the House of Officers and passed Tolbukhin street alive. And you ate up inside my soul
and took away my cigarettes!
- Tell me about the portal again.
- I don't know anything about a portal.
- You told Malinov brothers about it. And Dr. Nikitin either.
- So ask them, those snitches.
- Listen, you weren't born yesterday, stop acting a fool. Do you think I would tell
you informers’ names?
- Snitches!
- For someone it is a spy, for others - a scout. But you are really sassy. I'm talking
to you as a tracker and you faking a poacher. You aren't even from Lightning, you are a
mountaineer. A shape of a guitar, as in that song. Tell me, how many times have you
been to the Zone? Be careful, trackers never lie about the number of their missions.
Even during interrogation.
- I know this. Five times.
- Five times. Four times as a bumper.
- A wingman!
- And tell me please, who took you as a wingman in the very first mission? Have
you heard the phrase 'Care about your rating from young age'?
- I refuse to talk to you at all. Why don't you believe a word I say?
- Because you're hiding a stash. Because you know what was inside a test tube,
what kind of sand it was. Because there were three of you on the mission, but only you
came back. With your flair, you wouldn't even throw the “risk” in a “procrust”, but you
came back. Nobody in the city will ask you a question, but the experienced will be
pasturing you in the Zone, right? Do you know what happens if I put you on
“Ryazanskiy”? Just understand that if you’d found any other loot, any other, the
government wouldn't give a shit. But you're hiding a portal. And this calico is real
leather. That one which they take off from the backside.
- I swear I don't remember how I got out.
- Misrukov was leading the way, right?

169
 - Yes.
- Who was the wingman?
- I was. The newcomer was a bumper.
- Why did Misrukov take you?
- He took me for a breakthrough. For half of a divvy. As I have to keep fit. And he
was going to the thirtieth block for some “porridge”. And the bumper was hired for a
full share, he was some homeless guy from Pallasovka, left the Perimeter through the
steppe. There have been lots of them lately.
- How did you reach the Officer House?
- But it turned out that the “sandbox“ is dry, we came for nothing. And it was
unexpectedly foggy at the return track. You know the woolies prowl there, on
Nilovskaya street, where the evil kindergarten is. It is scary in the fog, you can't see
anything. If you move in Volgograd direction - there is an inside of a “Draft”. Straight
through the block - the phalanxes. So where to? Only wait on the same spot. And it was
already past noon. So we made a decision to go with “risks” diagonally to blocks sixty-
one, sixty-two. As the track is popular. And that's okay that we will have to give in to
fishermen at the exit, not the first time.
- Did Misrukov make this decision?
- Well, he did. He used to be one of yours. Well, that wasn't his day, caught
nothing, that happens. This is what he said. “You'll owe me or maybe a loot will fall out
on the track. Then you'll have a more meaningful experience.” What could we do, he
was the boss. We walked for a very long time as there are five kilometers in one on this
track. We were walking by block twenty-six on Nilovskogo street for an hour and a half!
- This is normal.
- But I seriously don't understand how we ended up at the Officers’ House! It is a
well-established track!
- Okay. You don't understand. The portal. Tell me about it.
- Misrukov defined it with “risks”. “Oh”, he said, “A portal! We are discoverers,
there's not a rumor about it, not a mark on any map. Now we shall find out where it
leads.”
- Wait. Did he identify the type of the portal? “Three” or the “monocle”? What is it
powered by?
- “Procrusts” weren't there so that wasn't the “Monocle“ for sure. The portal had
arches, but I don't know their number. We've checked two. One is very big and another
is only about a meter and half. That's the system, but I can't tell you how many heads it
has. I don't know.
- And what keeps it alive?
- There are some whirlwinds next to the press kiosk and behind it. And the system
is obscure. A big portal...
- Here's the map. Draw it.
- This is the kiosk. And this stop doesn't exist for us anymore, it's in the portal,
inside the big arch. The big arch is placed like this, and the small one like this, at an

170
angle. There's nothing else that I know of. I didn't walk around.
- Are the trees around mutated?
- Yes, very powerful mutants, aliens. Their leaves float even though there is no
“negativity” around. Gravity next to the system is normal.
- Okay, continue. You started to check where the portals lead to.
- Yes.
- Starting from matches?
- Yes... I had the smaller arch and bumper had the big one. I went first. Using the
rope, of course.
- Come on, straight to the point, astronaut!
- You already know!
- How can I not know if three academics, two army generals, and one minister
have already brought your mug shot here?
- That's because I don't have a gas mask. Hasn't earned it.
- A gas mask was hanging on your belt. So just say that you forgot to put it on.
Tracker.
- I only climbed there up to my waist and saw an astronaut, hanging in the air in
front of me with a camera. The noise was like in a boiler room, the smell like in a latrine.
I didn't get what was going on.
- Yeah, but he did. He got it so well that the crew had to return prematurely.
- Ah, come on, you! I didn't create the Zone. Moreover, I missed out there from
the start. He screamed and threw the camera at me. So I jumped aside.
- He took four pictures. I think I should to introduce you to him, Tolya. He wants
to smash your face.
- And I thought he wants my autograph...
- Don't be cocky, I'm not the Mother. Continue.
- Well, I told Ken, I mean Misrukov, where I was and what I saw. Seemed that he
believed me. And I immediately started having a headache right upto my whole body
hurting. I sat down instantly, Ken gave me some pills and said: “Shit happens, you did a
good job. Now, get some rest.” He looked so happy!
- I bet he was.
- Well, he let the bumper go into the big one. With the rope. He was sucked in
right after he started climbing, he only flashed his soles. And Misrukov was pulled in
with him, since the rope was tied to him because there wasn't anything else. He
shouted, dug his heels in, and it blew him off. That's all.
- And where does the sand come from?
- From the other side. I think Misrukov pushed out some sand from the other side
with his heels, when already there. He was pressing against with his feet so hard that
he flew into the arch standing upright not dolphin-style. I don't know how to describe it.
- I got it.
- I just was next to it, very close. And this sand just splashed from the arch in two
trickles. I sat a bit more, waited.

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 - For how long?
- Until the next morning. I didn't leave the place. Hugging a machine gun. Then I
collected the sand in a tube and went back. I swear I don't remember what happened
and how next. I paid with my memory. I even didn't remember that I collected the sand.
I only saw it at home.
- Ah-ha. Well, at least you drew the map.
- That's because you made me!
- Okay, Anatoly, you'll stay with us until we find everything out.
- Such bitches you are. I told you everything. I won't go to this portal ever again.
And I won't say anything to anybody.
- This is what we'll be thinking about - how to make so that you don't say anything
to anybody.
- You will kill me, you bastard. Now, get some rest.

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 PART III
AUGUST 24TH, 1994

FENIMORE AND OTHERS

CHAPTER 10

The last Fenimore’s meeting this “Friday”1 was in “American glass piece No. 8”,
very close to home. The meeting ended quickly. Already at half past five, he went out to
fresh air, shove the package he received in his inner pocket, wrapped around and
fastened his “alaska”, pulled a hat over his eyebrows and, still shivering, went home.
The August Astrakhan sun was beaming low along the Arkanarskaya reaching
Fenimore’s back. He physically felt its thrusts. There were no people on the street at
that time, the military and servicemen were still working, and housewives and
househusbands were already having dinner. Fenimore turned to a nameless side street
between the wall plates of a laundry and trading post No. 11, where he had to dodge
the patrol. Despite the strict order of Pinya-Blinchuk, experienced fishermen weren't
always assigned as seniors to city patrols - either the schedules didn’t match, or
something else happened. But today both Fenimore and the patrol were lucky. The
Captain was local and, apparently, he was angry - harshly disciplined by him
“secondment“ lieutenants, who were armed with baby “Kalashnikov”2, squinted at the
winter-dressed criminal character, walking across the city during working hours as if it
was a norm. He wasn’t even wearing a “gavrilka”3 on his neck. They squinted, let him
pass and that's all. The Captain greeted him without looking, Fenimore answered with a
sort of bow and continued his journey between freshly vacated, empty family units
without turning back but clearly knowing that all three fishermen are still watching him;
and the Captain is explaining to lieutenants the state of things on his, Fenimore,
concrete example. “An obvious criminal is walking down the street, so let him go”. So
the criminal walked and walked and soon the side street brought him to the outskirts,
still Bezhensk outskirts. Here he turned left, in the direction of Volgograd and Moscow,
and to a brand new two-story building. He came to his dark-blue hostel from the back,
to his home sweet home, so to speak. He passed the corner of the house along a safe
round path and found himself in the courtyard, fenced off from the rest of the world by
lilac bushes.
In this courtyard, the father of these bushes, a good neighbor, the eternal Murad
Arsengaliev, was sitting at the iron table naked to the waist, lean, golden, absolutely dry

1
“Friday” is a “pre-mission” day, which means the day before walking into the Zone for a mission - (“Dictionary
of Alien Words”, Archive of Shugpshuits). In fact, it was Thursday, August 25th. - (The author)
2
“...any weapon of a caliber less than 7.62 the trackers considered 'baby' ones” - (“Unnamed Conversations”,
Archive of Shugpshuits)
3
The first 'badge' then generally the identity card was called “gavrilka” in Pre-Zone. The etymology is
unknown. - (The author)

173
and cool, gleaming with his predatory grin through the same predatory Karakul sheep
beard. He was cleaning a shotgun barrel and about ten more were lying on the table in
front of him. A wicked Chechen. He immediately noticed Fenimore and his grin turned
into a smile. But with a slight delay. Something was off.
- Neighbor, huh? Wah, what a neighbor! - said Murad. - I've been waiting for you.
Do you need fresh fish, neighbor?
- I don't eat fish, - said Fenimore, turning to him. Now he will offer to sit and
smoke, but still, something is off.
- He-ey, then just take a sit and smoke with me, come on, - said Murad again. -
The air in your house will be cleaner.
- I don't smoke, Murad, - replied Fenimore again, sitting down on a bench in front
of Murad and adjusting the package in his inner pocket. He was about to laugh anyway.
Murad ingeniously copied accents. And his voice was a baritone, juicy and velvety, not
shrill. His bad mood could be felt, but obviously, it wasn't addressed to the neighbor.
Murad was an unusual highlander; he did not vent his anger on just anyone.
- Ah, so you just decided and quit?! - Murad was amazed. - Yesterday you smoked
and today you don't?! Why did you quit, huh?
Here Fenimore laughed out loud.
- You must be a rebel Basmach, huh? A real one, huh? Abdulla, right? - asked
Murad.
Murad was one of the conscript soldiers who survived in the Lightning but
forever stuck in the quarantine of the Pre-Zone. He was called up from Moscow, where
he was a fourth year student at Moscow State University, and where he was enrolled
not because of the national minorities quota but because he has brains. Before he was
called to service, he had a few refereed publications on “the study on mutual influence
withing territorial varieties of the Russian language in the Soviet period.” They had been
published in some crazy foreign magazines, in a different languages, with royalties. He
didn't tell why he ended up in the army. There was some story. He was married and had
two children. Two girls. His wife was keen on joining him here, but he forbade her. He
only saw his family a few times a year at the border.
- Would you like some tea, Vadik? - asked Murad without any accent and looked at
Fenimore through another barrel as if it was a telescope. - I have a waffle cake. Bought
it in the center.
- Is this a rhetorical question? - asked Fenimore.
- Of course, - said Murad, laying down a gun and propping up his beard with the
back of his hand. - Everything is clear from your appearance. You’re going to meditate
and sleep.
- Everything is clear for you, neighbor, - argued Fenimore. He didn't want to ask
what happened.
Murad sighed.
- Well yeah, here you need a trained eye... Go, Vadik, go. You shouldn't sit with me
because of the falsely understanding the neighbor's feeling. And it is cold here.

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 - How can someone wrongfully understand the neighbor's feeling? - asked
Fenimore, standing up and adjusting the package in his inner pocket.
- You just can. If a neighbor is a really kind man, there's no need to sit down with
him if you don't want to... Listen, Vadim, I'll soon forget how to speak literate Russian
with you! - he said suddenly. - How does your tongue turn to say: “How can someone
falsely...”1? You are non-Russian monkey, here's who you are.
Fenimore laughed. He didn't want to go. But it was time to go as all the “Friday”
schedule, which he had withstood with such difficulty, could be screwed. He already
wanted to say “bye” but caught himself and asked:
- Ah! A bill was delivered in the morning, while you were away. Did you find it?
- Yes. I did... - said Murad instantly becoming gloomy.
- Is that your books arriving?.. - Fenimore stopped. Hit got exactly where it hurts,
damn it. Is there something not right with his family? - Murad, what happened?
Murad shook his head with great disappointment.
- A-ah! I'll go to the Headquarters on Wednesday to clear things up... The
container was detained on the Cordone, Vadim. They don't understand how this is
possible. There is five hundred kilograms of books, and each and every one of them is
different from another... Agrr! - He slammed his palm into the fist. - Those bitches cut
the Tomashevsky first edition searching for smuggled goods! - Murad raised his head,
his eyes were flooded with real savage fury. - Vadim, this wasn't even a book, this was a
brochure with a paper cover. How can you smuggle anything in this? What smuggling?
They tear it apart page after page, can you believe? An item of collectible value. And this
is even not about the collection! - He wanted to rub his face with his hands but realized
at the right moment that his face would be dirty then, so he stopped.
- Murad, it will be cheaper and faster to give them a bribe, - said Fenimore after a
pause.
- I understand, - said Murad calmly. And began to clear the next barrel. His hands
trembled. - But only with my mind... I can understand Russia with the mind... But with...
Ah! Okay. You should go, Vadik, get some rest. We will talk after you're back from the
mission. I shouldn't start it now. I've been trying to calm myself the whole day.
- It was me who brought it up.
- You didn't know... - He suddenly smiled. - I'll change the topic. Bu the way, we
have new neighbors. On the other side of the house.
- Climbers again? - asked Fenimore, joining the game.
Murad nodded few times, looking at the blue sky through a barrel.
- I hope they won’t make open fire in the house, - said Fenimore with concern.
- And even worse. There is a girl and a guitar.
- We have to kill them! - they said as one, and Fenimore went home on his second
floor.
It was warm at home. From the doorsteps, Fenimore blew a kiss to his girls,
smiling in the windowgraph; checked both heaters, felt the sockets, getting sure they

1
“Можно“ (can) and “ложно“(falsely) are homonyms in the Russian language.

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didn't get overheated. And only after this all he took off his jacket and threw the
package on the couch. He peaked into the tiny kitchen, put the coffee pot on the stove,
then routinely hit his butt, landing full speed on the couch next to the package, swore,
and one more time earnestly and solemnly promised to himself to buy a normal bed
“right away”. He reached to the highstand, opened it and took out a car first-aid kit. A
thermometer again got itself buried among aspirin and pyramidon like a restless pet.
Here it is. Put it in the mouth. He set five minutes on his timer and, sucking the
thermometer, opened the package. Olga Petrovna, a senior employee of the Bezhensk
Research Institute meteorological station, for just one hundred dollars considered
herself obliged to provide a client with written information, with a photocopy of the
weather map and a magnificent satellite photo of the region a client was interested in.
To give an idea, Mokrousov usually just said “it's cloudy” or “no rain, buy a beer, my
soul’s in pain”. Fenimore was turning the picture round trying to figure out what was
what in it and which of the clouds indicates the conclusion “overcast, up to 39 degrees
on the Zone border. Towards south-west we’re expecting centers of increased humidity
up to 80 percent in as deep as available to measure”.
The coffee pot boiled, thermometer was showing 41 degrees Celsius. Fenimore
poured boiling water into a huge cup, put plenty of salt, added a pinch of dried dill,
stirred it, and finished a witch brew in three sips like cool water. He didn't understand a
purpose of this but he hadn’t been able to live without it since he got “ill” two months
ago. “Why doesn’t my mouth get burnt? It's freshly boiled! And the main thing: why am
I not scared that I'll burn my mouth? I wish I could drink regular tea, but it makes me
sick.” Fenimore turned on the lamp in the tiny kitchen - it already began to get dark in
the corners - and he started studying himself in the mirror above the sink. Yes, the
wrinkles on his forehead smoothed out. It’s obvious, Olga was right. Pulling up the
sleeve of his sweater, he checked the scar from a deep cut (by a glass in the deep
childhood) on his forearm. The scar had spread widely, had become almost round, was
itching like hell and hairs could be seen growing on it. “Mother Zone, don't kill me right
now, allow me to live about one hundred years first.”
Okay, it's time to shower and sleep. He checked the hot water. It was on. He
washed, stood under the cool water for a while, at least it seemed cool for him, then
was wiping himself long and fussily, and suddenly, like with his guts, he heard a jingle
of merry voices in the courtyard. And then, already with his ears, a delicate click of a
clay ball on a window glass. He put on long American boxers with stripes, reached to
the window and looked outside. Alien girls went out to do their funny and only job.
There were three of them in the courtyard. Short skirts, bikinis, fantastic done up hair,
sugar smiles and not a single gram of excess fat. Free public service. Let's share thirty-
three pleasures together. Against the background of the crooked table and some Soviet
shabby lilac bushes these three ladies in really expensive clothes which were made not
to level but to decorate, really looked like aliens from a movie. One of them was just a
girl, however, she was the most appetizing out of all three judging by her figure. The
second one was a bit older and barefoot, as the third one, a lady about thirty years old.

176
And Fenimore knew the third one very well: during the day she worked in the City
Council technical library. And they were not from an old movie resembling Polish
“Sexmission”, but from a fancy one. From “The Hangover” for example. But there was
nobody else in the courtyard, and Murad has left. Straining his flair, Fenimore caught
that Murad is still busy with his barrels at home, putting them in a box to send them to
the trading post. He was doing it too thoroughly as the aliens clearly knew where lonely
men live in the city and threw a clay ball at his window too.
“The shape of morality”1 in the Pre-Zone was being rapidly replaced with some
strange new norm of sexual relations (was it strange because it was new or was it
strange in general?). It means, and this topic had been tossed about in various circles a
hundred times, that different shapes of quarantine freedom up to extremely lewd were
perceived by former Soviet people with surprising calmness. Stern officers,
communists, and Komsomol members were cool about public service of their
daughters and wives. And old ladies (mothers-in-law) who survived and now usually sat
on benches at the “little blue houses” no longer tighten their lips as soon as they saw a
see-through T-shirts.
Actually, a conversation about this occurred quite recently. After returning from
vacation in his America with lots of gifts, Dr. Gorsky, an American deputy director of
International QZAI Research Institute, was drinking with his friends at Petrovich's bar,
glorifying Doctor-Professor2 (Gorsky brought a giant frozen tropical crab special for
Olga, which they had successfully spoiled together, not being able to cook it. Olga said
bitterly, standing over the burnt ruins: “But this pig was deeply frozen!” And Funny
corrected her for some reason: “Not a pig. A scoundrel!”) And here word after word,
drinking the third bottle3, Funny told a hilarious story about his recent stay in this
“Chipka”4, He was in his room with a lady when someone suddenly knocked on the door.
Madam Pozdnyakova enters the room with a man in the uniform, a Lieutenant Colonel.
Madam apologizes, the man also apologizes, and the lady which is sitting on top of
Funny, even though she's covering herself with everything she could find, calmly says to
the man: “Dad, what are you doing? What happened again?” And the man answers with
the same calmness: “My dear, I left my house key in the safe again! I’m really sorry!”
“And you, comrade, forgive me.” - he said to me. And Tatyana Viktorovna offers a bottle
of champagne at her own expense. The girl gave her father the key, he left and we
continued... drinking champagne for free. This is the story that happened.
After the silence which took a minute, Petrovich said thoughtfully: “Who could it
be? Such a liberated Lieutenant Colonel?”
Funny answered very seriously that no one would ever know as the lady would be
1
“Russo turisto! Oblika morale!” (“Russian tourist! The shape of morality!”) is a popular phrase from a Soviet
comedy movie “The Diamond Arm”, directed in 1968 by Leonid Gaidai.
2
Here Fenimore realized that Petrovich had no less than five or six companies of friends. It was pretty
surprising how Petrovich managed to make contact with them so that these groups did not overlap with each other
as “Petrovich companies”. Probably, he had some trick to stretch time and space during defining the sequence of
these drunk parties. - (A note made at the request of Shugpshuits)
3
Fenimore was already ill at that time, so he could drink nothing but richly salted kefir. - (The author)
4
The most famous and prestigious restaurant and a sanatorium in Bezhensk. - (The author)

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compromised. And he would never allow this to happen. As an honest person. Here the
moment to laugh and to drink has come, but they laughed and drunk very quickly, and
the discussion began. Everyone spoke out what had bottled up.
First, Fenimore asked Funny “Why the hell madam decided to give you a bottle of
free champagne, thug?”
Olga the Host said to Fenimore impatiently: “You're like a kid, Vadim! She gave it
for disturbing. Well done, Tanya, learns fast!” Fenimore shut up, Funny threw a Coca-
Cola cap at him. Fenimore caught it, and Olga took her turn.
She considered that the main reason for relations freedom in Bezhensk was the
right to be armed. Like, just try to say something, grandma or daddy politician. “Did you
notice that there is peace and quiet in residential areas after ten in the evening? No
drunk parties, no scandals? Here it is! The idiots are no more exist and the scum have
become smarter. What do you think, Roger?”
Professor Gorsky, by this moment heated up with three hundred grams of pure
alcohol, favorably nodded to Olga with his huge head with magnificent haircut, stood
up at the filled with pans and glasses Magic table in a classical pose and spoke long and
carefully. And in Russian, by the way. He advanced a theory. As an argument for it, he
translated some lunar fantasies of one famous and beloved American science-fiction
writer by heart from a sheet of paper. The theory said that first of all, the phenomenon,
you know, of the current state of things affairs, you know, set in the Pre-Zone, and
broadly speaking, you know, in the Quarantine, that was pointed out by comrade
Funny, you know, is an undeniable fact. Secondly, it is a result of young Bezhensk
society realizing its everlasting detachment from the rest of the world on the Earth, you
know, on our blue planet. “People, who are civilized more or less and who are cut off
moral and conventions, organize their relations not in the way it was customary in the
metropolis, but in the way it's better for them here and now! You know.” This is what
Doctor Professor thought.
Fenimore, at whom everybody was looking at that moment as he was sitting next,
claimed that all this sex is a result of an aversion to television, which all the Lightning
survivors (absolutely all, beginning with the last conscript and ending with the Deputy
Head of the Site) from the Trouble have developed in the very first months after it. And
complete replacement of this television with Western movies. Moreover, “aversion” is a
pretty weak word for it. “Hate”, “hostility”, “disgust” are much closer to reality. You know.
Experienced Petrovich looked at the problem more simply: this is not a problem
at all, Olya. Olya, it is just surviving seventh-tenth grade girls of Kapustin, who have
grown up and matured. There's nowhere to study here, nowhere to work, not possible
to leave. Plus there are many widows in the bloom. Plus the ratio of four women to one
man, Olya... So we have what we have! Here Petrovich hurriedly made himself safe: and
free weapons, of course. You are absolutely right, Olya. Then he noticed that Doctor
Professor is puffing up to strike the company with lightning criticism, and said even
more hurriedly “And what did you say, Professor? “The realization of detachment?“ This
too, of course. There's nothing to add. You know.” Then Funny muttered from the far

178
end of the table: “You forgot about Vadim, Nikolaich! This is Hollywood! This damn
Hollywood corrupted us through video salons!” And then everybody started laughing
like horses. And even Gorsky deflated his swollen Princeton neck and pitched in his
Indian owl hoot to the surrounding Russian horse neighing...
The barefoot girl waved to Fenimore with her hand and depicted “Wanna ride,
comrade?” with her face and pose, “I’d love to help.” Fenimore smiled at her, refusing,
waved with his hand, saying goodbye, and closed the blinds. Then he slumped on the
couch, again forgetting about its concrete properties and hitting his whole side. He
twisted moaning and rubbing the bruised part, then found his radiant girls with his
eyes and became silent, looking at them.
He did not have a single original family picture of Katie and Maika, that just
happened. When Serge Funny (The “Chesdwood”, as Olga the Host nicknamed and
persistently called him, and which meant “A man with two stresses”) dragged a piece of
enchanted chipboard into the bar, and Petrovich (the dead man with golden hands)
carved it to his already magical table top, and it became The Magic table. Their
company played with this magnificent Table for about half a month. And Fenimore was
in the game. And then one day a flashback from his memory suddenly popped out on a
glittering foggy surface: Maika with Katie in her arms. Both were smiling in divine duet,
penetrating gaze directly into your soul. Capturing the picture, Fenimore's hand
slammed the Table by itself. He remembered that everything around became incredibly
silent. And then he could remember that somewhere in the background he’d heard
Petrovich sending everyone, including his wife, out of the office with loud obscenities.
“How do I save it, Nikolaich?” - “I don't know, Vadik... Your girls?” - “Yes” - “Listen, maybe
we can save it on the glass?! I have about ten pieces!” It took pretty long to find a
fragment of window glass from the 26th block of decent size. The very first print from
the screen turned out alright, although it was a bit oblique because of the indirect
angle during the exposure. Petrovich leaned over, tilted the Table. Fenimore aimed,
firmly holding a clean fragment on his outstretched hands between his face and the
Table's screen, and got an amazing unfading postcard from his girls. The flashback that
was captured by the Table was daytime and sunny. The windowgraph also caught an
inner glow of the screen. Now this piece of glass, about twenty by thirty centimeters in
size, with edges thickly taped, illuminated the world from a bedside table at the couch.
It's interesting but Fenimore has never seen a single Katie's smile. She just didn't
have time to learn how. She didn't have time to learn to recognize him like she
recognized her mother. But either one of Katie's sweet infant grimaces was marked as a
smile in the corner of his mind, or his imagination desperately created this smile... “No,
I couldn't have imagined it”, Fenimore thought once again, “This is not a fake”. He
stretched out his hand and touched a plump cheek with a clearly marked dimple. And
he immediately felt that his wife’s most beloved, “serious” smile changed, became
deeper, and suddenly quickly and unstoppably turned into a dizzying whirlpool. And the
only right way was so endless, so comprehensive sweet falling in it... flying in it...
He came to his senses and realized that he had an erection, all sweating and hot.

179
He sat on the couch. He listened. Mumbler was silent. “Haven't heard him for a long
time”, thought Fenimore and called carefully: “Hey, Mumbler, are you there?” Mumbler
puffed grumpily not answering, restraining himself patiently. But then said at least: “I'm
here. But I'm not going to talk. Do everything yourself now.” And became silent with
that sort of silence when it's clear that he is seriously silent and he doesn't care a hoot
about provocations.
“Okay then”, said Fenimore. “You're alive and that's good enough. And the fact
that you're silent is also good. Not the right time for your jokes. Tough times, Mumbler!”
All this he needn’t have said. Actually, he knew in advance he would say it in vain.
More precisely, all this he said deliberately.
“How many times did I tell you, you idiot?”, Mumbler exploded. “You need a
second bedroom! Maika with Katty will be in the first one. And in another one, you will
have your sex life because you are already a big boy! And Maika left us a very, very long
time ago! It's bad for you! I bet you know that sex without a girl is pretty weird.”
Fenimore went enraged, of course. This, actually, was exactly what he was going
for. But he didn't manage to shut Mumbler up in time: someone knocked on the door in
a very unfamiliar and unthreatening way. And everything immediately fell back into its
place. Mumbler drifted away. Fenimore was off right after him, releasing a tracker
instead.
The tracker smoothly and quietly withdrew from the couch, arming himself on
the way to the door. Sat down at the doorjamb and quietly asked through the palm1:
- Who's there?
- A courier, - a boy's voice responded. - Sideway st., 8, apartment 3. To Vadim
Sverzhin. A card. No response required.
The opponent wasn't dissembling. He was alone. He was standing right behind
the door very calmly. The tracker stood up, holding the gun at the hip. He unlocked the
door and quickly but gently pulled the door towards himself.
This was the boy who’d been seen in the city lots of times. With a school bag over
his shoulder, dressed in cropped jeans, sneakers and a hockey helmet.
He surely rang his bicycle bell when he drove into the courtyard, and the girls
surely spoke to him.
“And you here were psychoanalyzing you lonely protruding dick, you analyzer,
and didn't hear anything around. You tourist. You can be caught with bare hands.”
The boy was waiting, stretching out his bare hands. The tracker pulled up the
safety lock, put the gun on the shelf between winter hats and gave way to Fenimore.
- Sorry, boy, - said Fenimore. - I wasn’t expecting anyone.
- That's okay. - Answered the boy. - The main thing is not to make sudden
movements. It is well-known. You are Sverzhin.
No problem.
- Have we met before? - asked Fenimore.
- I saw you before. There is a card for you. No response is expected with me.

1
So a foe cannot define his position, of course. (S. Sh.)

180
 - Okay, give it to me.
The boy, unmistakably finding the parcel in his bag, handed him a soldier's
unsealed envelope with a business card inside,. Some insane electronic typographic
machine was brought to the Institute six month ago to print color maps, scientific
dissertations in covers, and a city newspaper. This was sensational and, of course, the
whole city used and abused this machine in the beginning (exactly though corrupted
newsmakers), until everyone had enough of playtime with family and non-family
posters. But business cards became a tradition and everyday item. Now it was a good
tone to connect by virtue of courier artels through business cards. Even the military
wrote their orders to each other on business cards. There was a line for the only one
copy of calligraphy exercise book in the Pre-Zone.
Fenimore paid the boy on the spot, lucky for him he hung up his jacket on a coat
hanger and did not throw it in the room, as usual. The boy saluted him American style
and silently fled down the stairs.
Fenimore came back into the room and immediately saw that the boy was talking
to hookers. Pulling away the lamella with his finger, Fenimore watched as the
bargaining ended, and the boy, pushing his bicycle on one of his sides, was proudly
walking the motherly smiling thirty-years old woman on the other one. He grinned and
put the card out of the envelope.
Korostylyov, a super fisherman. So. Darling Korostylyov. Rating “eight sideways”.
The reverse side was filled with tiny, sloppy, irregular, but clearly readable letters.
“Dear Vadim, I urge you to meet next Sunday. It's about official work. THIS IS NOT
ESCORT! I'm also asking you to refuse the Kazakhs when they come to you.”
Goddamn this holy fuck with all the following and the State government in
addition.
Fenimore dropped the card on the floor and, falling on the couch, managed to
remember that now he is going to hurt something again, just in time to place his hands
underneath. He fluffed a pillow, pulled a blanket out from under himself, kissed his
girls, fiddled, settling himself, covered himself with his head and fell fast asleep.
It was just as bright when he woke up.
He left the house at about five without a bag, drank two eggs with pepper and
neatly performed an ancient Zhitkur ritual with a match and cotton wool before leaving.
For some reason, there was no line before exit at the Corner checkpoint (a section of
the fence wasn't initially installed, they just covered the hole with barbed wire and a
wicket on wooden bars and put a striped booth for a watchman-switchman). A patrol of
three sleepy paramilitary officers stood leaning against a concrete part of the fence
with their body parts. A local fisherman, an alien, Ensign Melentyev was smoking next
to the booth.
- Planning to violate, troubler, damn it? - he asked Fenimore affably. - And why are
you so fucking late? Everyone has already passed the checkpoint, damn it.
- Everyone? - asked Fenimore and cleaned his throat. - Well, then let's wish them
good luck in their work and defense.

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 - Come on, pass it, for fuck’s sake, - said Melentyev, laughing. - Don't be slacking,
you are a tracker. Look at them, those secondment guys don't even know what to
think... And I see you haven't heard yet, right?
- About what?
- A crazy thing. Well, you will know. Come on, just pass.
A well-trodden nine kilometers long path led from the city to the Zone through
the steppe. Of course, there was slush in the spring and autumn, and, of course, the
authorities weren't going to take care of it even just by covering with gravel, because
how will you explain it if someone from the Kremlin comes. Citizens with permits were
supposed to use excellent roads from the Central checkpoint and the Institute one.
There were buses and officially life was in full swing. But for life, if it exists, it doesn't
matter if it is official or not, and if you unhurriedly reach a small natural hollow in half a
kilometer from the Corner checkpoint, you could see the same full swing there either.
There was a cabbies rank. There were three cabbies artels in Bezhensk, including
Petrovich's one. And each of them had their own spot at the Corner checkpoint, namely
a cab, two LIAZ buses, and Petrovich's red and white posh “Ikarus-256”, which he
bought in Volzhsky, from a drunkard-chief of a town public transport system. To avoid
conflicts, drivers usually left the parking at the same time, at five fifteen in the morning,
dividing the crowd of walkers and other passengers equally. And the fourth “cab”, which
was joint for the first three artels, took the late ones half an hour later.
Right from above Fenimore understood that for some reason he was late. He
checked the time: no, it was ten minutes past five. The reserve “cab”, a famous
“survivor” KAvZ1 without roof, was parked with its engine running. Four people were
sitting in it. The driver, a Kireev cabbie, was drinking tea in a thermos under a plastic
canopy. Fenimore reached the bus and got on. The passengers looked familiar. It was
an artel of “The Elk walkers” sitting on the open deck, and they were equipped for a
long mission. Andrey Malinov, Gosha Khlops, an old man, one of the Dog's pensioners
nicknamed the Fix Tricks, and the Elk's right hand, a tracker with super-rating, Grinya
Platonikhin. They all greeted Fenimore discordantly with waving and hubbub. All except
Grinya, with his eyelids half-closed, he swiftly glanced at Fenimore's t-shirt under a
warm jacket, his jeans and sneakers on woolen socks and turned away. The Fix Tricks
immediately asked:
- Fenimore, where's everyone? Everyone had already left when we came here.
Who gave an order to change the schedule?
- I'm also confused, old man, - said Fenimore, sitting down.
- Exactly, there wasn't any orders through ours, - said Khlops. - That's weird.
Maybe we shall not go today, boss? We don't know for what we go. That's not godly.
- Stay down, - Platonikhin said indifferently, without turning back. - This is your
task: to stay down.
- Did you ask a cabbie? - Fenimore asked the Tricks.

1
KAvZ is a bus manufacturer in Kurgan, Russia by Kurgan Bus Factory (Kurgansky Avtobusny Zavod (Russian:
Курга́нский авто́бусный заво́д, КАвЗ).

182
 - He said they left half empty at five to five, - said Tricks willingly.
- Strange, - said Fenimore. - Well, okay.
He sat down comfortably and pretended he's asleep1.
They left on the schedule, shook up and down along the steppe, refined with
garbage and reed mohawks in the side-streams. Along the way, Fenimore (and the
others) noted that there were no pedestrians going into the Zone, but people were
moving from the Zone to Bezhensk. You could see even groups of them here and there.
They reached the ending station also on the schedule. The bus stopped. Its elder
brothers and a Hungarian cousin stood face towards Bezhensk, and there were loads of
people, about thirty, who were climbing onto them. Plus they saw about twenty people
on their way here. That means almost all active trackers decided to skip this morning.
- Grigory Nikolaich, - said the Fix Tricks. - There's no way for us today.
- All stand up, take the equipment and go after me, - said Platonikhin.
Fenimore continued to sit while “elks” were getting out of the cabin with their
sacks, grumbling and climbing down onto the ground. Grinya Platonikhin has never
entered the Zone through the Bar, and now his group abruptly gave to the left, to the
“hundredth” towers, where they probably had a car waiting. The fact that today was
Platonikhin's day off should be kept in mind, should be not forgotten even for a second.
There was no proof but it seemed and clearly felt the “elks” from Earth didn’t just catch
loots, but they are the ones who also kill and rob in the Zone.
The cabbie turned to him questioningly. Fenimore got off.
He wasn't going to ask anybody anything along the way. His flair didn't send him
any stop signals. Actually, the intended raid (and how else today's situation could be
explained?) didn't bother him at all. A business card from Darling Korostylyov that he
has got yesterday also didn’t connect with events. (On a second thought, would
Korostylyov not hint the right person about a raid on its eve? No, this is not a raid... And
why should it be a raid? Who could give an order?) Fenimore slowed down. He was
already near the buses, already nodded a couple of times, responding to the greetings
of his fellow workers. It was obvious that people were looking at him in a strange way.
And some looked away. But absolutely nothing churned in the stomach. This was not
his intuition, but some unpleasant feeling, earthly and harmless, simply because you
could see something was off.
- Vadim! - someone called him.
It was Kostya Malinov. Kostya, with his huge arms dangling from his lap, was
squatting further away clasping backward his short fingers. A puddle of spittle had
formed between his legs, you could drown hundreds of cigarette butts in there.
Fenimore turned and walked towards him.
- Fenimore, is that the “elks” forked off to the steppe over there? - asked Kostya. -
Did my brother, this douche, go with them?
The brothers fell out to death last New Year. Fenimore knew the reason and from
his point of view, it was so ridiculous, that he was seriously expecting fratricide. It is

1
Showing to neighbors that conversation is finished. - (S. Sh.)

183
impossible to reconcile if you fell out over a discrepancy in some Strugatsky brothers'
book. There is no ground for reconciliation.
There also were no for not answering or lying.
- Yes.
Kostya spat out a long one into his puddle.
- We musn’t go into the Zone today. Where is this douche going, doesn’t he see
what's going on?... - he muttered.
- And what is going on here, Kostya? - asked Fenimore.
Kostya faltered.
- Why are you faltering, walker? - asked Fenimore.
- You see, it's particularly hard to say it to you, - said Kostya, slowly standing up
from squatting.
- You know, Vadim, the thing is... One of your friends is dead. I'm really sorry.
Who? Melix? Fenimore waited. Who? Funny? Magadan? Turanchoks? None of our
guys were on the mission. And Funny is guarding the Watchdog at the cemetery, he
couldn't leave contrary to the plan... This can't be Olga... Or is it a murder again?!
- Well, shortly, Nikolaich died last night, - said Kostya with sincere awkwardness,
breaking off hell knows what Fenimore imagined after the word “murder”.
This awkwardness was performed by Kostya very awkwardly. The Malinov
brothers were rude, cruel people. The fact that Kostya didn't care about Nikolaich, alive
or dead, was obvious. But it was highly unsettling to report friend's death to highly
respected Fenimore as he could see that the respectable walker absolutely didn't know
about his friend's death. And we are all people, we are all humans. Except cops and
fishermen, and a classroom teacher.
- Nikolaich? - asked Fenimore. - Died? I didn't get you.
- Died, man. Your comrade totally kicked the bucket. That's the shit that
happened, Vadik. Rest in peace. I haven't seen it myself as I only just arrived in the
morning. But all those who were here from last night saw it, all the regulars. He was
sitting at his Magic Table, then stood up and - bam! - collapsed. Guys say that Olga-Host
ran to him, tried to do something, tried to give first-aid, and Turanchoks tried to do the
same, some poultices. They ran electric current through him, but Nikolaich didn't
breathe and didn't move. So Turanchoks announced. Your friend is dead. Vadim, accept
my... how was that... Condolences.
“I have already heard something like that about Nikolaich before”, thought
Fenimore. “And have seen as well, by the way. Not long ago, literally, a year or a bit
more. But we don't count corpses during a mission, we count cartridges.”
- So everybody rushed from the Zone because of Nikolaich death? - he asked
calmly.
Kostya blinked with his eyelids.
- What? I didn't get you, Vadik.
- Why did everybody flee to the city, Kostya? And specifically, why did you rush
into the city?

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 - Didn't you understand it, man? - asked Kostya enchanted. – I’m telling you your
friend died!
- I did understand. I didn't understand why people are turning back. Did the loots
end in the Zone? “Your Mother went home”?
- Vadim, leave us alone! - said Kostya. - What else should we do? Most of us store
the equipment at the distribution point. And the distribution point was managed by
Nikolaich... And what do you think, who is going to disturb his wife and friends now?
Like, “give us the equipment!” Aren't we humans, or what?
“And “We mustn’t go to the Zone today“ addressing to your 'douche' brother you
dropped accidentally, right, a conspirator?”, thought Fenimore. But he still got it all
wrong.
- And anyway, we stood there for a while, collecting money for the funeral, and
figured... That it is Nikolaich! He couldn't die with no reason as everybody knows that he
lived in the Zone, and was supported by the Zone... I mean, was kept alive... And if he
kicked off that obviously means that the Mother is having a bad day today. There will be
no way. Then it's better to be safe than sorry. This is what people figured decided..
Vadim, you're like an inanimate, - said Kostya unkindly. - I don't fucking know, you're
like a stone. I had already noticed it at the Father's funeral.
Fenimore suddenly felt ashamed.
- You mean absolutely nobody went into the Zone? - he asked still automatically
but greatly reducing the pressure.
Kostya was silent for some time. Then he must have remembered some formula
from some action movie, which would describe the situation. Something like “A man is
in shock, this is why he's delirious”. And he also thawed a bit, becoming more human.
- Maybe one or two, I won't bet. I wasn't watching carefully. An in general, look
around - everybody is going back home. Therefore, only those who went out yesterday
are still in the Zone.
- And, by the way, why did the buses start much earlier from the city today?
- A-a-ah! Here it's already discussed. They are cabbies, Vadik! Not humans. They
rushed here to see if it’s true that Nikolaich is dead as soon as the rumor got the
Corner.
Well yeah. Now, they'll kill each other for the third place. But this will happen after
a mission. This will happen after a mission.
- I have to go. Did the Host close the “Pipes”, Kostya?
- Yeah, sure. She's sitting there and howling, can you imagine, Vadim? I'd never
thought this way about her. She's from Moscow and howls like a real woman... - Kostya
paused. - And you, Vadim, really haven't even shaken, - he said. - And it looks like you're
on the mission, you act like that. But I got it. It's like to get boiling-hot water in the face
- you don't feel pain for a few first seconds. My condolences, man.
- I'll go help, - he said. - I just still can't believe it, yeah. See you later.
- I understand it. Later.

185
 And Fenimore went to the Buttocks1.
- Hey... Vadim! - Kostya said behind him. Fenimore turned back continuing to
walk. - The Mother isn't in a good mood today. I'm serious! I bet, this all happened for a
reason!
- I got it.
Fenimore ran up the Buttocks from its left side and looked around. He had
forgotten about a crowd of sensitive trackers who were watching the back of the
departed man’s friend tearing off to his deathbed. The Zone seemed to be itself. The
sky was clear. The city in front and on the right habitually flickered, distorted by the
humidity of the rainy part of the Dog's Curve. And the buildings of the boiler room, the
office, workshops, tanks, and warehouses were clearly visible, as always. A foil on the
Bar's roof reflected light. Fenimore went down the Buttocks, passed over a ditch
overgrown with reeds, and found himself in stomping wasteland in front of the
“neutral”. It was twenty minutes on the march from here to the “Two Pipes” if you go
there directly, not hiding from towers. Even though there hadn’t been any towers for a
long time, they firmly stuck in mind. The heaps of boards and iron pipes left were now
only a symbol of the good old days of sniper racing, but the liver will never forget: there
are towers after the pit. And the numbers... Aunt Alise was shot at the eleventh. A tower
caretaker from the nineteenth was drowned in a barrel of grease. Yeah, they still use
1
By August 26, 1994, the Zone's specifically border fortification fences had undergone at least three
incarnations. (IMPORTANT! It is necessary to put a study of semantic reality of the names of objects and subjects into
the novel. And to indicate that only proper names that writers like to write in their texts with capital letters do not
actually correspond to reality. And check everything in my texts too. For example, the “neutral”, or the Neutral as it is
written in popular literature and other publications, and as even I used to write, is called by ordinary people just
neutral in everyday life and denoted with colloquial intonation. No one calls the Perimeter with a capital letter and
etc. This all should be noted and carefully think about how to make a reader understand, and create a standard!!!)
The exact boundaries of the Zone were being established over a long period of time, painfully, inaccurately
and discretely, that's why a real border of the Zone then lay not along its physical boundaries, but along the border
of a thirty-kilometer exclusion zone. And there everything was made stationary, built to last already in 1991. A three-
meter high wall, three echelons of wire, a minefield, stationary control cordons and all that. And more, both at our
three out of four quarters of the circle and at the Kazashsky Arc of the Kazashky Corner. In special literature, it was
called “high security perimeter of CATU QZAI”. And journalists called it either the Outer Perimeter, or Kapustin's wall,
or even Chinese Wall. (And people, refugees, and seconded said just “on Earth”. Like “Where are you from? From
Earth.”) And there was permanent security on this perimeter. Outposts, lighting, like that. Everything was very strict.
And around the actual Zone, that means inside the Pre-Zone, everything for a while was done by eye and
hand estimation and at least three times, as I said at the beginning. First, there was a tank ditch which penetrated
the territory of the “neutral” a few times, and once even got into the Zone. Then they installed towers with arrows
attached. Later Blinchuk destroyed them all, right after his assignment. Then they tried to organize a car patrol
service, which also took a long time, approved military units in the steppe. But nothing succeeded, smuglers
swarmed in the Zone insolently. Basically, of course, through the Bar area, or right through the Bar. The ditch on
traverse (Which is right? Travers or track? To check it on the Internet!) from Bezhensk to the boiler room, where the
“Two Pipes” bar was hiding in the warehouse hangar, was caved-in, filled and the passage between the ditch dumps
was given a very bad name.
IMPORTANT! It is necessary to describe that the use of prisoners started not in the year 97, it started during
the first attempts of demarcation in the years 89-90 when a lot of cases of insubordination began to take place both
among the conscripts of the Defense Ministry units and among Ministry of Internal Affairs staff. As people were
driven in columns here so the authorities could determine the outer borderline of the neutral by their physiological
condition. And there were many incidents of serious damage to health, and several dozen facts of death. That was
the time when convicts were first used as volunteers for reducing the temp of imprisonment. (“Notes to the novel”,
Archive of Shugpshuits). Not corrected by me. - (The author)

186
the numbers. For example: “I went out to the “neutral” near the twenty-second, sat in
date fruits for a while, felt the Mother-Trouble in full, vomited excellently and then went
on.”
The LIAZ engine roared behind him. Fenimore turned off the earthly sounds out
of his attention. Fenimore was in a hurry, he hadn’t planned to stay in the bar for more
than ten minutes either before the mournful news broke and still not planning to after.
He wasn't going yet. He had thoughts, had suspicions and awareness of the upcoming
worries (proceedings with the same cabbies. Because, actually, they had to stay near
buses that time, it will be hard to negotiate tomorrow, the place will dry up1). His flair
bloomed and blossomed. But the main thing was that he and Funny were building a
track with temporary camps all this summer. And it was frustrating to lose all the work,
to lose zest, to lose passion and hope concentrated exactly in current and precious day.
That's why we won't give way to Mumbler, this poor guy, who squeals, puffs and even
whistles, sitting there, behind the nose bridge, and hoping to get our attention and
engage us to a discussion. We are at work. And our schizophrenia should not interfere
with work. Schizophrenia is our own business.
Fenimore was pacing in long strides along the Elephant Trail, even the wind
burned his ears with cold and he felt hot under the jacket. And he understood that he
was in rage, and he was pleased with this. This is why sorrow couldn't break through
the scarlet mist that wrapped him, Fenimore, like a force field. This arsehole Nikolaich
could have died the next day, that would make no difference for him. And Olga with her
stupid howling. She howls, you see. Like a real woman. Try to tell this someone on
Earth! This woman had routinely lived and slept with a walking dead for two years, even
more, for two and a half years, and as soon as he stopped walking she started howling.
Like, no matter that he is dead, he is still mine. Fenimore picked up a cobblestone, a
cement fragment from the side of the path, and put it in some flacked trophy guard
helmet hung on staples of a reinforced concrete post with fragments of wire on the
personally by rest-cured Pasha the Mazist centuries ago. The cobblestone rang loudly in
the surrounding silence, the helmet spun on a ridge, the ridge cobblestone went to the
zenith, and sank in it. My hand is firm. And there is the right line. It is coming now, very
soon.
An old gravel road which stretched right from the front garden corner houses on
Volgogradskaya street, crossed the Elephant path at a right angle and indicated a need
to turn so as not to trot to the boiler room along the cross-ties of “non-Astrakhan”
railroad, gleaming dully, rusty even from afar (There hasn’t been any train
communication on it for a long time, although Nikolaich's imagination nurtured a wild
idea to buy a locomotive and bring it here to ease commodities delivery for some time.)
That is what Fenimore habitually did and after fifty steps came out onto the Glass
wasteland, a long bald glade in the steppe filled with mountains of broken glass blocks,
whole silicate bricks and mountains of solid pure concrete. Here, between all these
mountains, the pace was supposed to be drastically slowed down, because... because

1
This place phrase should be written either in capital letters or in italics. - (S. Sh.)

187
here's a post and a blue post box on this pillar, nobody knows which fallen tracker
brought it here and fixed it right here in the year 89. And this was a marker, and the
“neutral” begun a step behind it. Here is the unfailling line.
Fenimore stood on the line, looked around, looked at the sky, took a breath and
gently, calmly stepped into the hallway of the Zone.
For the first two years, it was non-stop pouring rain on this section of the
“neutral”, covering both the Bar and its surroundings right up to the old military
cemetery. The rain just ran out one beautiful day, a drought began, and the
concentration of air mirrors and curtains around the Bar (and, naturally, to the old
military cemetery) became really scary. It was possible to pass by a company of drunk
trackers with a guitar and shooting in the sky, coming back from a mission, a meter
away and not to see or hear them. And a minute later, you could be caught up with
seven furious mugs claiming: “Vadik, you are such a jerk not saying hello. What the fuck
is that? Like you're a stranger and don't respect us. What the Hell, Vadik?” Turanchoks, a
thoughtful man with a concept, believed that the Bar’s territory was littered with air
special effects as it was the “neutral's” reaction to localized attendance. People walked
around here and there like at home, so the Zone has curtained. Fenimore believed that
Zhenya is absolutely right about that.
Along a narrow path, Fenimore diligently zig-zagged between ominously green,
grinning dusty glass heaps (turning beige like old skulls), piles of concrete, brick piles
with white and sparkling edges, went onto the city boiler traverse and then abruptly
turned left onto a path. He climbed up the embankment, crossed both railroads without
touching sleepers or rails (automatically and unconsciously looking left and right. Yes,
there were no real trains here for a long time, but Fenimore and many others heard a
rumble and humming of a train not just once even at midday. This train flashed by and
everyone could feel the wave of tailwind, emitting a strong smell of fuel oil heat. Some
other ghosts also could be met on the neutral line; they couldn't kill but could frighten
not only a newcomer), climbed down the embankment and immediately speeded up.
And right at 8 AM he started winding his way round the inter-containers gorges of the
Petrovich's kingdom. Well, not just Petrovich's.
Not a single person in the lanes of the heating complex. Nobody at all. All the
containers are closed. Not a speck of dust floats in the air, everything has settled down.
This is what kind of mission day we had on August 25th of this year. Interregnum in the
kingdom of Heaven. Empty like in a cinema theater. The reds have left, and the whites
have not reached yet. So hey, who's in the middle, come and rob this place. Should we
cancel the mission now? Damn your mother, Mother-Trouble.
The last curtain here fell through and immediately, mute but close (in the annex
behind the Bar), both electric motor started humming in a gloomy but steady way.
Fenimore turned into Toilet lane.

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 CHAPTER 11

Zheka-Turanchoks was sitting on an iron bench under a canopy on the overpass,

his feet reaching the ground with half the bench left between. He was Nikolaich's
assistant, an excellent cook, who was popular in Kapustin even before the Lightning. He
was dwarf and got three degrees studying remotely, self-studied languages, and all the
rest for the Light magazine and the Komsomol Truth newspaper, club Scarlet Sails. He
did not have access1 to the main secrets of the artel, but he had a right to talk about
himself this way, he once told a 6’6 new mountaineer who decided to be nasty for some
reason. “Who am I? I am a friend of Petrovich. This is a job. Like a “friend of the trial”
Ever read it in the books? Or seen it in the movie? And if I order you, Kolomna road dirt,
“all right”, you jump from your seat, stand in attention and humbly wait for my orders.”
As it’s remembered, the climber charged anyway, reached our his rods, then
Turanchoks took out a gun and shot the climber in the knee. And the climber left for his
Climbertown, or wherever these MCAs2 are coming from, damn them all.
Zheka came back to his senses as soon as he saw Fenimore. He took a comb from
the breast pocket of his soiled white shirt and began to move it around his enormous
skull, covered with a magnificent artistic mane, and kept working it while Fenimore was
climbing along Toilet lane towards the Bar. Zhenya wasn't wearing a tie this time, and
this was alarming. It was the first time Fenimore saw him without a tie and it genuinely
shocked him, Fenimore, as if Zhenya and he were characters in a book. Literary detail,
inner reaction of a character to an utter trifle, given through the author's speech. Like,
the misfortune indeed happen, so Zheka Turanchoks tore off his tie and is now sitting
without a tie (can be counted as naked) in grieving stupor, nervously combing his hair.
All right, the tie and anything else is just poetry. But Turanchoks was not armed,
and this was real science, and this science was serious.
Fenimore jumped upon the overpass.
Olga's howling wasn't heard anywhere. Everywhere around was an
unprecedented silence, like they were in a vacuum pocket. The flair sense carefully
determined the engines knocking as some irrelevant phenomenon.
- You already know, Vadim, yes, - Turanchoks said creakily and impassively.
Fenimore moved his head from side to side.
- This all is weird, honestly - continued Turanchoks, internally reliving his story. -
Kolya fell, everyone stood around him for about five minutes... And then they ran so-o-o
fast! There were a lot of people, some just came back after the mission, others were just
going to one... and there were about ten regulars since yesterday. And everyone rushed
like those Turtles3.
He blew through the comb and put it back not noticing he missed the pocket.
Fenimore bent down, picked up the comb, and put it in his pocket.
1
Yet, at that time. - (The author)
2
The Ministry of control and audit.
3
We all remember that cartoon, don't we?

189
 - And the girls? - asked Fenimore.
- I immediately sent them on our bus, right after it happened. And it happened
about three in the morning. I didn't even give them a chance to change the clothes, I
sent them off right in stockings. Tears, wailing, hysterics... the situation was crazy
enough without all that.
- That was a bad idea, Zheka.
- Why? - asked Zheka. - What were they to do there?
- Gossip, wives’s tales. The cabbies have been struggling on their bumpers since
morning. Why aren't you armed, you Kapustin's whizz?
- He's like a stone, but warm, - said Zheka, not paying attention to the question. -
Will you come and see him?
- Yes. Where's Olga?
- Well, with him, - Turanchoks said surprisedly. - I went out for fresh air... to sit for
a bit. And there's nobody here. It's strange, isn't it, Vadik?
- How long have you been sitting here?
Turanchoks seemed to wake up. He pulled up his shirt cuff, shook his watch out.
- Goddamnit! - he said with sadness. - I've been sitting here for two hours.
- Zhenya! - said Fenimore, rushing from the spot to the door. - And what if she
pulled a gun at her head in distress?!
He didn't hear the first version of the answer, running across the waiting room
and the hall. Turanchoks caught up with him in front of a double door to the hall and
repeated from under his elbow:
- I would have heard if she fired!
“But he's in shock!” - leaned out Mumbler, unable to keep silence any longer. But
Fenimore put him back in one click.
There was no apparent disorder in the main drinking hall. Tables were slightly
shifted, yes, but the bookcase was in perfect order. One chair was lying on its side, and
tables were not cleared. This was the entire mess1.
As Fenimore noticed from the entrance, the Magic Table was bright, working. But
right at the Table, it turned out that it just glowed, without showing anything or
answering commands... Fenimore decided to check behavior of some other small loot,
but there was nothing except bottles and boxes around. And he rejected the idea,

1
For some reason, many people believe that the Bar was something iron and huge like an airplane hangar
with frames under an arched ceiling, with wind and large spaces. This was not true. The Bar was an ordinary
warehouse brick box with two racks on the sides. It was designed for dry goods, it had excellent ventilation and
terrible Soviet industrial air conditioning. And drinking hall was a large room, covered with sheets of industrial
linoleum. The entire left wall (the short wall of the warehouse) is a bookcase, packed so tight that the book can not
be pulled out immediately. And books also lie under it, on the tables. (They couldn't be stolen, this ban turned into a
kind of local bluff some time later.) Further, there are simple odd tables with odd chairs, pulled from everywhere
nearby. Here people sit drinking or eating. Then the actual bar and a self-made wall behind it, that separated the
drinking hall and the lavatory from rooms. On the right side of the Bar (if you are facing it) was an open Nikolaich's
nook, where the famous Magic Table stands. In the middle, over the bar, between bottles, there were two TVs. The
Bar was always clean, Nikolai Nikolaevich was obsessed with cleanness. “Let's cons-solidate the inter-rnal or-rder!” -
he loved to say. And the kitchen was right behind his nook, a special passage led to it. - (“Different notes”. S.
Shugpshuits)

190
dropped it. “Okay, later.”
Although, the idea was excellent.
They went through the kitchen and turned into a long narrow corridor that runs
along a row of welded gates. The door to Nikolaich's nook was open. Fenimore could
sense a strong smell of medicine already from the kitchen. “What goddamn medicine
can be involved here?”, he managed to note while running along the corridor.
The former Senior Ensign Petrovich, N.N., a member of the Communist party
since 1984, a participant in the Aid campaign for friendly peoples of Afganistan, a
liquidator of the consequences of gas meteorite impact in Kapustin, slain by four shots
in the back (“Or were there five shots? I don't really remember”, thought Fenimore)
while trying to cut short his subordinate disobeying a combat order, was dead again.
However, today his corpse looked much better than it did that time, especially right
after the resurrection. But Fenimore has seen walking dead headless and even in times
when there were no film rental stores in the country.
The Bartender was lying across the bed leaning back. Olga was sitting next to him
with her legs crossed, her back straight, her eyes dry, and holding her husband's M1911
in her left hand. She was wearing a US ARMY tank top, torn on its side, panties and two
left-foot sneakers, in odd colors.
- Olya, - called Fenimore.
She didn't turn, just lifted her head. She tried to say something, but only croaking
together with a wheeze could be heard. Then she coped.
- I lost the voice, - she said in a whisper. - Vadik, Kolya has died. For real.
- I need to take a look. Did you check carefully?
- Take a look, - she said, climbed off the bed, sat at the dressing table, and openly
took a cigarette. Fenimore managed to restrain himself from saying: “Your husband will
kill you if he finds out.”
It was totally impossible to understand whether Nikolaich was cold or just cool
with Fenimore’s current temperature. His arms and legs bent freely and the lack of a
pulse has long ceased to amaze all of his fellows. Fenimore brought his ear to the lips of
the dead. Nothing could be heard, no... No motor skills, even posthumous. Did the
clockwork work off?
- Turanchoks, - he said.
- Yes.
- Call out to our men from the city. Right now. Get the gun, lock the doors.
Headmen are going to come here to share the vacant territory. That's even better if we
meet them in the city. Can you fill me in why neither Meliks nor Magadanchik is here?
- Meliks is on a binge, he has a new woman, - said Olga, choking. - I allowed him.
- And Magadanchik?
- I don't know.
- Magadanchik’s on contract in Volzhsky this morning, - explained Turanchoks.
- You all are idiots, - Fenimore said flaccidly. - You knew, that I was preparing a
mission. That it’s scheduled for today. And one of ours must be at the Bar in this case.

191
And you let go the both free... Okay. Do it, Turanchoks.
Turanchoks went out.
- Vadim, - said Olga. - What will happen now?
- With whom?
- With Kolya.
- I'll take him into the Zone right now. I'll hide him there. Everything can happen
in the Zone, including good things.
- Don't you fuck my brain with your tales! - cried Olga.
- So you didn't break the voice completely, - said Fenimore. - Calm down, Olya.
What tales are you talking about? Or did you forget who you're talking to? Stay here,
don't move. Put the gun on safety lock. Don't you dare kill yourself here. If the Mother
decides and brings Nikolaich back to life, what shall I tell him?
- Vadik, Vadik, Vadik, I am a doctor... He's dead, dead, dead...
- And before he was alive, alive, alive, and you could never see through holes
inside him, right? Didn't carry him to Darling for a chat? Was it not your tale?
- That was some of your idiotic tricks... To frighten fishermen and competitors... I
never believed...
Fenimore had a flash for a second, in front of him appeared Ensign Bashkalo’s
mustache, sticking out sideways, with a black hole of a machine gun pupil beneath and
grey smoke around it, same color as the mustache. Or was he dark-haired?
Remembered the bastard for the first time since that day.
- Don't joke like that, Olya, - Fenimore advised. – Baron Münchhausens don't live
in the Zone. We are good without them. - Someone has already said it today... Ah,
Turanchoks about the girls from the corps de ballet. - Let's pretend that you didn't say
anything, okay?
- Okay. And what will be with... - She hesitated.
- With what?
- With all this? - She waved around with the gun. I don't know anything, of course.
Kolya kept silence, but I feel that...
- What? Turn the gun on the other side, please, I'll take a look.
She turned. The lock was pulled up.
- That your share here is just as big as Kolya’s, - she said.
- Anyway, you have an open exit visa. And money... You have a lot of money, Olya.
You'll go back home.. well, to your Moscow home, and our guys will find you there. You
know the passwords. And the whole world is at your feet. The only thing you have to do
is to keep silence. And you have to keep it until you die.
- Yeah, I know that... And you? You also have a visa.
- I don't have any...
Little steps of Turanchoks tapped in the corridor. Fenimore cut himself short, put
his finger to his lips and went out to meet him, hearing a sweet click behind his back,
Olga turned on safety.
Turanchoks carried his Kalashnikov automatic gun, a pouch with cartridges and a

192
bunch of keys for Fenimore. He did a good job. They didn't say a word to each other.
Turanchoks gave him the keys and went back to his post. Fenimore went to the artel
warehouse, rattling his keys.
His backpack, prepared for the mission, his clothes and a weapon lay on a
daybed. He immediately changed clothes, put his watch on the daybed and the rest,
including swimming trunks, tossed in the corner. It was twenty five minutes to nine, he
was late. Not critically, but he was late. And he couldn't even decide if he was just being
late or simply isn’t coming out an a mission today. (Funny will spend the check-out hour
in the Watchdog and then will come back. Nothing happens, he is not a tourist
anymore.) But if you stay to sort out inheritance rights, to redefine the sphere of
influence in “Two Pipes” in particular, and entire area as a whole... This will take a week
or two, or even more if any of the headmen, especially those initially local, cooks up
some untold riches and make claims. Walkers will not cause a problem, but to begin
negotiations with scientists and their hucksters, and fishermen (up to Blinchuk) - you
won't get off in weeks.
“Ah, Nikolai Nikolaevich, you've chosen such wrong time that I cannot even
grieve, there is no time for that.”
However, he didn't touch his backpack. Fenimore locked the warehouse and again
ran to the drinking room, taking a picture of Olga with his side vision. Olga had gotten
dressed, with her make up on. She was sitting next to her husband, caressing his hair.
Olga was a good girl. Petrovich looked like a corpse again, but not a living one.
- What's up with the phone? - Fenimore asked Turanchoks right on the way.
- I gave a call to Gnedich through the blue line. Gnezdich is pretty agitated. He
didn't know anything, but got wound up immediately, and rushed for Melix. As he said
Melix was partying in “Chipka”. Pugachyova1 is singing on the green line. The red line is
working but I decided not to call them.
- I think you did the right thing.
- Listen, Vadim. I know you are keen to go on your mission, I can see you're all
shaking. And Funny also has been at the cemetery since yesterday... What are you
going to do? Well, considering the events.
- Can you make it alone? Before the Red Army?
Turanchoks winced unreservedly.
- It's scary, to be honest.
- First of all, stay cool, calm and collected, Zenya. There is a very high chance that
fishermen will hold up the headmen without our call. I don't know if Blinchuk had
already been informed or not, but Darling's office is aware of events for sure.
Turanchoks thought for a second.
- Here I agree.
- So. Secondly, even without fishermen, I believe that, most likely, both Wild and
Shukhart know better than to come here and, more than this, they will keep the others
away. At least until clarification.

1
A popular Soviet and Russian artist.

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 - The Elk.
- The Elk could do it, but the whole head of his artel is on the mission.
- On the mission?!
- Yeah, I saw them walking on the horizon about an hour ago.
Turanchoks clicked with his tongue.
- That's not a fact. Too good to be true.
- It is. We also have to be careful with the seconded. Darling is Darling but patrol
troopers can be stupid enough to try to capitalize on the corpse.
- Vadim...
- Listen to me. We have to bring Nikolaich into the Zone in any way.
Turanchoks opened his mouth.
- Do you... Do you hope... Again?!
- I hope for nothing. But when it happened for the first time I couldn’t anticipate it
at all. I just dragged the body to the the chiefs. So as not to go to jail... The Zone is the
Zone, Zhenya. We just cannot grasp that it gives much more than what it gets.
- Are you... Are you saying this to me, Vadim?!
- Zhenya, the Zone didn't appear yesterday, and will not end tomorrow. That's not
it around you, but you around it. Wait and hope.
- Go to hell with your bullshit, Vadik! - said irritated Turanchoks.
This was not bullshit. At least, not Fenimore's bullshit, but Turanchoks didn’t have
to know.
- In any case, one thing regarding Nikolaich is clear: I'm dragging him into the
Zone now. Into the “Lotus”. - He hesitated then made up his mind, took a sheet of
yesterday’s menu from the stand and quickly drew a scheme of his poles from the
boiler room to the garages on its back. It was a track contaminated with lots of deadly
gitiks, although it was short. - I'll put him in garage “one hundred and ninety”.
Remember that. It's right here, on the street that turns left. And the garage is on the
left-hand side.
Turanchoks no longer argued, just nodded. Fenimore gave him a piece of paper,
after hesitating a little, as if it came off with the skin from his palm.
- Here. This is in case I don't return from the mission.
- Thank you for your trust, Vadim, - Turanchoks said seriously, folding the scheme
four times and hiding it in his pocket with a hairbrush. - I'll remember it now and
destroy.
- Good... Listen, and why is the Table not working?
- It’s working, but as if the cable was unplugged. Since Nikolaich is gone.
- What the Hell? - said Fenimore. – What did he have to do with it?
- What do you mean??
They stared at each other.
“Check the radio, you idiot!”, shouted Mumbler. “You’d never figure it yourself, will
you!”
- Zenya, do one thing while it's quiet, - said Fenimore. - My flair is already

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screaming for some reason. Turn on the radio, listen to the station. And especially the
“walkie-talkie” frequency of Funny and I use. I'm not sure Funny turned it on at all, but
who knows. There's a directory somewhere on the first page.
Radio did not work in the Zone principally. Comrades scientists, associate
professors, candidates and even doctors of science, tried to study this phenomenon. All
the frequencies from high to low, from ultra-short to extra-long, were occupied by
monosyllabic negotiations between valiant pilot Antipov’s crew, speaking with
humming of a helicopter engine in the background. Antipov and two more members of
the crew had been flying above the Zone towards the “The seventieth platform” military
unit since December 31st, 1988. Not so long ago, about a month, navigator Varvarin,
swearing his head off, asked mechanic Katsura to pass him a thermos. It’s just his,
navigator Varvarin's, throat was dry.
- And you?
- And I'll go check something right now.
Grabbing a thick pencil-like shape of a lovely flashlight from a side-pocket in his
jacket, Fenimore hopped it to the deathbed.
- Olya, move a bit, I'll check something. Just remembered, - he asked at the door,
pressing the button. Olga had pulled herself together so well that she even got
surprised. But she got out of the bed and gave way to Fenimore. Fenimore leaned over
the Bartender, pulled back his eyelid and pointed the flight light.
The pupil constricted in response.
Fenimore dropped the flashlight, sat on the edge of the bed with his back to
Olga. The wall was within hand’s reach from this side, so Fenimore pressed his head
against the wall with and rap out the worst swear words he knew, squinting his eyes
with hate, relief, and uncertainty about the future.
- Did you check his eyes?
- I never look him in the eyes!
- My God, Olya, you're such a fool. “The Evil Dead”, part two.
- What? - she screamed.
- Your husband is alive, stop your shouting frenzy, - said Fenimore through the
cramped lips.
- What?!
- Stop yelling! The problem isn't with him. There's something wrong with the
Zone, Olya. So. Take it easy, just give me a second.
He was thinking it over. She was smoking. He only thought for a moment, but she
had time to finish two cigarettes while he at it. Then he found the flashlight that’d rolled
away, put it n Olga's hand and made her point it in her husband's eye. She started to cry
and they laid Nikolayevich more comfortably and chained him to the headboard with
both arms. Olga handed requested keys from Nikolaich's bundle to Fenimore, regularly
wiping her eyes on the collar of her shirt. Then they went to the “safebox” together,
calling Turanchoks from the corridor. Along the way, she said: “You have a fever, Vadim.
Do you have a flu?” “No”, was his response.

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 A weekly set of loots, packed for Sunday's trade with huckster-associate professor
Vetlugin, was kept in the “safebox” on the table. Turanchoks stayed at the entrance.
Olga stayed behind the Fenimore's back, wishing to oversee everything herself or
simply scared of her husband’s corpse again. Actually, she was scared of loots as well -
Nikolaich's attempt to put a picture-perfect piece of an absolutely peaceful “rainbow” in
their bedroom a long time ago was met with hysterics. She hadn't ever touched the
Magic Table, made all the household notes on paper and always kept the shabby “Pine”
by her side, checking everyone at the counter for radiation. That being said, she
checked everything around about ten times per day.
The set was nice. About twenty pieces of perfectly seasoned “seventy-sevenths”,
matured, probably still from the Lightning. Dangerous things, not suitable for
packaging, so they stand separately. Half was aluminum and iron soldiers' cups,
another half was grey, not even rusty empty tin cans from canned meat. Someone was
lucky, someone poled a dining room. A stack of “windowgraphs” laid with newspaper
bands. (Fenimore missed this order while he was working according to his plan, and he
didn't know who made this order, who Nikolaevich had contracted and what was in the
“windowgraphs”.) They also had: scattered “Gehenna”; “kulyokushka”1 with “scribble”
stack on its side; a piece of iron fitting with a live one-eyed “razyansky” on it, which they
put in a glass jar filled with water and sand; a tub with dead “ryzansky“ whitebaits...
Yeah, we will check the one-eyed “ryazansky”. Like a jellyfish, “Ryazansky” would turn
translucent in water, it would fall asleep with its eye open. Couldn't be distinguished
from the dead one, both dead and alive stared at you in the same way. It should be
taken out. Fenimore took the lid off the bottleneck, put on a surgical glove, grabbed the
tip of the fitting and carefully pulled the bituminous mushroom out in the air as if it was
a bomb.
Mushroom would normally turn black straightaway, start rolling its grey peeper,
and a smoky halo would appear around as it gets dry.
But nothing happened.
- E-P-B-V-R2! - said Turanchoks in a spell.
Fenimore put the mushroom on a stick back in water and closed the lid.
- So, shall we check the “seventy-seventh“? - he said, taking on a challenge.
- Let's do it, - said Turanchoks bravely. - It will be interesting to see.
Fenimore put the glove off his hand, looked around.
Twigs designated for experiments were in a bucket at the entrance. Fenimore
snapped his fingers. “The glove is surgical, and so I am like a surgeon.”
He put a glove on a twig handed by Turanchox, walked around the table, sat
down, very carefully and very much from the side touched a handle of the cup on the
edge, separating it from the others. He moved back as far as he could and brought the

1
Itself this is a Russian folk word: the grandmother of the person who found this thing for the first time,
called pancakes this way.
2
(Russian: ЕПБВР, "Единые правила безопасности при проведении взрывных работ") - "Uniform safety
rules for blasting operations". A cursing, an exclamation of surprise, and so on, originating from the real
abbreviation.

196
glove to a terrifying, deadly mouth which was hiding a power of a black hole inside, and
which at the very least could pull off a man's face and if the “seventy-seventh“ was old,
original, right from the Lightning, it could swallow the whole person. And not one
person, and not one dump truck with sand. It's very difficult to saturate the original
“seventy-seventh”, broken off the leash. A deputy director of American International
Institute, American citizen, Doctor Gorsky, who not so long ago started frequenting
“Two Pipes” bar to drink beer and vodka, and now was considered as a regular, told us
that one three-liter “seventy-seventh“” swallowed about two hundred tonnes of bulk
garbage during one of the experiments. And it would have eaten more, but it
exhausted its power: the experiment was performed behind the neutral. And the
“seventy-sevenths” can operate on the earth for no more than two hours. Thanks to the
Mother-Trouble.
Right now, at this very moment, a fresh old “seventy-seventh” wasn’t working
even on the neutral. Fenimore stood up and started waving the twig above the others
with almost no fear left. Nothing. He turned around.
- The Zone is off, - said Turanchoks. - Here's the bells and whistles, mama.
- What will happen now? - asked Olga.
- No, - said Fenimore.
- What do you mean “no”? - they asked in unison, frightened.
- It didn't turn off.
- Then what?
- It's like a TV, I think, - said Fenimore. - on “standby” mode. It isn’t working but
the light is on.
- And where's the light here? - Olga asked with the residual hysteric.
- It's not there, - said Fenimore. - It's here, - And he pointed to his chest. To his
heart.
Olga threw up her hands.
- This damn science fiction of yours! - she claimed.
- This is our damn fiction, Host, - said Turanchoks beating Fenimore1. Fenimore
looked at him with curiosity.
- Now you believe?
- We've spent enough time here, - said Turanchoks creakily. - So. What shall we do
now, Vadim?
- I'm going on a mission, guys. And it's an urgent one, not planned. Funny is there
in the Zone, and the situation has us in murky waters. Fuck knows how long this light
will be on, what will happen when the TV turns on, and would it turn on at all. But I'm
telling you, my flair is hellishly kicking me in the gut. You two stay here, lock the doors
and wait for reinforcement. No one will come to fight now, this is for sure. But if
someone will it will be either a lone dummy or two lone dummies, not more. I think that
sorrow wasn't the thing that caused people to panic in the morning.
- Like, the Zone kicked everybody out? - asked Turanchoks with a doubt. - So

1
In the sense of “For our victory” - “For OUR victory!”, In this sense, “our”. - (S. Sh.)

197
nobody is there till the light?...
- Yeah, like that.
- And you?
- And I wasn't in the Zone at that moment.
- And me and Olya?
- And you had some things to do. Olya was climbing walls and you were sitting in
the courtyard, looking like someone hit you on the head with a sack.
Turanchoks opened his mouth. Closed his mouth.
- And Serge Funny?
- And he is waiting for me, that's the point! Lock everything here and walk me out,
Zhenya. Olga!
She turned back from the doorway to the “safebox”.
- You, Olya, hold on and hope... and one more.
- Yes, what else? - she asked with her usual pressure.
- Try not to check Nikolaevich's eye too often, - said Fenimore. - Just in case he's
conscious in general and can see everything. And here you point a flashlight at his eye.
- You dipstick! - she screamed and sped away. Turning right to the drinking room,
not to her husband on the left.
- F-fucking hell! - said Turanchoks. - What all this supposed to mean, Vadim?
- No idea, Zhek. But I'm sure that we have to hurry. So the radio works clearly as
on the Earth, right?
They went left the “safebox“. Turanchoks locked it with a rattling nose. The only
things left to do on the way from here to the “Main Exit” were to pass the general
warehouse between the shelves with equipment, and to pop into “artel” to pick up the
backpack through the backdoor.
- Right, everything is running. I only don't know on what frequency Antipov
transmits. Otherwise, I would warn him.
- I think he must have left the Zone airspace about ten times now if he’d finally
got out.
- There are conversations on many frequencies, but I haven't heard him. I actually
had no time as you called immediately. That will be funny! I wonder if Antipov is
married.
- See, - said Fenimore, putting on the backpack, - humor and satire have already
burst out. Here's what we, the trackers, are. We aren't going to perish. But if we are, we
will do it the fun way.
Turanchoks unlocked the “Main Exit”. The sun gushed into the warehouse. It was
twenty past nine. The Zone was very close to the backyard of the Bar, it's border lay
across the yard on this side of the fence. Here it1 was decorated with border poles of
different height and craftsmanship with coat of arms of the USSR, America, Australia
and some others. A traditional washstand was hanging on the wall, right at the gate
(opened in earthly times, six years ago). People were afraid of the gate for quite a long

1
Here our respectable author credibly means the border of the Zone. - (S. Sh.)

198
time, because the first walkers checking the boiler house, an the old dog Dima
Negulyaev rescue group, found the only known (though not clearly identified) remains
of the Lightning victim right at the alignment line. The body of an elderly woman
missing a head and arms, apparently, belonged to the cleaning lady and a guard
Medunova. And of course, everyone thought that there was some angry gitik sitting in
this gate. Nobody even dared to touch the corpse for a long time. So they paved the
track over the fence and made a ladder for the purpose. But then, after Petrovich and
Fenimore took a fancy to this warehouse and the boiler room in general, and after the
spot was checked with all the risks and prayers, they hooked the ankle with a noose and
pulled it to the “neutral”. And the gate was heavily scrutinized. But nothing was found
there, in the gate. Neither guarding one, nor even discharged one. And no residuals.
There also were no loots with attitude lying around. The closest gitik to the Bar, a long
and curve “fly swatter”, was in about one hundred meters behind the fence, to the left
of “Negulyaev trail № 2”, and it was carefully surrounded by the poles. And it still was a
mystery how the woman died and why a part of her was preserved.
- Stop, - said Fenimore, already descending from the porch, stepping into the
Zone with one foot, already in routine anticipation that he won’t feel his leg for a
minute, the time he usually killed in an unhurried, casual conversation with
Nikolayevich (who used to send him off strictly sitting on a stool on this porch), and
immediately thinking that today there will be no numb leg, and this will be another
test ... - Zhenya, give me my map back.
Turanchoks gave it back without saying a word. Fenimore set the paper on fire
with a cigarette lighter and turned it around the corners until the scheme burned out.
Manoevring a small flame, he suddenly asked:
- Zhenya, what about our ambulance?
- What do you mean? - asked Turanchoks. - Where to go? Who?
Fenimore dropped the stub of paper and turned to him. He was already in a
working mode. He was on a mission.
- I'm asking you, what about the car?
- It’s ready, - Turanchoks shrugged his little shoulders.
- Fill the tank. And a full canister on top. Stick “walkie-talkie” in. One, no, two sets.
And one set of weapons and ammunition. Two.
Opening his mouth, Turanchoks pulled out an eyeglass case, took his monstrous
glasses, which he wore on special occasions, put them on his nose with both hands and
stared through them at Fenimore as though he was far away. However, he didn't say a
word.
- Got it? - asked Fenimore, waiting up.
- I got it. Now, maybe you can explain what for?
- If everything happens as I expect, Serge will be coming for the car now. And
we'll go.
- Where, Vadim?!
- Hha, to pampas, for God sake. Into the Zone, into the Zone. Let's do it, Zhenya.

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It's about ten minutes for me to go there, and ten minutes for Serge to go back.
- Yeah, - said Turanchoks. - But you'll be explaining him what you want for about
an hour.
- Rather, he'll be explaining me. And I don't need it.

200
 CHAPTER 12

The first ten steps he made in the Zone felt like he had never done it before. He
remembered well those feelings of a first-timer, tried to compare, but it was
incomparable, and he stopped, with his head low. It was properly and regularly sucking
in his stomach, but in vain, as there was nothing to suck in. Neither “greetings”, hitting
Fenimore at once right at the border, nor a slight, but distinct special air odor. As if he
kicked out an open door with his whole body. Incomparable. Just like walking on Earth.
Everything in me now stems from the brain, but not from my gut.
So.
He rolled up his sleeve. And his kin reacted right: and goose bumps were on their
places, and hairs stood up at attention, none of them was down, none was faking. He
definitely was in the Zone. He followed his personal trail marked with personal things,
cracks, springs, pebbles, more carefully than normal, but with his usual speed, looking
around extra attentively, watching, delving into, comparing, considering, memorizing
an alien space surrounded him, which pretended to be the ordinary Earthy one, but
conveyed to the walker senses with inhuman clarity. What was missing today.
Sunlight never lied. And it wasn’t lying now. Sunlight immediately toned down at
the point of crossing the border. As always, as many times before. The Zone works,
everything is plugged in, all is ready, just turn on the switch… No one could say exactly
whether it was a physical characteristic of global atmospheric phenomenon blanketing
the Zone, or it was its only messing with the eyes of each visitor. (There’s no such
lunatic, even among scientists, who will bring measurement optics into the Zone).
Fenimore has never quit having conversations with acquaintances on subject “would
not be bad to exchange experiences, brother, huh? Did it go dark in your eyes when you
crossed the border?” And community has long perceived this his intrusiveness with a
tense, but good-humored respect, as a forgivable folly in authoritative rated tracker’s
manners, to react on which in an ordinary way (hitting with a chair, for example) was
completely unnecessary. Fenimore got desperate trying to get the message across
about how useful was experience exchange to survive, and, to be fair, he was
superstitious no less than Malinovs brothers. So he understood1. As a matter of fact, he
himself didn’t need the light: from the first mission, memorable in all ways, he could
perfectly see in the dark, the Mother-Trouble bestowed it on him, thanks to her. For
dinosaurs and for Nikolaich. He remembered, that he could not come back to his
senses for a month. It was so scary that he got exposed to radiation, or poisoned, or
gone mad. He couldn’t cope, checked him into the intelligence medical unit. The
military doctor Fominskiy, bless him, said after examination: he, a young man, was
already the sixth case, no one has died yet. “And here is a prescription for you: keep
your mouth shut, if you don’t want to go missing outside the Zone. Buy dark shades
from Americans and don’t mess with my head anymore, unless you’ve had your leg

1
“Understood” here should be written in italics. - (S. Sh.)

201
blown off, I have more important things to do. Or shall I report you to scientists? They
have many places in Moscow basements. They will investigate you. Forever.” So what do
you think? He got used to it, of course. Bought an aviation glasses. And kept his mouth
shut.
Yes, trackers do not discuss their side-effects, unless there are very serious
reasons not to. And a superstition here is somewhere on the twentieth position in the
list, but thanks to his indelicacy and the people being used to it, Fenimore knew that no
less than one third part of regular walkers suffered retinal hypertension (and some
really suffer, up to psychosis and even strokes). Anyway, there were cases of excellent
quality fighting and decent shooting competitions in complete darkness. Though, it’s
better to have extreme stages of nyctalopia, than radio-sensitivity, which hit Shraibikus
and which drove the man to the suicide. (Well, not really the suicide? He solicited his
mates to shoot him. This was already in Bezhensks, in hospital at...) An abnormal
memory abilities, as Anasha developed after “circulating” track on the Fifth Corner, are
also no lump of sugar, not milk and honey, and not a piece of candy, judging by the
outcome. He shoot himself. Right on the bench near the “Pipes”.
“So that’s a sin to me to complain - my eyes don’t hurt at daytime, and eyelids are
not transparent. Funny had a stroke of luck riding his way – the Mother let him in, didn’t
snatch anything from the thug, inflated nothing, didn’t mark him with any mutation.
Didn’t disfigure. Well, if not to count a customary short diarrhea while the “greeting”.
But this is nervous symptom. Human. Adaptive. This easily can be sorted with access to
any fancy foreign hygiene products, now popular in Russia. But the Mother-Trouble did
fix his character. He became a truly great person upon returning. Although, he had
probably always been the one, just was hiding it, so the guys won't laugh at him…”
“Well, the light has gone down, doesn’t matter for real or in my head. It was
getting dark. This is one thing. But also the only one, because there is no smell, and no
sensation that you are inside of a transformation box, feeling common for all walkers
without exception. And that means there is no way to escape the combat check. But you
already knew, that there isn’t any way to escape, my friend Fenimore, since this next
mad idea to play games with the Old Bony Lady came into your head.”
“Did you notice how deftly you skipped over Vyatkin?”, Mumbler asked with a
great spite, “When remembered Shraibikus?”
Here the path ran into the “fly swatter”, which actually Fenimore was heading for,
handy that it was lying on the way to the cemetery, and Mumbler bounced off right
away, not waiting for a kick.
So, this is the check of all checks. This is it, just in one step.
An invisible gitik, not marked by atmospheric phenomena, most common beast
of an unknown kind. Not very lethal by itself if you don't stand still in it, of course, and
use up sedative meds before going through it.
Specifically this “fly swatter”, known for a long time, was standalone, didn’t block
any path, fed on some kind of penny waste with no signs of behavioral mutations, that
is why it was kept to itself, surrounded by poles, so no one touched it, didn't try to get

202
loots from it, and it didn’t touch anyone. Fenimore got the nut, rolled it on the palm,
crouched, and sent the nut rolling onto the edge of the gitik, squinting his eyes: the “fly
swatter” responded to the “risk” over the edge in a solemn, but bright way: non-existent
Bengal fire sticks vertically up, not high,all over its curved perimeter. And the smell was
not nasty. It smelled not with Bengal sticks, but rather burnt potato.
Zero reaction shocked Fenimore. He was hoping for it, but didn’t dare to expect.
This was so odd. Mysterious. Some mind-boggling illusion. Deadly catch. Gitiks do not
hide. If they start to hide we can say “bye bye” to all our prosperous tracking. Nut
galloped, stopped, lingered, fell from its rib to the side.
The second “risk”, with dry gauze in tow, Fenimore threw a curveball right into the
gitik’s body. Here “fly swatter” had to wake up in full, bringing “risk” down to the ground
and dance on it with electricity, with a stench and a bang. (Because of this reaction the
“fly swatter” were taken for heavy local quite a long time, for some kind of electrical
variety of the “shit swatter”. But the “fly swatter” didn’t play with gravitation.)
Zero reaction. And nothing for the third “risk”. Same for the forth.
“All nuts of the whole world wouldn't be enough to prove the fact”, Fenimore
thought. “Just imagine that you are at the peak of the track, with the “road queen” on
both sides. Backwards doesn’t exist in the Zone, and there is only a fairly small “fly
swatter” ahead. A two year old can do that, after all, easy pissy kindergarten. An iron
nettle will hit you on your entrails, you'll dirt your paints because of pain, will roll
around a bit on that side over bumps, trying to grasp some air for cursing, and will let
yourself get unconsciousness on that side. And so what? A bruise all over the body will
almost dissolve in a month or two. After all, is there anything that doesn’t kill nearby?
No. So you are almost lucky with the “fly swatter”, dear Fenimore. It’s near and not very
vicious, and consistent. Do not infuriate the Mother.”
“And then if you are right, what a prize, what a loot, what a track will you gain?”
There was no time to ponder. Mumbler might come out any minute, that the first-
rate coward. Fenimore entered the gitik, and in fourteen steps came out from the other
side, to rarely used but safe branch off, a duplicate track to the cemetery. And right
away, calling himself with very dirty words, visualizing holy faces of his girls in front to
pray to, he turned around, got back inside, and after fourteen steps back he found
himself at the initial point.
Legs were wobbly, but still carried him along the trail of the gitik, which didn’t
work out neither for entrance, nor for way back, carried him away as good as they were
young and furious. He was not being obnoxious, didn’t climb the roadsides, didn’t cut
the corners, he “risked” in the required place, where somewhere he marked (or it
seemed to him) a special effect. Reached forever stomped-out bold road in the steppe
from the town to the military cemetery (for some reason closed back in the seventies,
no one knew why), turned left. In a shabby untidy grove of white poplars and acacias in
front of the boarded up keeper’s trailer, Funny and the Watchdog were waiting for him
with equipment for all the grand laid-out, a half-way poled track, scheduled to start
exactly this mother-fucker today.

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 Funny didn’t step forward to meet him, of course, waited at the place, leaning on
the tree. Watchdog the Bus was sitting... Well, how else is could be called? Lying down?
Stood with knees bent? Sat, in a typical lying pose, further near the cemetery fence,
where it cleared out a space for itself among the trees long time ago. From far away
Fenimore was trying to understand, if this LIAZ bus was conscious, if it’s moving, if it
was paralyzed, like the “fly swatter” or Nikolaich, but didn’t catch anything: the
Watchdog was always excellent at hiding and could easily pretend being an ordinary
skeleton of a once popular Soviet bus for a few days.
Funny was shaking. And he was very serious.
- You're late, Vadim.
- But don’t you feel it in the air that today being late is normal? - Fenimore asked,
bumping Funny's fist stretched out for greeting with his own, into the clenched
fingerless glove. There’ no way to make a silly bum give up gloves.
- There is one issue. The Watchdog is switched off. Besides...
Fenimore stood right away.
- Besides what?
- We’re sort of on a thin ice. Do not you feel that? It's cracking.
- I do. Not in the way you do, but I understand you. It’s like I am blindfolded in the
high voltage booth.
Funny nodded. And prepared to say “Vadim, let’s set pull back”, but Fenimore was
ahead of him:
- Wait. How did the night go?
- Watchdog turned up at nine o’clock. Together with it, we stacked stuff inside, I
had dinner, went to bed.
- Where? In the Watchdog?
- Well yes, - Funny said. - Well since I need to get used to it, after all…
- Indeed. Next?
- Got I got used to it. I mean, I fell asleep. It purrs like a cat by the way, when it
doesn’t rumple.
- Further, Seryoga.
- This is relevant. I woke up at three o’clock because of the silence. And he sagged
right away and also like, “puh!”, as if all tires got flat, and put its nose down to the
ground. I called “Watchdog, Watchdog!” - no reaction. I came out, examined it, but can
you see? The bus like any other, well, with legs. Doesn't respond and doesn't work. And
it’s been down ever since. Warm as always, but out of order. So I began waiting for you
at the ready. At around five o’clock some people went along the path from the Zone to
the border. I didn’t discern, they were far away. And plus, you were late! Fifteen minutes
more and I would...
- So, here is the thing. All the Zone is down. As I understand. As a TV at standby,
understand?
Funny scratched his cheek, then his nose.
- Nikolaich is also switched off. And all gitiks. Understand?

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 Funny chuckled.
- I just went forward and right away backwards along “fly swatter”. Nothing at all.
No reaction.
- Nikoaich died again?
- Not like usually outside of the Zone. Not like sinister dead. Just like a doll.
Paralyzed. But pupils react to light.
Funny turned his head to the Watchdog.
- Exactly.
- Do you think this is kind of the “eye of the storm”? - Funny asked.
- Don’t know this. I suppose it's the calm before the storm. Remember, what
prophesied Yana said? Jolts, lulls, high, underground, the space sees the earth, the dead
will die, the living will come alive, all that rave.
- Never considered her rave as rave, - Funny said sharply.
- No one did, - Fenimore objected.
- Well, okay. Let’s say. And what? To my mind, we need to make a move so, that
even water spills out of the river, - a former Volzhskiy and a new Russian gangster said. -
For as long as I’ve been watching the path this morning, not a single walker bound for a
mission, by the way.
- More than that. There’s no one left on the “neutral” as well. Apart from
Turanchoks and Olga with Nikolaich. Everyone dashed out of the Zone as a horde. I was
watching it, they almost started a scuffle at the “cabs” rank. - Then Fenimore thought
about Grinya Platonikhin with his people, but chose not to mention this. In any way
their encounter was not been expected even under ordinary conditions. - Okay,
wingman, here's my plan. The mission is not canceled. But will be modified.
- Fuck me! - Funny said expressly.
- Now you, you - because you’ve been in the Zone for half a day already - are
going to “Two pipes”. It's fifteen minutes. Twenty. There Zheka is waiting for you with
Rafik. All filled up, and some more gas cans are in the salon. Plus the standard
equipment with the weapons for two persons. Get in the car and drive here. Just be
sure to step out the border to the “neutral”, reset yourself to zero. Understood?
- I am still listening, - Funny said, becoming more and more serene by view.
- Here I jump in the car, without losing time on equipment change, and go where
we're intended to walk. Fucking hell, as the real earth people on the real Earth. It is
seventy kilometers there along the road according the map. On the Earth road. We will
come back before it's dark, in any case Seryoga. Two hours there, two hours back. If we
rush.
- As on the Earth, - Funny said serenely. - In a rush.
Fenimore put his hand on Funny’s shoulder very slowly, demonstratively with no
rough moves, and said:
- I have been preparing this mission for five years, Sergey. Just now I went inside
an evil gitik for this. If you are with me, then you are with me. If not - drive the
“ambulance” over here. Make your decision, there is no time. The ice is cracking, you are

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right as Pyphagoras. When the ice cracks - everything will become somehow different, I
can feel it. Then even fiveyears will not be enough.
- But why you didn't take the car right away... Ah! - Funny obviously understood
correctly, why. - Vadim, it’s squeezing me out of here, I swear to God.
- You waited for me here. You kept your word.
Funny cursed.
- Bring the car over here, Seryoga, - Fenimore asked.
- But why to drive there if everything is switched off?! - Funny said with a curse. -
What are you going to find there?
Fenimore stayed silent.
- Pheeeewww, okay, I am going for the car, - Funny said, taking emergency
backpack off his chest, and on the contrary, strapping a machine gun (a locally made an
original metal АК-47 in carved rosewood frame) over his neck. - When there's no time,
there's no time, not arguing here. I will decide on the way. Wait here.
And he left. Fenimore didn’t watch him walking away, he headed straight to the
Watchdog. It was safe nearby for some couple hundred meters around, although
trackers, having read Strugatsky’s sci-fi, were scared of cemeteries. There, in
Strugatsky’s books, the dead were resurrected, got out of the graves and went to
homes. Fenimore had a thousand more reasons to be scared of cemeteries than those
science fiction readers, but on this particular cemetery there was not a single gitik, they
poled it out a few times, in order to get onto the concrete road in Cans area directly
from the “Five Corners”-“The Town”-“The Two Pipes” intersection. Some, who were more
reckless, even dig secret stashes among neat cemetery rows, with loots or with guns (in
the very first years of the Zone, when the People’s Council Commissars Decree of the
18th December 1918 had its power, like everywhere else).
The Watchdog, buried with its snout into the lawn from weeds on the very edge
of a glade, was lying still. Three-meter spider legs were tucked except for one, the
middle right, it was stretched in full length, and it was impossible to tell where the
knees were located (or joints, or how does it call for spider legs, Fenimore didn’t know
and was always forgetting to look up in the encyclopedia at the “Two Pipes”). A hefty
angle iron, about six millimeters thick, overgrown with uneven fur from strings of firm
rust. Seemed that the Watchdog first allow to pull out at least one (scientists were
begging, ready to go down on their knees, since the city “woolies” didn't allow to catch
them alive, and destroyed ones fell apart into pieces of unremarkable iron and tin parts
of earthy production practically in front of the eyes). But right when Fenimore started to
pull a string out the bus chirred, started kicking the steppe, making harp deep holes
and broke free. He felt pain as a living being.
Fenimore came closer, stroked and patted the Watchdog’s board, looked at to the
broken lights, stopped, put his hands on the front of the carcass. The “woolie” seemed
to be warm as usual, but he himself was hot...
- Watchdoggie, buddy, - he said. - You, if you hear me, hold on a little. That's the
Mother is doing something. That's not only with you.

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 They knew each other from unforgettable year ‘87. Exactly this yellow, well
maintained with love LIAZ, number plate 05-90 DP, served together with Fenimore in
the military unit ХХХХХ, platform 62, the 5th SCITG1 “Kapustin”, SMF2, the Soviet Army,
USSR, Earth, the Solar System, Milky Way, Universe № 13, second left green pawn on
the chessboard of the fifteenth scribe in General Office Supplies, the thirty third from
the beginning of the second times acting God. But of course, vice versa, Fenimore
served together with it. Since its very birth in mid-seventies, this LIAZ has properly
carried out its responsibilities as a duty shuttle bus, taking night shift officers in the
mornings from the unit to Kapustin (“platform 10”) and in the evening bringing officers
to take over the next shift. Well, plus those wanting and able to fit in, because a truck is
a truck, but it was half an hour quicker and more comfortable to go by bus. Fenimore
remembered the bus number by chance – it coincided with the last numbers of his
military pass. And three years ago at a bus station, when driven Americans had already
read their democratic prays, a military specialist contractor Vadim “Fenimore” Sverzhin
suddenly recognized him in an epic dump among other “woollies”, put the gun machine
down and…
The sound of engine rang ot. Fenimore didn’t let his mental blizzard “cars run in
the Zone!” even to start, beat it down hard with an imaginary shovel. Mumbler also kept
quiet. Mumbler is an awesome guy, a true friend, a yap, who knows when he’s not
needed. Now he was not needed to the highest degree.
The “ambulance” of their artel was in fact an ambulance vehicle. Magadanchik
traded his Japanese TV-set for this old-time running flat-faced Rafik in the Middle
Akhtuba from some deputy chief doctor. The car for some reason was almost new, only
leather and plastic either warped or cracked, apart from that they did not even have to
paint it, and the artel “heel” car was given into undivided predatory power of
Turanchoks. Its white loaf with red bumper turned to the cemetery grounding.
Fenimore patted paralyzed Watchdog on the nose and said: “See you later” and went to
the car through the grove, with the edge of his consciousness amazed by the newly-
found freedom to choose the direction. He could walk around this ragged poplar on the
right, or the left. Fenimore walked around from the right side. “I am starting to get
cheeky, like that butt-head on the second mission”, he thought. But the feeling of direct
safety, which was born and grew up to its adulthood in one hour spent in today’s Zone,
was somehow very straight and very reliable, and it was not cheeky at all, and was not a
base for it. “No, total respect to the Mother-Trouble didn’t change, and didn’t mutate.
But if I just can’t see them”, he thought, “then this is the endof my flair, and there is
nothing to hope for, this is death for me and my girls. And no other way, absolutely no
other way to walk now, there is no other road. Katty, Maika, my girls, just in case - I’ve
tried, I’ve tried so hard, with all my power. I even killed one dinosaur, not illustrated in
any book, face-to-face.”
Funny stopped the “ambulance” close to the grove. Didn’t come out. Fenimore got

1
State central interspecific training ground.
2
Strategic missile forces.

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in, sat onto paramedic’s seat, leaned his elbow on an engine cover. Funny was smoking,
but Fenimore didn’t say anything to that. Rolled down the window.
- Can you drive a car at all? - Funny asked.
- I studied with the “goat”, just right here, at the polygon, - Fenimore answered. -
I’ll figure it out, if necessary.
Funny deftly spat the cigarette butt into the opened window, shifted gear, stuck
out his sheared head outside, and started to turn around in jerks. Fenimore rested his
hand on the panel, pressing himself down to the chair.
- To the concrete? - Funny asked.
- Yes. Straight across the steppe, you can’t...
- It is clear stump, - Funny interrupted him.
- You seem to have some problem with me, walker.
- I, bitches, will never forgive you for my “seven”, - Funny said. - We’d ride like
Eddie Murphy now.
- What “seven”? - Fenimore asked, much surprised, trying to hold tight. The
“ambulance” was bouncing on bumps along the dirt road, unused for a thousand years,
next to the rails of the “boiler” brunch appearing from right, lying almost flush with the
road.
- Damn it, bitch, forty-six fifty-six VD! - Funny replied evilly. - Beige! Year eighty-
nine.
Fenimore kept silent. It was his way to let off the steam. Rarely he used it to slam
him or Nikolaich, that is why every time mentioning of “seven” was new to him. Rails
took to wasteland on the right, sunk in a jaws of the gates on the Military Shop
warehouse territory, creepy even from afar. No one has returned from there and there
ghosts howled like dogs at night. Somehow unnoticeably the dirt road gained cover in
the form of cracked grey asphalt, and it felt like the number of bumps on it, on contrary,
increased. A three-meter North brick wall was getting closer, glittering with facets of
stony whitewash, and the car drove under its shade. This track wasn’t poled by anyone,
because on the road, in the middle of the “warehouse part”, a multy-level system of
gitiks piled up. On the side, from where they were coming, it was grinning with invisible
and huge “Rubik’s cube”, right from the warehouse wall to the very Nearest channel. It
was another invisible proper wall, of ninety meters, blocking the road and the whole
wasteland on the left. That is why they had to walk round the storages closer to the city,
even though scattered loots beckoned trackers from the body of the system, both from
the wasteland and from the side-stream channel: there was a temporary dry goods-
hardware warehouse on the wasteland, hastily entangled with bared wire. A big batch
of furniture was brough to town just before the Lightning, and all accompanying, all
accessories and small metal parts in boxes under cellophane and tarpaulin were
stacked here. For a couple of days.
Fenimore saw it in action twice, and Funny lost four his comrades at once during
one of his missions, including a wingman, in four consecutive “Rubiks” blocking their
way.

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 Funny speeded up.
- So, Senior, let’s sprinkle the snow with a little red? - he said hoarsely and shifted
a gear. Fenimore really wanted to close his eyes, but they popped out of the head by
themselves and were loading up telescopic power from somewhere. No less than a
hundred “risks” of different age deep in the gitik's body (the “Rubik” could not be
“risked”, you could only smell it from time to time, when it was fresh. It smelled of
glowing steel.) surrounded two piles of clothes, sticky with blood, and equipment on
the asphalt. The machine gun of one of the victims lay there too, on the asphalt. But the
second person, dying in agony, twisted his KHM on a belt, and the machine gun flew
into the sky and hung on the bracket of the wall lamp. Fenimore didn’t know these two,
some time ago he remembered only their names, but had already forgotten.
The “Rubik” was a passable evil. All the secret here was in stress resistance. If a
view of a human body split into cubes, with each of them turning around variable axis
was shocking to a side viewer, then the owner of the body, which suddenly found
himself as a character by bourgeois Dali in real life, principally could not stay calm and
not to make sharp movements, although this was the only hope for survival here. But...
a spasm, a jerk - and the visual effect materialized and a body, chopped up by the
fragments of a huge broken mirror, was settling down to the ground in disarray of parts
underneath the clothes. And bunch of square pieces of meat were starting oozing with
viscous, instantly cooled blood.
- Rubik, dear, I will tell you one clever thing! - Funny shouted, and Fenimore closed
his eyes at this moment. “I only wish he won’t run over the bodies”, he thought for
some reason, “as he now closed his eyes as well…” The “ambulance” jumped on some
bumps, tilted, jumped, hit the bottom, the rails were snapping from hands. Funny had
already been silent for a while, and then the brakes screeched, and Fenimore got
thrown forward so hard, that his elbows cracked under pressure. Engine conked out in
two snorts.
The door opened (the steppe wind could be smelled) and slammed, closing again.
Fenimore pushed himself (his hands hurt) away from the dashboard, also opened
(scraping handle on touch) the door, and fell outside. He hasn’t eaten anything since the
morning, didn’t have breakfast at the Bar as well, even didn’t drink his monstrous
cocktails, so spasms were very painful. Then it got better, and he opened his eyes.
They’ve driven past the entire wall, and were standing on the other side of the
warehouses. There was a nice view of the city on the right, gently rounded by muffled,
but warm sunlight. The Headquarters' auto battalion in thirty meters from them were
especially spoilt. Actually, they had even crossed the intersection of this asphalt stub
topped with Kirov street. The “ambulance” was standing with its front wheels in a
shallow ditch. On the left, after the crossing, you could see stationary poles of
Broadway. Ahead, there was a platform of “Concrete” locomotive. A truly native land.
The door got opened again, and again slammed. Engine started swiftly from half
a turn.
- Vadim, get in, let’s go, - the gloomy Funny's voice said.

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 Fenimore powerfully snorted into the asphalt, driving away dust in front of his
face, and burst out laughing. He got up, choking, and climbed into the car. Right away
Funny rattled the shift gear and moved backwards, turning.
None of them glanced even briefly to the side of just crossed “inexorable” system.
In ten minutes, near the “royal flyover” they crossed the same single track one
more time, and together with it, in synch turned left, into the steppe, into the depth of
the Polygon, into center of the Zone . Fenimor knew this road - two rows of concrete -
by heart. If estimated, during two years of service, he passed it almost from one end to
the other - at least, three quarters of it - thirty-forty times, and the shot of ninety
kilometers from “Zhitkur-9” to the “Ten” - fifteen more times. Besides, his only walking
traverse here was certainly memorable - his first visit into the Zone, with Bashkalo and
Nikolaich. (He returned already through the steppe, from that side of the railway
embarkment, and towards the “time machine”, after that Nikolaich and he walked only
from that side, not even in sight of the cement road.)
They drove past the huge “Nodal”, completely overgrown with greens so that you
couldn’t even see the fence. The proper steppe presented itself after the driving range,
when all created by human goes beyond the horizon, turning into decorations on its
skyline, smudged with heat.
- Vadim, shall we speed up a little? - Funny asked. He unbuttoned, put an elbow in
the window, sat freely. - Why not? But wait, what am I... We will break down on dips.
Ahh, they won’t let a Russian man feel a fast drive!
The road was absolutely empty, no curtain. You could clearly see the poles of an
old track, solidly driven into the grass in the gaps between slabs. Fenimore
remembered that it should be a little more than three hundred poles till the turn to the
deadly mound, where a wandering zombie-locomotive with wagons was expecting the
ones wishing to cross the embankment. It was forty minutes to reach the place with a
forty km/h speed, which Funny had to keep.
- Seryoga, who from our blokes did you see now at the “Pipes”? - Fenimore asked.
- Only Tsakhes, he waited for me at the car, - Funny replied.
- Didn’t he pass anything over?
Funny nodded.
- He did. Magadanchik came round with his people. He said it was difficult to
enter the “neutral”. As if it’s a cottonwool. Not physically, but morally.
- Morally?
- He said so, that is Tsakhes’ message. And it's the same as before with Nikolaich.
- You better quit calling him Tsakhes, - Fenimore said. - Why taunting? And simply
out of place.
- I don’t like him, you know, Vadik.
- Assume I hate to hear that.
Funny stayed silent.
- And are you going to wear just those jeans and a t-shirt? - he asked later.
- I don’t want to stop. Even for five minutes. Listen, didn’t Turanchox forget to put

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radio into the salon, did he?
- I didn’t even know that he was supposed to. He just said: “I’ve put everything in.”
Why do you need radio? On the other hand... Now...
- Exactly.
- Why is no one following us yet, this is a question.
- Isn’t following? - Fenimore said. - I wanted to tune in the frequencies. One “17th
platform” - five hundred thousand dollars. Cottonwool or not, morally or not, but this is
a damn half million dollars. This is only one track, and there are four more. Okay.
Common, ahead.
There is an “Obelisk”, the main natural obelus for tracks “Kapustin - The21st
platform” and “The Airfield - The Gilt - Vega”. A real R-1 with fat belly was still proudly
standing on the pedestal surrounded by urban park, not trimmed for a long time. This
square was fully covered by the “Banya” gitik, but there was a quite safe asphalt patch
on its cut.
- So you served here, - Funny said. - Before that.
- Don’t start. All the same, I will say nothing ahead of time.
- You see, Vadik...
- Don’t start. How many times I need to tell you?
- EPBVR, Vadim! I’ve been poling the track with you for a year. And you are not
saying what is there.
- Two hours - and we are there, - Fenimore noted. - You’ve waited for a year.
- But will it work? The thing, that is there? If everything is down?
- We are not going there in vain, Seryoga, - Fenimore said, closing the discussion
with his intonation. - Did you notice which pole was it just now?
- Three hundred and one.
- Be attentive. There is a “grave” with chemists ahead. Right on the road. It was
curtained by a very fat “mirror”.
- I remember. - Funny reduced the speed, cruising in gait. - Fuck, it stuck to me
after all!.. - he said to himself, slouching above the steering wheel and peering.
- What “stuck”? - Fenimore asked, also having leaning to windshield and also
peering.
- This your “EPBVR”... Yes, I see. Can you see? The KUNG. There is no “mirror”.
- I see. Stop in thirty meters. And switch off the engine.
- Then let’s drive by quietly. In our new manner.
- No. I want to have a look. And I’ll change at the same time. And will check the
radio. We drove off a good distance, so they will not catch up with us, or accidentally
run into us either.
First, he got dressed. He had to improvise - left his overall in the bag, took only a
vest, changed snickers for boots, with great effort pulling the bottom of his narrow
pants on top of his army boots. Got armed, packed his bag. He hesitated, but eventually
took his chest backpack with a standard set. It was not possible to fight the acute attack
of a habit and he actually felt much better right away. It turned out that all this time

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he’d been suffering because he was not fully equipped. Half a minute more he spent
contemplating whether to get properly changed before long, into overall and all that
stuff. But he took hold of himself. For some reason it felt okay to be a bit naughty under
the Mother-Trouble’s watchful eye. It felt right. No! Possible, that is it.
The “sixty sixth” was standing on the right lane of the concrete road, parked
slightly askew, with the back closer to the center, hiding left side of the cab from view. It
was very quiet, only the wind yawned in a sleepy mode, not cooling down thier faces
and hands, but languidly and lazily blowing blocks of the same hot air from place to
place..
- They are supposed to yell, - Funny said in a half voice.
- They are.
- They were shot, they say, by their own rocket launchers.
- They did shoot. But we don’t know the target.
There were no traces on the KUNG trailer. They came very close to the trunk. The
car was very dusty, dirty, color almost wasn’t showing through the dusty brown-whitish
crust. You could not see even a plate. The windows were blind.
- The passenger door is open, - Fenimore said.
They stopped right away. Funny glanced at Fenimore as if the leader had an
experience of searching a back from the “grave” car with people. No one in the world
had such experience. And the flair was silent. Fenimore felt he was a regular person in
ordinary circumstances. It was very ancient, forgotten feeling, and suddenly Fenimore
understood that he decidedly doesn’t like it. He didn’t like that the Zone got switched
off. And he didn’t like that likewise he was also off. And that was not about adrenalin, all
was all good with adrenalin, and for Fenimore, and for Funny, who was finely scratching
the roof of receiver box with the nail of his index finger, which is the way his
overexcitement was coming through.
- Shall we take the both sides? - he asked.
- No, we are not separating. Together - from the left.
They moved sideways to the left lane and walked in small steps on the very edge
of a concrete slab. Little by little Fenimore moved forward, Funny skipped one step and
positioned himself behind Fenimore’s head. Fenimore peeked from the corner of the
KUNG and right away saw a person, sitting on the footboard on the driver’s side.
That means he first saw a fur tree of officer’s cloak on the concrete, a rubber
lump of hazmat suit further on, and then feet in huge American winter old-school
boots… A man in winter uniform with major field shoulder straps was sitting on
footboard in the pose of a sleeping coachman. Sweat drops sparkled on his white,
whiter than snow, hair. The machine gun with no magazine lay at his feet. He could not
see the holster, but hands were empty. Arms were dangling in between his knees.
Fenimore touched the lock and made a step forward, ready for anything.
- Hey, Major! - he called out softly and calmly, finishing his step.
Person didn’t jump, didn’t flinch. He just slowly, not raising his head, turned his
face to Fenimore, looked with one eye to see who was there calling for him.

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 - Rescuers? - he asked huskily. - Fed up waiting. Major Alyoshivech. How many
years passed, ten?
Fenimore licked his lips. Funny was breathing behind his ear.
- Five years, - Fenimore said.
Major nodded - hanged his head. Shuffled with his shoe, trying to kick the stone.
- I don’t drive a car, - he said at last. - Don’t know how. And I’m not feeling well. All
members of contingent are alive, but delirious. In-a-de-qua-te. Help is required. Can
you share some water, guys, ours is all spoilt, it stinks. A poison. And all the food got
rotten.
Fenimore took out his water, approaching. Major reached with difficulty, hit the
back of his head at the door. His woolen suit was all wet with sweat. He could not lift his
arms, Fenimore unscrewed the cap and started giving him water right from the bottle.
Major put some water into his mouth, pulled away, closed his eyelids, thanking.
Swallowed little by little.
- Shouldn’t take a lot. I am myself seconded from Uzbekistan, I know. Five years,
goddamn! Anything from our families?
Fenimore shook his head. Major regained his voice - it was a distinctive bass tone,
it turned out.
- Though I’m sweating, do you see? That means, I have enough water. One of my
soldiers gone missing, He was at the forefront. Can’t remember his surname. Pass over
if something happens with me.
Fenimore nodded.
- So, will you help with evacuation?
- We are on a mission, - Fenimore pronounced.
Major opened his eyes.
- I’ve got conscripts, young boys in the trailer. In bad condition, I had to tie them
up. Driver was attacking me, cut with a knife. Insane. I will not be able to drive myself
out of here… What is your rank? Or are you civilians?
- Civilians. Former conscript.
- Help is required, - Alyoshichev repeated. - Five years… son of a b-bitch...
- Where did they wound you?
- Just a minor cut. Ribs. Hardly any blood for some reason. I’ve treated it, this is
not a problem, comrade. The concern is - five people of private and sergeants in the
KUNG. We need help. Is there anyone coming after you? Are you scouts? Not rescuers?
- No. Scouts. Independent.
- Whatever, I understand, that I do not get the structures and hierarchy…
- Vadim.
- Vadim. But I urge to understand the position of my group. I will not manage to
drive the car, also won’t be able to lead my own soldiers and sergeants to the unit. Due
to their mental illness. My car is okay, for some reason there is fuel. I started the
engine… in the morning, long time ago. Was checking.
- Vadik, - Funny said from behind the back. - We are in the Trouble, there are no

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rules, I understand, but it will be inhumane.
- Check their car, wingman, - Fenimore said. - Let me help you stand up, comrade
Major.
- My legs are numb after long sitting, you know,- Major said, ashamed of it.
Fenimore grabbed him under the forearm, lifted and took away from the car. Funny
dived into the cabin. Fenimore brought the bottle to Alyoshichev’s lips again, and now
he drank almost all of it. It was visible that he is holding back his sips. Clean bandage
with a little dot of blood in the middle flashed under the opened jacket. The “sixty sixth”
started up, Funny stared at Fenimore in the window.
- Why are your people silent? - Fenimore asked.
- They are tied up, and I gagged their mouths, - Alyoshichev’ explained. - Wanted
to do something for myself too, while my legs were still moving. I got sick of their
yelling long time ago.
- Funny, check the people. So that their tongues don't fall behind, and so on.
- What an interesting water you have, - Alyoshichev’ said. - We didn’t have a war,
did we?
- You know, comrade Major, I’d better keep silent for now, - Fenimore said. - Many
things have changed, who knows how you will react.
- Ah! - Alyoshichev’ said. - That’s right! Didn’t think about it. And I can’t really deal
with it now … Five fucking years!…
- What, were you conscious all five years? - Fenimore asked, didn’t manage to
hold.
- If this could be called consciousness, - Aleshichev answered in such a way, that
Fenimore at once got off him forever.
It was quiet in the KUNG. then Funny jumped onto the concrete and slammed the
door. Nodded to Fenimore.
- Knee-deep in urine, but they tied notably. They are safe, crisply. Chechen has a
wolf’s look, but this doesn’t matter. So what? - he asked. - How do we act now?
- You are going back with them. I am going further.
- For godsake! - Funny said in a way, as announced option was not lying on the
surface.
- Funny, you are on the mission with me, - Fenimore said. - Not me with you. Don’t
forget. The mission needs to be completed, but they cannot be abandoned either. How
much longer this “standby” will continue, will you bet?
- Anyway we’re all gambling here, - Funny said.
- Remove the hostage, - Fenimore reminded him, and Funny nodded positively
against his will.
- I don't get every fucking thing about your business, guys, - Alyoshichev said,
after listened to all this. - But I will be forever grateful for help.
- Well and that’s good, - Fenimore told him. - Allow me to put you into the cab, sir.
- I am sick of it, worse that the Party policy, - Alyoshichev said. - Does Party
remember us at least? I am a communist.

214
 Funny laughed. This Alyoshichev was a fine fellow, only a tracker could
understand when a man is really worth his major’s rank.
When the “sixty sixth” was already rumpled with its hood towards the city,
Fenimor told Funny who was sitting at the steering wheel:
- Here's the plan, Seryoga. Yuo them to the “Two Pipes”. There you all look after
them, until I come back. Or until the Zone bursts out. - He estimated - Do not take them
to Bezhensk for the next twenty-four hours.
- Wait, Vadim, - Funny said, opened the door and leaned over Fenimore. - They
are still from the “grave”. People are under the Zone’s control. I think, they need to be
driven even outside the “neutral”. - Who knows, what will happen if it strikes them
again?
- I need twenty-four hours. If people or Darling sniff that you can drive a car
across the Zone, the fuck knows what will be started here. A rescue operation as
minimum.
- You had a head start. And they’ve been stuck in the “grave” for five years. I will
decide, Vadim, you’ve already handed them to me. Don’t be mad. If you don’t manage it
in time with such an advantage - means you couldn’t have possibly coped at all. They
have to be taken out of here. It’s my opinion. And I will decide accordingly. That's it,
brother, we are off. Take care.
- Thank you, gangster, - said Fenimore. - Have a safe way back.
- You too.
When the trunk of the “sixty sixth” dwindled into a size of match head, and its
heinous odor stopped dominating the air, Fenimore returned into the “ambulance” and
sat still behind the steering wheel for some time, with his mind blank. “All this lasts for
years and decades, and then stops in one minute. I’ve been paving a trek to the “Nine”
for a year, and can now drive there in hour and a half. Captain was spot-on, as if he
could foresee, when he made me learn to drive. I hate driving, at school I used to skip
driving lessons, and they couldn’t do anything about it. What was the teacher’s name?
The caretaker’s?”
He touched the “ambulance”, calmly settling in. First, Rafik had to fiddle, bite its
tongue, annoyed by an inexperienced driver, but then some reflexes called to mind, and
Fenimore figured out some things just winging it, and the task was not an easy one: to
roll straight along the concrete road ahead.
And he rolled, suppressing nostalgia attacks at the sight of familiar places and
buildings, both, from old and new times. Here, six months ago on the “Vega”1 traverse
together with Funny they poled one more pass over the railroad, the third known. Here
are our poles, camouflaged, so that a stranger will not overtake the hiding spots. Here
for the first time in my life I saw Zhitkur2, Vyatkin (a bitch Vyatkin to be precise) was
driving the Watchdog - just a bus in those days- to take me to hospital with a broken
arm for an X-ray, and exactly here a bus chief picked up a strange army man at the

1
Estuary Little Bychkovsky.
2
Oblovo natural boundary, 43 kilometer.

215
curb, dressed in a soldier pea coat and an officer hat, wrapped in a plastic bag, with the
military backpack on his back and with SMP gun around his neck, with serious grey-
maned strides in excessively long hair of a captain. The chief, Lieutenant-Colonel,
saluted the new passenger standing up and with such an honor, that the whole bus was
trying hard not to stare at the Captain. But he saluted back, and modestly remained
standing on the steps, although someone tried to spare his seat for him… And here is
the “Old Four”1, and a turn to the famous dump2. This dump is hiding an ancient
“Korolyov” start, two flooded, thanks to Penkovskiy, shafts, and a concrete launch
platform, where they sent dogs into the space. Here we are turning and preparing
mentally for a mean tear at the sight of native “91st”3, where we have spent our young
soldiers’ 18 months, and which no one has ever reached yet in the Zone. At least, no
one has ever made it back, in order to announce that they had reached it. And then
railroad came to an end and now only the concrete road joints the world with the top
secret test site… The division is there, all intact, look at it. Chimney is sticking out, and
everything is green. Four hundred Germans against four hundred soldiers. “May be,
they all came back to life, as those from the “grave”?” - Fenimore thought suddenly,
jumping up on his seat. But right away he remembered a clearly empty morning town,
evaluated his current impressions and calmed down. No one returns from the
Lightning. Maybe from the “grave”, hitting the jackpot. But from the Lightning - no way.
Here is the pigsty4, where they used to have a cow, and local pigmen were so
happy when I took photos of them, that I received gallons of fresh milk. I even used to
secretly send it to Lieutenant Kulibin for his pregnant wife. And Lieutenant-Colonel
Oleg, the famous German the Human would come in the evenings, to drink a cup from
the staff chief's fridge. And here is a guard’s booth, I have already passed about five of
these. But exactly in this one we set up an anti-war happening, which got its
participants repressed – draftsmen from the secret service, sent into exile by a tough
Lieutenant-Colonel Simakov, and had to stay in the troops up until demobilization,
where they probably got wasted. I wasn’t there at that time, I had already gone to the
“Nine”. (By the way, the episode with a headless Ensign happened exactly those days,
when we were having fun at this booth.) And here is the General tower5, which looks
like a glass shop, with a secret bunker underneath, in which behind a massive hatch
with a digital lock there was only a banquet hall, decorated with baked varnish borders.
About two o’clock afternoon he stopped to pee at the turn to 17th site6, an object
of desire of the highest ranks of world administration, who were explicitly offering half
a million dollars official reward for a track there. It was that place where his very first
group was making the path, when he was the youngest. It’s here they used to send life-
sentenced volunteers with a promise of the amnesty. And this is the fact. I remember

1
Kotomkino.
2
Bull's natural boundary.
3
Former Okhryomin.
4
Estuary Khrenovyi.
5
Old Kupava yard.
6
Prosovo natural boundary, Pallasovsky region, Volgogradskaya oblast.

216
they used to train them. One of them, as it appeared, killed the Father, rest in peace,
and little Yana, rest her soul. Fenimore was looking at the guard towers a kilometer
away from the concrete road (badly destroyed here, long neglected, long time before
the Lightning), at caponiers, at the rows of wire, at cars, parked on site, and didn’t have
any special tracker feelings, which seemed unfair to him. That was still a legend,
something should move inside. Nothing moved inside. There were Katty and Maika,
there were years of deadly dangerous way to them, blessed by knowing the fact that
resurrection was real. And that's all. A-all.
About three o’clock he was seventy-five kilometers away from the town along a
straight line. The concrete road ended six kilometers back, the dirt road was a faded
brown scar in sagebrush, but it was very familiar to Fenimore. It was on this very road
that he learned to drive the Captain's “goat”, happily racing from the “Nine” to the
concrete road and back for millions of times. The “ambulance” was going good, not
showing any sign of tiredness. But Fenimore’s back, ass and shoulders hurt. The fuel
was low, but he decided to keep moving on the rest and then refuel the car there1. This
was a manifestation of his impatience, in other words - a weakness, but he deliberately
threw off the rein, somehow trying to curb a fear of finding a dummy instead of a loot
in his head. He knew, that Captain Zhitkur didn’t lie to him, when recruiting him to sign
the contract. And that Vyatkin, who worked as a doctor inn Bezhensk, was ineptly acting
as a stranger, also had a point, even considering Fenimore felt pissed off because of it.
But the fear was still there. Fear to find an empty loot chest.
On the only street of a completely demolished village2 Fenimore drove up to the
pillar memorial on the White Army’s victims grave. He was already in the district of
Nine, and not so long ago he would have been captured by all three cameras of the
tracking system, that was a pride of Captain Zhitkur for a whole month, if the system
“hadn’t gone to hell”. There also used to be the mine traps everywhere around – for
committees. After inspection checks, Zhitkur rigorously walked around each one with a
map and disabled the fuses. He felt bad for saiga antelopes and his own nerve cells,
besides, a lost launch installation with drunk crew could drive in. At an established spot
between hut foundations Fenimore turned to the camp, which same as the village, was
destroyed with only graves left – it was the jail cemetery, going there for all three
subordinates was strictly prohibited by the Captain’s order. He didn’t prohibit going to
the bunker, didn’t prohibit swimming in the stream 46-45, didn’t prohibit visiting the
“17th” to smack a cocky Captain in the face, but he did prohibit coming here.
“Earthlings, - he said. - I will forgive you for a nuclear bomb. But there you are not
allowed. Do not make me the Captain Bluebeard, earthlings.”
Fenimore skirted this cemetery from the west side, half a kilometer more along
already unused road - and here he is, a shaft, and after the shaft we’ll find a wire in
three rows, bushes, pumping, small hangar and house. All in a square area of fifty to
sixty meters.
1
Apparently, “there” should be highlighted. For example: “Fill up again There”. Or in italics. Or radically:
THERE. - (S. Sh.)
2
Zhitkur.

217
 The gates were open, and on the ground near the house there was a helicopter,
as in American movies, - a glass bubble on skids. There were two people standing near
the helicopter, who at the first glance seemed to Fenimore, to private Sverzhin posted
in this barbwired backyard by the order of the Minister of Defense of USSR, to fit
perfectly in this landscape, endemic to it. Even their clothes - blue jumpsuits with straps
and vests - naturally blended in here, it was familiar. But the next moment he pushed
the pedals, first mixing up the brakes with the clutch, then with accelerator.
They noticed him, lifted their hands to their foreheads, screening from the sun,
and peered, apparently, not feeling any unsettled about the “ambulance” arrival.
Fenimore took control of the vehicle, jumped out to the steppe, and nearly ran to
the helicopter, setting his shotgun more cleverly on the way. “Are you ready for
anything?”, Mumbler asked very seriously. “Yes”, he replied. “I am always with you”,
Mumbler said.
As he was walking towards them, they were also quietly exchanging opinions,
having interrupted when he stopped in front of them.
He stopped two steps away, which excluded a handshake, looking directly at the
Captain, and only at the Captain. The Captain folded his bare arms on his chest. He
hardly had any suntan. Doctor Vyatkin didn’t know where to put his hands. He didn’t
want to copy the Captain, he was not a monkey but a doctor, and it was generally
embarrassing since he’d treated Vadik like a jerk, and, if he was Vadik, he would not
shake his own hands either. That is why Vyatkin put his hands into his front pockets,
pouted, and started to rise up and down on his toes. This didn’t help, and he decided to
smooth the situation by making a joke. He said:
- Here someone should say something like “Doctor Stanly, I suppose?”
- Chief, - Fenimore said to Captain Zhitkur. - What the fuck of unknown kind is
happening?

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 CHAPTER 13

- First of all, “Good morning, sir”, - said Zhitkur. - This is what you should tell me.
- I am not your subordinate.
- Really? - said Zhitkur being surprised. - Then what are you doing?
- I'm asking a question. There was a promise. So I'm asking.
- Let's go inside, friends, - said doctor Vyatkin cordially and invitingly. Vadik,
comrade Captain and I were just going to have tea anyway. And here you have arrived.
Perfect! We couldn't even hope for better.
- Let's have some tea, Sverzhin, - said Zhitkur. - We also need to calm down. But
you have surprised us. Have surprised. A host of feelings, a host of feelings. Let's set
them down. Anyhow, our doctor has patients there. We just got to take the medical
supplies out of the helicopter. We'll appreciate your help, by the way.
- Chief! - said Fenimore, adjusting the machine gun.
- Turn off your re-emotionalizer. I'm not professor Vybegallo to you1, - said Zhitkur
vaguely. - Take this bag. And me and the dearest Doctor will drag this box. There is
whiskey in it, so we need to be extremely careful.
- Chief.
- Take the bag, Vadim. I'm just happy to see you.
Fenimore realized that he also was happy to see Zhitkur, but he needed a bit
more time.
- I'm also happy to see Vadim, - said doctor Vyatkin solemnly, with exaggerated
sincerity. - I feel so guilty over the way I treated him.
- You are guilty because of my orders, doctor, - noticed Zhitkur. - And this is one
more thing we have to discuss.
Fenimore couldn't resist it anymore.
- Such a bitch you are, Igor Lvovich! - he said to doctor.
Vyatkin threw up his hands with his chicken grace.
- Vadik! It was the order! To pretend I didn't know you, and there's nothing I could
do about it! I've already been scolding the chef in every way! It was most horrible for
me! and please, accept my deepest condolences. I am so late with them, but trust me...
- A-a-a-ah! - Zhitkur shouted to the sky. - There's no rest for me even in the
steppe, among the phalanxes and tarantulas! Damn you, Doctor! Hold the box. If you
drop it, you'll be making excuses to the sheriff assistant yourself. Sverzhin! Take the
bag. And put your machine gun away! You are being held at a gunpoint anyway, you
won't even have the time to blink.
- Yes, by the way! - said Vyatkin and began waving his arms, turning to the house.
- No shoot! This his friend! How do I say 'an old friend', chief?
- “This is our friend” in this case, - said Zhitkur with his usual patience. It's not 'his'

1
Re-emotionalizer - is a machine that transforms negative emotions into positive. Created and used by
Strugatsky brothers in “Tale for the Troika“. Professor Vybegallo is one of the characters of the same novel.

219
but 'our'. And you have also missed a lot of other stuff. Now, take the box! You cannot
convince the old man from the distance.
- Well, now he's warned at least. Vadim, would you mind carrying the box? I’m a
butterfingers at carrying boxes. And in the bag there isn’t anything fragile.
The box was heavy, cardboard, slippery, tightly taped, and there was something
inside that gurgled. Doctor Vyatkin showed them the way with a large light bag under
his arm. They tumbled into the house, into a familiar living room with a fireplace made
of chamotte brick, various-sized armchairs, a round sliding table, an old Soviet
sideboard, an air conditioning BK-1500 on a specially reinforced nightstand with a built-
in condensate collection bucket, with a wall-mounted shelf, like in the Bar, floral
patterned curtains and dozens of kerosene lamps and lanterns on the shelves and
under the ceiling. And an electric floor lamp over the main, captain's, chair. But five
selector telephones that previously occupied a whole separate table by the window
were not there anymore. And a rug on the plank floor was unfamiliar. And the smell of
tobacco was unfamiliar and wrong. No, not like that: the reek of smoke was unfamiliar
and wrong.
There was also an unfamiliar person in the living room, an elderly man of a
foreign type. Fenimore's first association was: it is Sergio Leone, Clint Eastwood, but
wide, not tall, and wise, not experienced. Then Zebulon Stump from a Soviet movie
appeared1. But he appeared not to the accompaniment of a blind turkey quacking in
the bushes, but to that spooky theme song where the Headless is riding above the
rocks, and we also get to see a “Josaphat”. In one word, the old man was very racy. He
missed a left foot up to the middle of the shin, he was sitting in Fenimore's rocking
chair at the front window. He was fixing the lower corner of the curtain in its place,
studying Fenimore very carefully. Under his arm there was a gun propped against the
wall, which was definitely from a movie: it was a Winchester rifle with such a shutter
below, where fingers slide in like in brass knuckles2. A Faithful Hand, a friend of the
Apaches. Who the hell was that? A crutch leaned against the wall next to the Winchester
rifle. Mark Twain's black mustache grew from under the old man’s huge nose, and rare
black hair on the old man's head shone as if they were greased up and carefully divided
into equal parts by a straight parting.
Fenimore and Zhitkur safely carried the box to the table and put it on top. The old
man lost his leg not long ago, the stump was bandaged and marked red from the
inside. (Alyoshichev came up in the memory. Did they get to the destination? “I
completely forgot about the radio. So screw it, this radio.”) Meanwhile, Doctor Vyatkin,
in a hurry put his burden on a sideboard countertop,next, it immediately fell on the
floor.
- Mister Brolsma, sir! - The Doctor acclaimed with no acknowledging this incident.
- Let me introduce you to his old friend with pleasure and joy. Vadim Sverzhin, a

1
The role of Zebulon Stump in the film adaptation of the novel “Headless Horseman“ in 1973 was played by
Ivan Petrov.
2
It called the longitudinal slide gate and that should be known without prompting. - (S. Sh.)

220
celebrated trail hunter!3
Vadim did not know English at all, it did not get retained in his head, although he
communicated a lot with the Americans and walked them on their missions about ten
times. It seemed to him that Vyatkin was speaking very beautiful, but Zhitkur chuckled
and the old man put out his hitman’s gaze, took a long thin cigar from behind his ear
and clicked with a crimson Cricket lighter, which, as Fenimore noted, was new to him, as
the loss of the leg. The cigar smelled of such terrible weed that non-smoking Zhitkur,
Vyatkin and Fenimore sneezed and cringed at the same time.
- I apologize, - said the old man, puffing next cloud of smoke out of his mustache,
like nothing happened. - I trust your recommendation, doc. My name is Ezekiel
Brolsma, young stranger, and I was the oldest Deputy Sheriff on the West. Doc Igor and
Captain… err… gee… zhi… damn it, Captain!
- Just Captain, Wobenaka, just Captain, - Zhitkur said peacefully.
- Hell yeah! I’m continuing, young stranger. Doc Igor and “Just Captain” have
kindly admitted me here after the strangest event that had ever happened with an
American before the Moon flight, of which the dear doctor have told me. In the
mountains I was called Wobenaka; if we become friends, young man, you could call me
by that name, too.
Zhitkur translated all this, Fenimore bowed involuntarily.
- I am Vadim.
- Vadim... Vadim, right?
- Yes, sir, - Fenimore said accurately.
The old man nodded.
- I’ve heard many weird names, - he said. - But Russian names are very weird. And
I don’t like your vodka. It makes no sense. But our “Just Captain” brought in some
whiskey, which is more important for me than aspirin, young stranger Vadim.
Fenimore listened to the translation (the captain translated quite indifferently, it
seemed that he was thinking about something else) and expressed understanding of
the circumstances with interjections, it was all he could.
- I haven’t really mastered your Russian language, - the old man added, casting
his eyes at Vyatkin for some reason. - And won’t master it soon. So I will let “Just
Captain” to speak about me, if you are interested, or when there is a need for that.
What have you got here, “Just Captain”? Open the box, my guts feel the smell of my
homeland locked in those glass cell with damn iron screwed plugs.
And then he cracked an insane trick: he was gone from the room without making
a single move. Fenimore did not even understand how he managed to achieve such an
effect with a minimal change of posture. Like in the movies, when the background is
blurred. He wanted to shake his head. The old man was definitely the gitik, and even
worse than the “grave“.
- Doctor, be so kind to fetch tea and the rest. Let's feed Vadim, - said Zhitkur,

3
“Mister Brolsma, sir! Let me provide you with the old friend with pleasure and joy. Uadim Souverzhin,
marked by traces of hunter!” - It sounded like this, actually. This is Vyatkin! - (The author)

221
cutting the tape on the box. - Don't wakе up the Tail. While we hadn't discussed
everything. The arrival of the ranks opens up new opportunities.
- Perfect arrangement! - said Doctor Vyatkin. - I'll bring the tea, Vadik. And you
take a sit. Don't be a stranger in your old house!
Fenimore sat down at the table, propped up his chin with his hands. Zhitkur
showed the old man a bottle, went to the sideboard to get a glass, and brought them
over to him. Then Zhitkur put the box in the corner, away from the possible Vyatkin's
routes. He settled in front of Fenimore. Meanwhile, the old man downed a crazy doze in
one gulp and grunted in a very Russian way.
- The “time machine”? - asked Fenimore, pointing to the old man with a nod.
- Yes, sir, - said Zhitkur. - Even Strygatsky brothers couldn't see this in their
dreams. To put it short, some jerks have organized CCE1 deliveries to the Wild West. The
gitik was right next to the “Vega”.
- Who are they?
- Their identity is getting confirmed. Some roughnecks. The members of a
temporary camp on the part of Mayak October, from the Pallas district.
Fenimore chuckled.
- That means that the rumors about roughnecks in the Zone were the truth. That
means that Bezhensk is not the center of the Universe. Now it has begun. We're going
to have a fun life now.
- It's been almost a year since it began, private. They are forcing their way to the
“17th”, had already passed the “Vega”. They’re making their way to Eltron along the bed
of the Khara river. They lost a lot of people, but there's no other job outside the
Perimeter. Ten will die and one will come back with a piece of iron. It's a market. And the
Kazakhs are very active. They buy over more experienced Bezhensk tourists.
- They are jealous, I understand ... Will you stop visa permits?
- I am not authorized to decide anything. The “Nine” is my concern.
- I believe you, chief.
- Carry on this way. It is important for me that foreign presence is strong, that the
institute remains international. And this largely depends on people of Trouble. For
comrades Muscovites not to change the status of this location to “classified”.
- And what about the old man? Is he really the Wild West?
- The year of 1850, the month of July. Some scumbags in feathers staged a raid on
some of their convoy with two machine guns. And he was the main specialist in tracks
in that area. Mayne Reid with our Fenimore Cooper, seriously. He tracked down the
Redskins first then stumped upon ours with another box. He killed two, lost some of his
men, and jumped out of the system in our time near the “Vega”. He blew up the gate,
which is curious. With fucking dynamite. You can see his leg got crippled. And then he
began looking for people. In the Zone. - Zhitkur blew in folded palms. - His flair is like...
People told me that you have an excellent one, but imagine: there he passed the
“Rubik”, and he didn't hit the celling in difficult places, and passed Okhryomin over the

1
Communication channel equipment.

222
top. With no leg, with some kind of a board supporting his armpit! There are no people
in area of the “17th“, there's nobody who would catch your signal. So he crawled to this
place just half-alive. Thanks God, I brought our doctor back to duty.
- And here are we, sitting in Bezhensk completely uninformed. We don't know
that it's possible to live in the Zone, we don't know that it's possible to fly to the Zone by
helicopter. I've been poling three hundred kilometers here for a year. Fenimore trusts
comrade Captain, and comrade Captain forbade even Vyatkin to trust Fenimore. Who is
his own staff, by the way.
- Don't get mad, Vadim. Set aside. If that tragedy hadn't stuck you, you would
refuse to return. And this would be the right decision. Don't stare at me. After all, I
know that you started to suspect me in the death of your girls long time ago.
- Why is that? - Fenimore asked cslmly. - How would you know about it?
- This is normal for your situation. Relatives died, the old chief feeds you a pack of
lies, having appeared just in time right after the blow. If it hadn't come to your hairy
head immediately, then I'm sure that it surely had later.
- What's happening to the Zone today?
- I don't know this. I can only assume.
- Then assume. You have predicted something like this before.
- Well, I had no idea that the scale would be like.
Vyatkin came back with a kettle, with cups, wet in the front and stern. He would
make tea right in a big kettle. That just was his style. Fenimore recognized his red cup.
He grabbed it like a talisman and realized that everyone noticed it, even the old man.
Without saying a word, Vyatkin poured him some tea. Carefully.
- I spilled some boiling water on myself there, - he explained. - And had to boil it
again. Chief, I rubbed some cream on my stomach.
- You’re wasting “pudding” again, doctor! - said Zhitkur.
- The “pudding”! - said Fenimore.
Vyatkin with his pose expressed sarcasm about Captain's inadvertent and very
childish slip. And respect to Fenimore because of his, Fenimore's, insight and ability to
make conclusions from it.
- Vadim, this is a very good one, but for the time being it's just a really advanced
Vishnevsky ointment, - said Captain. - I told you that we would need not years but
dozens of years would. That you'll be an old man when it heals. I wasn't giving you false
hopes. I didn't promise a quick miracle. I didn't promise that you would be able to use
it.
- Yes, you weren't encouraging me. But the “pudding“! Chief, did you kill trackers
who reached the Airfield?
- No, come on. We're not in a spy movie, Vadim. - Here Zhitkur heard a loud
gurgling of liquid pouring in area of the rocking chair and grinned. - Although, it
already seems that we are in a movie... In a western... It's a strange story with that guy
who back then poled the Airfield starting from Tanks, Vadim. I've learned it. It's like he
got into the “Rubik“, but according to the nature of injuries it was not the “Rubik“ but

223
something unknown. And he really died in Bezhensk, there are witnesses. And the very
first who reached there. What was his name? Mazin? That wasn't me either. I didn't now
about the Airfield then. I was making my way here.
- How do you fly here? Or is it a secret? Twenty-five years of travel ban and the
toughest punishment?
- No, it's not a secret. It's a death-defying feat. There are a pair of neutral wedges
in the Zone. Very deep, very narrow. Both go right here. One goes from the north and
the second one from as far as Kazakhstan. About others... I don't know. It's impossible
to find them without my flair. The helicopter is small and nimble. So I've learned to fly
here step by step. But it's really death-defying, it's better to go on foot. I fly rarely.
- Why not drive?
- Sure, why not? But it's way too long. Rivers, ravines. The safe neutral layer on
dirt road is very thin, you can easily cut it down to the gitik with a rut. Wow! Just look at
your face now, Sharapov!1
- W-what? Neutral layer on the dirt road? How is it possible?
- Exactly, - Captain Zhitkur said dismissively, that was unusual for him. - Exactly
the neutral layer on exactly the dirt road. You dig the layer with a tip of a shovel and fall
into the “grave” under you or let the “prokrust” out. You know, it squeezes out from
under the ground like lava, and spreads on top like a flapjack.
- What spreads? - Asked freaked Fenimore.
- Increased gravity. Or reduced, if there's the “minus” under you.
- Vadik, drink your tea.
- I can't drink it.
- And why is that? - the doctor was upset.
- I haven’t been able to eat or drink anything terrestrial for a long time. I forage
for some wild food.
Here the Captain and the doctor looked at each other swiftly and simultaneously
opened their mouths. Captain with a gesture gave a word to the doctor.
- Do you brew dill? And then you finish your gruel? And large portions of baking
soda? Milk with salt?
Fenimore shuddered.
- Only dill. Milk with salt?! You gotta be kidding me, Igor Lvovich!
- Boiled milk with salt, actually, - said Vyatkin. - Well okay, and what is your usual
temperature now? About thirty-nine give or take?
- Thirty-eight point five degrees. Why?
- Looks like we’ve got a highlander here? - asked Zhitkur quietly. Vyatkin was
washing his palms in the air and he had a bloodthirsty look on his face, his thick lower
lip was moving in anticipation and his glasses, which looked creepier than Turanchoks’,
were beastly sparkling.
- Not so fast, doctor! - said Fenimore, pulling away and putting the cup between
himself and the doctor.

1
A popular phrase from the popular Soviet movie “The meeting place cannot be changed“, released in 1979.

224
 - We have to examine the soldier, chief, - said Vyatkin. - Right here. Calm down,
patient, it’s okay. Everything’s going to be fine.
- My dear, - Fenimore added in the same tone. - Chief!
- As I remember, I have announced an emergency evacuation, doctor, - said
Captain Zhitkur, and clanked his spoon. - That's why I flew over here, by the way.
- I think, we can put it off, - said the doctor authoritatively. - Let's suppose, your
Mother-Trouble will switch back on, but what can it do to us here? And here is such an
interesting case, and what a platform I have here now! My personal tomograph!
- The only one in the Volgograd region, by the way. But you, Igor Lyvovich, need
to calm down. It is an evacuation. It is an order. Well, such notions. The important ones.
It is dangerous.
Dr. Vyatkin got angry. In a huff, he picked up as much air as he could, and was
silent, as long as he could hold his breath.
- Gentlemen, - the old man said suddenly. - It feels as if a thunderstorm is
coming.
- What an instinct! - said the Captain. - Amazing. It’s right, Wobenaka, sir, we will
go soon.
- Go? - Asked the old man. - You promised we would fly, mister “Just captain”.
- And I won’t break my promise, Wobenaka, sir. We will keep talking for another
half an hour, then will turn off all the lights here, and will take off.
- Half an hour is acceptable, - The old man agreed and began to measure the level
of the liquid in his glass, examining it in the light.
- Evacuation? - Asked Fenimore.
- I guess, and all the indirect signs confirm this, that the Zone has completed one
stage of its evolution and reboots to start the next one. Did you see the computer,
private?
- Sure I did.
- They need to be reloaded so that the installed program could start working.
From my observations, this is what’s happening right now. And I have no idea what will
happen after this reloading is done. I think that we’ll have another planet here, at the
very least. This is why you're just in time. Once again. You gave us time to talk and also
will relieve us of certain burden.
Then the doctor exhaled and washed down the remaining resentment with tea.
- Making me work for you?
- Very much. However, I will compensate for it. Now we will keep in touch.
- You will compensate for it by keeping in touch?
- I think it's a fine deal, - said Captain.
- Okay. What do I have to do?
- The helicopter is small, it lifts four hundred kilograms. I was planning to make
two runs but if you go the only one would be needed. I'll take our sheriff assistant,
doctor Vyatkin, and the cargo we need, as much as it's safe to take. And you'll take the
rest of the cargo and one more passenger. He's going to Bezhensk anyway. You'll help

225
him with legalization there.
- Who is this?
- What do you mean “who”? - doctor Vyatkin asked Fenimore with great
amazement. - Who do you think can be picked up from here, except me and him? - He
nodded at the old man.
Fenimore turned cold feet.
- Ah you... Ah me... Fuck you! For your information, I came here just for “pudding”!
- And why do you need the “pudding”, Sverzhin? - Captain Zhitkur asked with an
interest.
- But you don't exist, - Fenimore said, confused. - Five years. (The image of Major
Alyoshichev flashed. “Five fucking years!”) Doctor disappeared and before this...
- I apologized to you, - Interrupted the doctor. Fenimore waved away.
- What was I supposed to do, chief? What can be more valuable than the
“pudding”? This is something, at least! You have not been there, - he repeated. - I've
been here for almost six years. I'm here every day. And you are not. I thought we would
be together, chief.
Zhitkur bit his lip, sighed, and suddenly sharply pulled out the chain around his
neck. Fenimore remembered that he always had a cross and identification tokens
hanging on this chain. Tokens appeared from under the vest of the jumpsuit, but
instead of the cross there was a case proportionate to a lipstick.
- Do you know what's here, private? - The Captain asked, showing the case.
Fenimore said with an instantly dry throat:
- Yes.
- They have always been with me, and always will be. And I’ve always been here,
and always will be. If I don't die. And you’ve always been here, and you should always
be and not die. It will be a long ride. A five years’ ride! How about fifty years!? - He hid
the case in his fist. - But, judging by the stand of our doctor (how do you say there, in
the criminal poaching community?), luck came your way? So sat aside sniveling, private.
Don’t ruin the impression while it's still good. - He stuck the charms back behind the
vest. - Take the corporal and the cargo, private. You can unload the cargo at your place,
in that bar. You have a storage where nobody except you, would poke around, right?
- Yes, sir, - said Fenimore. - And the corporal?
- He is now called Tail, - doctor Vyatkin interjected. - He takes offense if you call
him the Corporal, weirdo.
- So did you mean him when you said not to wake up Tail?
- Well yeah, he sleeps a lot. All the time. And eats a lot. Non-stop!
Captain Zhitkur waited for them to finish, without expressing any impatience.
- Bring the Corporal to the city, private.
- I don't understand, sir. What do you mean “to the city”? He’s a goner as soon as
we cross the line, right at the boundary.
Zhitkur was smiling. Fenimore looked at the doctor. The doctor looked at the
Captain and began smiling too.

226
 - He’s not going to collapse, Vadik, it has been checked. He is completely
autonomous. He is alive, - He said with pride. - For real.
Then the captain finally looked at his watch for the first time.
- So, we drank tea, Wobenaka had some sleep. Let's get on horses, slaves of the
“Nine”. It seems to me, that we have time until nightfall, but stand down from playing a
waiting game... Who knows what can happen. Doctor, split the cargo... I suppose, you
take assistant Brolsma’s bag, his ancient weapon and two big jars of “pudding”.
- Shall we wake up Tail? - asked the doctor.
Fenimore shuddered. Zhitkur grinned.
- It's easier not to. Let him sleep. Comrade private will wake him up in the city.
You’ll have to take care of him for a bit, Vadim. Like the good old days.
- I already got it, - said Fenimore with anger.
- Positive thinking, Vadim, - said Captain Zhitkur. – You walk away with a crazy
rating today. First of all, you've reached “Zhitkur”. A super track right from Kapustin!
You’ve carried off thirty-two jars of “pudding”. This is the second. A lifetime of glory for
someone, not counting health. - Here he stopped. - So here's why you need the
“pudding”! Ah you, bitch. Applause, Vadim, I couldn't even think of such... Well done,
well done. Move further! You brought a real Lazarus. This not your Ensign with his
pathetic holes who lives on the neutral. This is a real, matured, long standing living
corpse. I bet they won't ever charge you for drinks in “Chipka”!
- Stop it, chief!
- Well okay then. Let's get on horses.
- They all stood up from the table at once and, by tradition, put the dishes on a
tray to do the washing up in their small kitchen.
- I have a personal question, Vadim, - said the Captain.
Vyatkin immediately took his part of the dishes with and delicately left, horribly
ringing with cups.
- Yes?
- Has anyone poled the way to my house? - asked Zhitkur with incomprehensible
awkwardness.
- In Kapustin? As far as I know, nobody has, sir. There's a “draft” on the side of the
boulevard, it's round-the-clock and implacable. And on the side of the village, there is a
cemetery. Cannot be passed, I went there myself. Why? Your books?
- Yeah, I'd been collecting them for so many years. They have autographs. It's
such a shame. But as I know, this block didn't burn, did it?
- No, it didn't.
- Well, maybe someone will pole it. And your Watchdog! Talks about you all the
time, in Moscow and Brussels! Is he out now as well?
- Yeah. And we were going to drive halfway on it. The mission was scheduled for
today. We would have finished it in a week, I guess.
- And with who? With your criminal?
- He's a good guy, chief.

227
 - And he was too scared to go with you.
- No, he wasn't. I sent him back from a halfway. Do you know about the chemists’
car, where “three hundred” poles are? On the concrete road? The “grave”?
- Of course I do.
- So they jumped out. At night. And all are alive. So he took them to town.
- Can't be!
- This is the way it was.
- Ah, the Zone, Mother-Zone. Where it takes, there it gives.
- And somewhere it kicks an ass, - they said in chorus.
- Was glad to see you, private, - said Captain Zhitkur. - Okay, now go find the
doctor, load your “ambulance” and I will get our tracker. Mister Brolsma! It's time.
- I'm ready, - replied the old man in the same second, screwing down the bottle's
cork and, conversely, screwing another black cigar up into his mustache. There was just
a little drink left at the very bottom of the bottle. Fenimore left the living room.
They packed very quickly, consistently working together as in old times. The old
man was sitting in the helicopter, resting his foot in a high cuff boot on the ski stand,
and watched all the world go by in a single frame, smoking the cigar, and holding a
winchester rifle under his arm. Defying the expectations, he wasn't wearing belt
revolvers, and Fenimore asked Vyatkin about them. And the doctor confirmed that, of
course, there were revolvers and they were in a saddlebag, serious hefty things.
However, Wobenaka has little ammunition for them. And it turns out, that the Captain
gave him a winchester rifle as a gift. A new Winchester, not the ancient one. So he,
Wobenaka, eats and sleeps with this Winchester. “I tried once to change it for a machine
gun,” said the doctor, “it was an SKS gun1. But no, only Winchester will do and that’s
final. They found each other. And the sheriff is no fool.” “He's not a sheriff.” “Yes. He told
me that he’s rejected sheriff positions for already twenty years. Kind of a sheriff's
assistant has more freedom. And no paper work.”
They loaded four boxes of two-liter jars with the coveted “pudding”, eight jars
each, into the ambulance, which the captain parked right outside the house. “One box
is mine”, thought Fenimore, “They can all go to hell.” Two canvas sacks wrapped with
tape lay under these boxes. After Fenimore asked what's there, the doctor said that
there's nothing special. The sacks were extremely heavy, all three of them took a lot of
effort to put in the car, and the car sagged noticeably. And then all three of them went
to get the corporal.
It turned out, that he didn’t live in a fridge under the hangar anymore, but in the
hangar, in the nook, which was put up specially for him with plank wood and chipboard
by doctor Vyatkin’s kind butterfinger hands. It had electricity, there was a medical
cabinet and a medical couch of yellow oilcloth, well furbished with the familiar to
Fenimore red pillow and captain's patchwork quilt. Corporal slept on this quilt with his
head under the pillow, in a soldier's undershirt and army shorts. He was as tall as a

1
The SKS is a Soviet semi-automatic carbine chambered for the 7.62×39mm round, designed by Simonov,
Sergei Gavrilovich in 1943.

228
pole, as thin as Nikolaich and as bold as an automat cartridge. But the skin covered
absolutely the whole body, the hideous scar around his neck almost entirely merged
with the skin, so it did not look as horrible as Fenimore remembered him. Vyatkin
immediately took prepared backpack with corporal's stuff, rolled his clothes in a ball,
hooked up the shoes with his fingers and left, leaving it up to Zhitkur and Fenimore to
figure out how to lay out the stretchers, how to shift not so lightweight corporal on it
and carry him to the car. But he did help in the car: they found out that the “ambulance“
had cleverly made guidelines for stretchers, and the corporal could be placed in it very
easily, like clockwork. They shut the back doors and suddenly it became much darker.
After finding that old Wobenaka is standing right there near the car, with winchester
rifle carelessly on his shoulder and with the same carelessness leaning on a crutch,
Fenimore decided that it was he who had blocked the soft scorching luminary, as it
turned out that the square old man was a head taller than him, the tallest out of all
three of them. Then Fenimore wondered what the old giant was looking at, and
immediately realized his mistake: the shadow did not belong to Wobenaka.
Wobenaka was looking in the sky. There, high in the sky, against the backdrop of
a cloudless blue, a huge flock of blackbirds (as a swarm supposed to be) was drawing
gigantic hieroglyphs, a hieroglyph every second. Each of the birds moved slowly, but
the flock shaped hieroglyphs with the speed of a bat's reaction, and its movements
could not be divided into separate movements of the creatures that made it up.
The captain ran up to freeze with them.
- Birds! - dumbfounded Fenimore reported to him.
- Those are not birds,- Wobenaka said with the arrangement. - I see no heads, I
see no legs, I see no feathers. Wings are long, like pennons, body’s short, like corncobs.
I have never seen anything like that. And they are silent. And they are black like the
Devil’s shadow. What are they, mister “Just Captain”?
- There are no birds in the Zone! Woolies, mushrooms, and` phalanxes, nothing
else is living! - said Fenimore.
- Then what is this? - Zhitkur asked him in frustration. Fenimore gulped in
response.
- Have you seen this here in your Zone, Captain? - repeated Wobenaka.
- No, sir, - answered Zhitkur.
- What did he say? - the doctor asked upright.
Zhitkur translated.
- And how are you going to fly now, chief? - asked Fenimore.
- No idea, - said Zhitkur.
- Captain, would your “devil's darning-needle” overcome those not-birds if they
attack or just block it? - asked Wobenaka.
- I would not even try that, - replied Zhitkur.
Wobenaka nodded.
- Those creatures are slow and large. I could easily shoot one of them, - he said. -
Maybe, others would be scared and fly away, so our doctor could happily obtain a little

229
corpse for vivisection, - he said. - Maybe, others would be scared and fly away, so our
doctor could happily obtain a little corpse for vivisection?
- What did he say?
Zhitkur translated in a patter.
- It's better not to, - the doctor said cautiously.
- What did the doc say? - asked Wobenaka.
Zhitkur translated.
- Then I will just shoot. It’s really time to fly or to go, the storm is nearly here,
gentlemen, - Wobenaka said solemnly. Zhitkur did not have time to translate,
Wobenaka slightly raised the barrel and pressed the trigger.
- Then I will just shoot. It’s really time to fly or to go, the storm is nearly here,
gentlemen, - Wobenaka said solemnly. Zhitkur did not have time to translate,
Wobenaka slightly raised the barrel and pressed the trigger.
Later, Fenimore tried to think what next events could pass for, and he came up
with the following picture: Wobenaka's bulet pierced the dome of a Martian station and
the wrappers of devilish chocolates, which were dancing over their heads, were
instantly sucked into the hole that had been created. And the light came into the world.
Doctor Vyatkin took off his glasses and began to wipe them with a handkerchief,
and dropped first the glasses, then the handkerchief.
- Jesus fucking Christ! - Wobenaka said in English. His mustache stood on end. -
Your fucking twentieth century from Christmas!
- I am shaking with fear, - the doctor told everyone. - I didn't get as frightened
even in those six month that I spent here in the 1988, alone in a red circle with a mad
deadman as I got just now here in one second. Sorry, chief, but I'd like to abandon your
helicopter in a classical sexual way. I'm leaving here by land. Vadik will then help me
cross the outer perimeter. I will not fly, - he concluded in a tone that sprouted with
stiffening.
Carefully listening to the doctor, the old Wobenaka pulled another trick: the rifle
in his hand turned into a bottle, and the rifle was actually no longer with him1. He
gripped the lid with his teeth and spun the bottle.
- Have some, doc. A good sip in time is a doctor not worse than you are.
The doctor didn't argue. He took a good sip. He returned the bottle and leaned to
pick his glasses and the handkerchief.
- All right, - said the Captain. - Wobenaka, would you fly or go with the doctor and

1
Binomial theorem. Hezekiah Ar. “Wobenaka“ Brolsma stood with his left side to Fenimore. And he put the
rifle in a holster on his right hip. In the weeks of his life at the “Nine“, he personally made this holster for the
Winchester from a leather “Arctic” suit that belonged to me, and which later, in the winter of 2003, I was
unsuccessfully looking for in a warehouse base. (And I almost went crazy, by the way: there was no one who could
take it except me, but I did not. And such mysteries are very meaningful in the Zone.) And a half a liter bottle
Hezekiah Ar. “Wobenaka“ Brolsma easily carried in his pants pocket. He was 201 centimeters tall and his weight was
115 kilograms. And every centimeter and every kilogram was derived from sixty years of consuming bear meat,
buffalo milk and a famous chocolate by “Chocolate“ company on that Earth, where an atomic bomb had never
exploded. Was this a trick? I’ll say people were just different back in old days. And the “birds“, their essence, their
urge and - in particular - their disappearance - well, this was a magic trick. - (K. Zh.)

230
Vadim?
- I will fly with you, Captain. I want to fly. But the doctor better goes with your
soldier.
- Let’s go then. I packed your things. Goodbye, doctor. Vadim, come here for a few
words. I almost forgot.
He grabbed Fenimore's elbow with two fingers and took him aside.
- First of all. A question. Are were dinosaurs your job?
- For such fisherman questions, people get buried under the lawn, - Fenimore
said with disapproval.
- I see. You and your “good Ensign” have built your empire on those dinosaurs. I
just couldn't sniff it out and it always drives me mad. Okay. Don't go there anymore,
please.
- Where? - asked Fenimore.
- Okay, okay, I'm not demanding. Quite the opposite, I'm going to give you
something. This is your assignment, private, so pay attention. Figure out how to
unobtrusively slip one route to the institute staff, please. I drew it up, try not to lose this
piece of paper. And better if you copy it yourself, and get rid of mine.
- What is that? - asked Fenimore, studying the map. From the first glance at a fat
Greek letter that denoted the gitik, he understood that it is located in the town, in its
rough parts, housing estate between blocks eleven and one, by the House of Officers.
And across the borderline, starting right from the village's greengrocer at the lowest
point of Dog's curve, a clear, firm line led to the gitik, crossing the “neutral” in an
absolutely illegal place.
- What is this, chief?
- This gitik is the Moon.
- Didn't get you.
- This is a portal to the Moon. It's very complicated, there are five arches in it.
There is the “time machine“ and here's a “space machine“. This is the one. And it leads
to the Moon. And somewhere else. I forbid you from going there.
- Wow. So do you want to leak the cache to the world’s science?
- Exactly.
- Damn, chief... And what do they need to know about the route? Or let them
suffer?
- This is the neutral wedge. I lied to you a little today, that there are only two of
them. There are only two that lead here, to the “Nine“.
- Do you mean, they can go there even in a tank?
- You have always been a smart boy, - Zhitkur in the voice of the doctor. - Hide the
paper and get the hell out of here, private. I have no idea if this portal will be there
tomorrow, I don't know anything. Everything can change. Now, take care of the Tail,
your artel affairs and girls. Do not dare go into Zone. But who am I to teach you? - He
was surprised at himself. - That's it, private. See you later.
He ran to the helicopter, jumped into the cockpit and somehow the blades

231
immediately began to move. From the other side of the pit, the old man put out his
hand, saying goodbye. Sunlight was glimmering dimly on a bubble window, but people
behind the glimmer were not visible. The helicopter buzzed louder and louder.
- Vadim! - Fenimore could barely hear the doctor’s voice. - Let's go!
Driving through the gate of the “Nine”, he noticed a speck of light from the
bubble window with the corner of his eye for the last time.
He wanted to look more closely, to hold it, to feel it, but the doctor distracted him
with a message that he forgot his suitcase, and what can he do now, since they are
forbidden to go back in the Zone, and what a fool had invented this stupid law of non-
returning.

232
 EPILOGUE

Archive of Shugpshuits (Book of the Trouble)

File “From my moleskin number 11”

(Without editing – S. Zh.)

08/27/2015. And the tracker, who can feel the slightest changes in the dynamic
characteristics of space and time at some distance with his gut, who can determine the safe
“crankshaft” shoulder in a condensed mist with his gut and pass through it unharmed, who
can distinguish dead water from fresh by its appearance, who figures out how to turn off
and on the “corrector” with his gut, - that means the person, who came into the Zone and
returned from it (good luck!), - can he stay human? Of course. He can be persuaded, bought,
he can be arrested, abducted, - but he can also be studied, it is possible to cooperate with
him. (A lot of “gut”.)
Noctolopy (Fenimore), electrical sensitivity (Guzorgin), eidetic memory (Magadanchik).
A hearing ability, identical to the “ringing phone” special effect, that the Fix Triks has. Sub-
acceleration of the body, that Nevervor has. Resistance to radiation, that many of them have.
Regeneration. Telepathy. Hypno induction (Nikolayevich, the deceased Korostylyov).
In the old times, trackers (mostly, outcasts from Kapustin with different educational
background) used to turn themselves into scientists with a sort of pleasure, craving not only
money but a glory as well. There was not very much sense in their vivisection (Or “vivisection
of them?” To check.), but nevertheless, experience was slowly building up and an incomplete,
inaccurate, but still methodologies were being created. (According to Valerochkin,
Naturmanov.)
A decision to go on a mission requires from a person, even a survivor of the Lightning
and the Reload, a huge reserve of natural audacity (either natural stupidity or hopelessness
of a travel restricted existence. The idea is clear, but it should be rewritten correctly.) For the
one who finally decided to go, the Mother-Trouble has a test. It looks at him, it shows to him
itself, it marks a brave one (a daft, a troubler) with some kind of a high mark, and then
leaves him inside or lets him go back. Then, the thing that has developed inside examines the
test-taker (! Well done) and, either it takes him in completely, binding him till death, or drives
him away, into the world, to almost inevitable insanity and drug addiction. (In the case of
travel restricted it really sucks.) (These are Lyubimov's thoughts. To think about it.)
(This point is well studied statistically, by the way. Magacitls, who decided to enter the
Zone more than once, almost certainly migrated to the Pre-Zone forever, no matter what
external circumstances interfered with that migration. And on the contrary, up to ninety-five
percent of magacitls, who escaped the Zone, would certainly take up certain substances or
drugs, turning into terminal chronic-chemists. And rumors about them, both professional in
reputable online publications, and amateur on blogs or forums created another one barrier
around the Zone. Maybe even the most effective one. The Zone is a highly addictive drug.

233
This is not about a “veteran syndrome” or adrenaline addiction. Against the background of
adrenaline euphoria, the Zone gives a tracker something else, something inside, that gets
more complicated thanks to some tireless efforts of the radioactive supreme brain of
unknown kind, that feeds the Zone; over the years a high and accompanying capabilities of
addict walkers increase and deepen. (To describe the “river dream”.)
There has been lots of evidence since the most ancient times of the Zone!
Someone, completely obliterated, was insensitively levitating her way towards the
house (Voyevodina). Someone, drinking up money for a loot was playing ping-pong using
telekinesis (a case in “Chipka”). Another spoke to the Americans in their language, baffled
with this mysterious fact since he had never learned foreign languages. Someone could turn
an absolutely safe glass of a despicable neighbor into the “seventy-seventh“ using the power
of inner desire, which took only a few minutes. And neighbor’s face broke off the skull, as if a
grizzly bear sucked it, as soon as the poor guy decided to sip from the glass which was
absolutely harmless a second ago...
At first, the “marked” were killed even by the trackers themselves (brothers don't-
remember-the-surname), considered them damned, alien, like in the movies... Well,
safeguarding humanity from the future shocks, the Hollywood science fiction perfectly
motivates low direct reactions on the way, additionally programming non-detection a beam
in the man's eyes...1 The “Blunt War” of 2006–2007 was not at all an exclusively rational,
territorial-market war, as it appeared in the most incredible accounts and other “novels
about the Zone, based on a true story”. Religious, mystical motives in particular played a
huge role in it. Prospective humans were fighting prospective non-humans. Ah, if only
scientists had studied and cooperated with trackers from the beginning! Didn’t have to
consider them at best poachers and smugglers, or as suppliers of anomalous materials in
exceptional cases...”

1
From Matthew 7:3: “Why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam
that is in thy own eye?”

234
 File “From my moleskin number 1”
(Without editing – S. Zh.)

“November 2, 1996. The story of Funny, the stalkertracker. How he understands the
Zone. The “Two pipes” bar, in the evening.
“So, now imagine, Syoma: you are a gopher. The creature, that isn't big but very
famous because its curiosity, which borders on daftness. And one morning you, a gopher, as
any writer (maybe even a good one, like you) would write, get out of your burrow with a
toothpick and a burp, and your neighbor, another gopher, tells you “Let's go, Syoma, hurry,
there is a wonder of wonders. Behind that knoll... Have you ever seen a dump truck “Kranz”
made in Norway? A monster that weights five hundred and fifty tons. That very thing is
standing on that side of the knoll, this marvelous miracle. It’s standing and running at idle.
And the driver... Well, the driver went out for a drink... Actually, the driver is Finnish. You see,
Syoma, the driver went not just to have a few drinks as you and I, or Zhenya-Turanchoks
would do. He went to drink like a Finnish. So it seems that the dump truck will be parked here
for a while, but it has a full fuel tank and the batteries are freshly charged, and it even has
solar panel on about forty percent of its surface.'”And here you, Syoma the gopher, watch the
huffing and puffing marvelous miracle from your shelter for a couple of days, soiling your
pants in sweet horror and literally dying of curiosity. And finally you decided to perform (as
only a good writer, like you, would say) a detailed investigation of the marvelous miracle, so
to say, hands on. You stealthily crawl to its footsteps, sniff around and start creeping inside
getting more and more brave. There are plenty of holes! The cabin door is ajar, the fuel tank
isn't locked... What can you say, a Finnish driver, EPBVR, remember? He could smell vodka
and left it all. And you are a super-gopher and, what is more, with your non-human inner
flair, you sense different smells, like of roasted nuts, sausage skins, vapors from the
unfinished... wait a second, that's a Finnish guy... vapors from the finished, but still fresh beer
can... And everything like this, you know. And there are a lot of gophers around, and you all
climb inside, you climb, climb, climb and climb. You climb into the engine compartment,
ventilation system, into the turbocharger, refrigeration chambers, into the tank, pneumatic
motor, into the cabin and bucket. And it beats the shit out of you: you get electric shocks, get
frost bites, heat burns, you get squashed in compressed air, pistons squeeze you, and valves,
which suddenly start working, press you... And you keep climbing and climbing, dragging out
nuts and pieces of sugar, biting off the colored wiring, picking off pretty keys from the
dashboard, taking pieces of hot uranium and shiny gold from the bucket, peeling off stickers
with naked women from the interior... Do you understand? This is what our Mother-Trouble
is, and this is what the walkers, the military, the scientists and ordinary people are. Well,
gradually, if you become an experienced gopher, a gopher with a standing, you learn to
read, for example...Have you read “Heart of a Dog” by Michail Bulgakov, writer? “Out of five
thousand Moscow dogs, only an idiot cannot arrange letters to make the word 'sausage'.” I
don't think gophers are more valuable to the Mother, but, hopefully, they are not less worthy.
And the old professor Pavlov wrote a lot about electric shocks as a training technique... I

235
won’t even mention Strugatsky brothers now!”
- And what kind of gopher are you, dear Sergey? - I asked him having written down his
words.
- And I am a King of gophers, - he responded immediately with a laugh. The thing is
you have to remember that I'm not the only one... from the former simple gophers.
Here the Bartender Nikolai Nikolaevich came over and said:
- Are you talking about your Finnish gophers again, you mug face?
The Bartender has a very beautiful wife. Her name is Olga. Apparently, she is a very
happy woman. Although, she is a little sad.”

236
 File “Screenshots“

zharkovsky (zharkovsky) wrote

@ 2004-11-23 04:36 pm UTC

The entry for kkrott

(16 comments) - (Post a new comment)

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:36 pm UTC
kkrott are you there?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:38 pm UTC
Yes. I have ten minutes. Ask your questions.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:38 pm UTC
So, are you a real stalker from Kapustin?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:39 pm UTC
No stalkers. Walkers, trackers. The military.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:39 pm UTC
And why? Didn't catch on?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:39 pm UTC
Nevermind. Your questions are stupid.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:41 pm UTC
Is that true that there is a portal to the moon from Kapustin's zone, and the Moon
Base isn't a fake?

237
 kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:44 pm UTC
It's true. The base was built in 1988. Together with Americans. Something happened
there later, but not many people know what exactly. There were casualties. Then Putin froze
the memorandum, now everything is put under question.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:44 pm UTC
Memorandum on internationalization?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:44 pm UTC
Yes.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:45 pm UTC
What is QZAI?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:45 pm UTC
Kapustin's Quarantine Zone of Abnormal Intensities. Official Russian name for internal
documents. Scientists also call it this way. International trade name is ”ZONA”.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:46 pm UTC
So was there a gas meteorite or not?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:46 pm UTC
No. You're wasting the time.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:47 pm UTC
Did you find any weapons in the Zone?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:47 pm UTC

238
 Do you want to get killed asking such kind of questions?

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:48 pm UTC
What should I ask then? Is there a bacterial elixir of life? Or what main question you’d
ask yourself?

kkrott
Re: quickly
2004-11-23 04:49 pm UTC
This conversation was a mistake. You understand nothing. I'm disconnecting. Delete
the entire feed.

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:49 pm UTC
Wait. Was the Zone created by aliens?

zharkovsky
2004-11-23 04:55 pm UTC
Are you there, kkrott?

239
 THE END

The authors consider it is their duty to warn the

reader that none of the characters in this novel are
real (or ever existed). Therefore, any possible
attempts to guess who is who here are absolutely
pointless. In the same way, all the institutions,
organizations and places mentioned in this novel
are fictitious.

“The Lame fate”

240