Chapter 8

  When the oath left Luk’s lips, he expected something—relief, release. But nothing came. The station was still the same. Concrete walls, rusted ventilation fans, and the endless whisper of people. The mourning had not ended; it had only grown quiet.

  Luk did not stand up immediately.

  His mind had already drifted to another corner of the station. There was only one image in his head: if that door had opened… none of this would have happened. Luk did not think about fairness. There was no such thing as justice underground.

  But it was not something that could simply be forgotten.

  When he finally rose to his feet, he did not know where he was going. He only knew where he could not stay.

  He grabbed a nearby pipe and pulled himself upright. His joints cracked with every movement, and the anger inside him grew heavier with each passing second. As he walked through Ironhold Station, he noticed that the people who had been mourning only moments ago—those who had blamed him—had already returned to their ordinary lives.

  This place had once been his home.

  Now it felt like drowning in memories. Every corner reminded him of the life he had once lived with his mother… and of the truth he had seen that day.

  He walked toward the transit area, accompanied by the grinding sounds of his joints and the poisonous thoughts circling his mind. Just as he was about to leave Ironhold, Pyotr Andreyevich—standing guard with the other soldiers—called out behind him.

  “Hey, Luk.”

  He placed a hand on Luk’s shoulder but hesitated when he saw the emptiness in the young man’s eyes. The words caught in his throat.

  As Luk continued walking, Pyotr managed to say only one thing.

  “Be careful, son… Don’t cause trouble. The Chief is already busy enough after what happened.”

  Luk simply nodded without turning back.

  Just as he was about to keep walking, Pyotr called again.

  “Corporal, can you arrange some transport for me? I’ve stayed here long enough. I should head home.”

  Despite the doubt gnawing at him, Pyotr agreed. He motioned to one of the soldiers nearby.

  “Is there a draisine ready for use?”

  The soldier glanced toward the storage area.

  “There’s one, sir, but it’s not ready yet. If you wait a couple of hours, we can get it working.”

  Pyotr scratched his head and then turned back to Luk.

  “Luk, walking through those tunnels is dangerous. How about some tea while we wait for the draisine?”

  Luk didn’t really have another choice. Staying a little longer wouldn’t hurt anyone.

  They sat beside the campfire. Pyotr pulled out a papirossa and took a deep drag.

  “Well, boys,” he said to the others, “looks like we’ll be staying here a little longer. Maybe those three-legged things will come back and pay us another visit, eh Andreyuchka?”

  Andrey buried his face in his hands.

  “I’m telling you, I really saw them. Strange things wander around that isolation sector.”

  Pyotr chuckled.

  “Hey, Andreyuchka, do you have a kettle?”

  Andrey stood up, filled a battered kettle with water and tea from a metal canister, and hung it over the fire. A few minutes later steam began rising as the water started to boil. The high-pitched whistling sound irritated Luk even more.

  He studied the men sitting around the fire.

  They were all strong—men who had adapted well to the brutal conditions of life in the tunnels. People trusted them without hesitation. If Ironhold was still standing, it was thanks first to the Chief, and then to men like these.

  Luk did not want to admit it, but he owed them too.

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  Even though Luk had been born underground, he was not weak or pale like many others. When he was younger, he had tried several times to reach the surface, but every attempt had failed. The world above had become a scorched wasteland beneath a merciless sun.

  The radiation levels near the exits were so high that Geiger counters went mad.

  Pyotr tapped his cigarette pack and pulled out another papirossa.

  “Go on, Andrey,” he said. “Tell the story again. Let the young man relax a bit. Maybe it’ll wipe that grim look off his face.”

  Andrey smiled faintly and began.

  “A few days ago I was on watch near the eastern isolation sector. There wasn’t much light there—only the campfire. Then I started hearing something moving in the darkness. Like someone walking… but not like a human. It wasn’t two-legged. A few minutes later something hit the isolation wall a couple of times… and then it disappeared back into the dark.”

  Pyotr raised an eyebrow.

  “If it wasn’t human, what was it?”

  Andrey shrugged.

  “I didn’t see it clearly. But the footsteps were strange—light, fast… like it had four legs instead of two.”

  Pyotr narrowed his eyes.

  “Or three.”

  Luk suddenly began coughing.

  He had heard rumors in the Independent Station about strange three-legged creatures. Some stations were not deep enough, and radiation—or worse—sometimes seeped down from the surface. Mutated creatures occasionally found their way into the tunnels, and the worst part was how aggressive they were.

  That was why people drove them toward isolated sectors whenever possible.

  Luk took a sip of tea to calm his throat. The bitter taste filled his mouth. Real tea no longer existed down here. Instead, people brewed mixtures of certain mushrooms. The taste was terrible, but after a while the tongue simply went numb.

  For a few minutes silence settled over the group.

  Finally Andrey spoke.

  “So what now, Pyotr? We’ve never been this close to war with those damned zealots.”

  Pyotr stroked his beard.

  “Listen, Andreyuchka… this war was bound to happen sooner or later. And it’s our fault they became this strong. If we had taken better precautions during the Great Collapse, none of this would have happened.”

  He took another drag.

  “We trusted the tunnels too much. And what happened? Thousands died. Sometimes you have to crush the snake’s head while it’s still small.”

  Andrey nodded.

  “You’re right. But how could we have known the Asian side would be bombed far worse than the European side? What’s done is done. We can’t change the past. What matters is what we do now.”

  The conversation continued, though most of it passed in silence. There were not many stories left to tell anyway. All that remained were people struggling to survive.

  Andrey offered Luk the last papirossa from his pack and lit it with a lighter made from an old cartridge casing.

  “Hey kid,” he said. “You drifted off again. Are two old Russians boring you with their stories?”

  Luk inhaled the smoke slowly.

  “You mentioned something earlier… the Great Depression and the Great Collapse. What exactly do you mean?”

  Andrey and Pyotr exchanged a glance before Pyotr finally answered.

  “You’ve probably heard about the Great Depression—the time we made the surface uninhabitable. But the Great Collapse… people don’t like talking about that. Back then we didn’t even realize how badly the Asian side had been bombed. There were small cave-ins from time to time, but the real danger was along the B1 and M4 lines. If I remember correctly, around 2010 there was a massive explosion in the old armory sector—the one that’s isolated now. The eastern tunnels were already weakened, and most of them collapsed that day. It happened so fast that many people were buried alive before they could escape.”

  Andrey continued quietly.

  “Forty thousand people lived here once. Only a few thousand remained after that. Then the zealots appeared. At first they looked like saviors—they repaired damaged stations, distributed food and clothes. But the seven madmen who led them seized power and took control of most of the Asian side. We didn’t have the strength to resist. Almost everything had been destroyed in the explosion. And as if that wasn’t enough, the surface creatures broke into the B1 line. Since we couldn’t seal the huge hole in the tunnel roof, we had to seal the entire section between B1 and Ironhold.”

  Pyotr added grimly:

  “And now we have the Red Council.”

  The Red Council had originally formed from people nostalgic for the old socialist past. At first they called themselves the Red Village. As more stations joined them, the name changed to Red Gate. Their territory occupied a crucial location—the passage through which food and supplies from the Asian side traveled. Before long they took control of logistics and storage, eventually claiming the European entrance of the Eurasia Tunnel as their own.

  Now, if you wanted to transport anything—or obtain food—you had to knock on their doors.

  That was when they began calling themselves the Red Council.

  Luk’s thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps.

  “Corporal,” a soldier said. “The draisine is ready. But it’s old and worn out—you shouldn’t push it too fast.”

  Pyotr took one final drag from his papirossa and tossed it into the fire.

  “Alright then,” he said as he stood up. “Let’s get moving. Might as well take this young man home before he finds more trouble.”

  Andrey laughed.

  “Two Russians trapped in this hell, and you’ve become a babysitter?”

  Pyotr shot him a serious look.

  “Instead of joking, give that draisine a push.”

  Luk and Pyotr climbed onto the vehicle while Andrey shoved it forward to get it moving. The draisine creaked and rattled along the rails, swaying as if it might jump the tracks at any moment.

  They were finally heading home.

  But one thought still gnawed at Luk’s mind. If that door had opened…