Chapter 3​ * * *​ On closer look, the effect seemed peculiar. With each passing minute, the world around her seemed less and less familiar. And more and more foreign, alien. At first, a cursory glance glanced at the broken windows, not clinging to anything. Because the mind was already overloaded with impressions. Yes, something is wrong, but nothing big. And then, when the time comes to look more closely ... the irregular, asymmetrical proportions of the frames; the glass, thick, almost two fingers thick and murky-lilac, and, it seems, with a thin mesh of reinforcement in the depths. The plastic, which looks like wood (or maybe really wood) and Soviet-made Bakelite, like the ones you find in old-fashioned gunsmith's stores. There are large lamps in rough hubcaps, made of a thick lattice. Everything is not new and at the same time not decrepit, but archaic. It was like a small town, stuck in the 1980s or even earlier.​ ​ Olga exhaled, rubbed her temples, and looked back at the half-closed hatch, memorizing her surroundings. From all appearances, it looked like she would have to go deeper into the dark maze of the interior layout. She looked around, trying to find at least a nail. But as it happened, the garbage around her seemed harmless, mostly scraps of some yellow-stitched fabric and some papers. Except for a large adjustable wrench... She picked up and weighed the tool. It was heavy, but it would work for a start.​ ​ The wrench was followed by a duffel bag, which looked like an old hardware bag, and an almost complete notebook. The hardcover, made of some kind of faux leather, had "Statio ballistorum sedecem" written in half-embossed gold. Olga flipped through the pages, rough as wrapping paper, with fibers and almost sawdust pressed into them. In the corner of each sheet an eagle spread its wings, not quite heraldic, but something sharper, rougher. Without exception, all the eagles were crossed out with something resembling marker pens. Some had all sorts of nastiness drawn on them, mostly playing on the motifs of the pooping bird. On the last page, in large letters, an unknown hand had written with great care: "cadaver putridum."​ ​ Why she took the notebook, the girl herself did not know. Perhaps she wanted to take it, as the most intact thing within reach, as a starting point for successful collecting. It was never too late to throw it away. Or it might come in handy. For instance, she could talk to Kryp with drawings... She found that appealing because if she couldn't talk to him, she could at least draw. Although, first of all, the guy must survive. But let's hope for the best.​ ​ Kryp​ ​ The thought of a fellow companion hurried her up, forced her to finally decide. Olga mechanically crossed herself and took a step toward the dark aisle. Well ... not so dark. So it seemed in contrast to the atrium and the starlight. In the depths of the dark corridor, the same armored lights were still glowing, and some kind of signal lights, blue and yellow. Something was beeping evenly and quietly, very machine-like. Olga climbed over the remnants of the barricade, holding the wrench at the ready and preparing for a new adventure. No adventure followed.​ ​ She stepped to the side and pressed her back against the rough wall so as not to stand out in the bright doorway. She stood for a moment, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. She looked at the corpse lying by one of the doors that went forward, on either side of the corridor.​ ​ Corpse. Carcass​ ​ Olga thought about it without trembling or panicking. Too much had happened in the past hours. Just noted the presence of a dead body, which from the gallery was unnoticeable. It was as the dead man was watching for uninvited guests. The dead man lay stretched out with his arms behind his head like a compass skeleton from a Stevenson novel. He seemed as shriveled as a mummy, but the girl could not smell the decay that must have permeated everything around him. Dry air at a low enough temperature and good ventilation...? Or some kind of rapid dehydration?​ ​ Thoughts of the temperature reminded her that she should find some kind of sweater or a warm jacket. Olga looked over the dead man again, trying to determine from a distance what he died of and whether there was anything useful on the body. The cause of death could not be determined. The skull seemed strangely deformed, with a kind of ovoidness, and the lower jaw, which had dropped back in a mute cry, sagged more than it should have. On the other hand, it could all have been a play of light and a consequence of the natural (or unnatural) decay of the cavity. Olga was loath to go nearer and search the dead man, even though he had some interesting pouches hanging from his belt, and the pockets of his thick green cloth shirt were bulging with some kind of package.​ ​ She didn't want to, that's all. Why not? No reason. Not every desire had to have a rational reason. But she was thirsty, like crazy thirsty. Maybe the dead man had a flask.​ ​ I'll go a little further, Olga decided. I'll go and have a look. And if necessary, I'll come back. This one seems to have been lying here for a long time. He can wait a little longer, he has nowhere to hurry.​ ​ Olga gulped, feeling her parched throat scratch itself, took a step further, sideways, not letting the dead body out of her sight. She had never been afraid of zombies, but still... it was uncomfortable to leave a dead man behind. Only when she'd taken ten or more steps did she finally turn around and walk quietly into the darkness.​ All of this reminded her not of an apartment complex, or stores, as it had seemed to her before, but rather some kind of office space. And old, to put it in scientific terms, conservative. No computers, nothing that looked like a screen, even a flat screen, even the usual 90's "box". A lot of tubes under the ceiling, which looked like a heating system, and thinner tubes that ran along the walls, interrupted by valves and tricky trays. Chairs of an infinitely dull, formal appearance, with round backs on high pins. And an enormous number of file drawers of all kinds. Most of them turned out to be open, the cards scattered in disarray.​ ​ Archive! Olga finally realized what it reminded her of. An archive or a library file cabinet. The girl climbed into one of the openings where there was less broken glass. As she did so, she dropped the wrench, which clanked loudly against the metal. Olga crouched behind the short window sill and lurched, listening intensely.​ Silence. The same faint, subtle technical noise and squeaks. She could see that some sort of sensor, in the form of brass tablets, was beeping. These were installed above every door but at most, a couple or two were working.​ ​ Something clicked, hissed. Olga twisted into a knot, trying to be as small as possible, to become invisible, like a cockroach in a crevice. It seemed impossible to see her from outside, from the corridor, but suddenly... The pipe, the thinner one bent over the file drawer, again made a long hissing sound, shook, and threw out a capsule about the size of a school pencil case. Everything fell silent. After waiting a little longer, the girl cautiously looked out. She found nothing suspicious. She remembered she didn't have a watch on her, either. So she would have to measure the time according to her sense. With no accuracy at all.​ ​ The pencil case was screwed together, and Olga struggled to open it. Until she remembered the "beer can" and twisted it clockwise. The capsule contained only a sheet of paper, smaller than in the notebook and of slightly better quality, but still the same wrapping color. A stamp with incomprehensible symbols, an eagle again, the familiar words about "ballistis statione" and nothing else. Obviously a letterhead, but for what? And who sent it here? Does it make sense, or is there an unknown automatic? It's not obvious...​ ​ Fuck.​ ​ Olga would have pleased to spit, but her mouth was dry. She put the capsule in the bag almost automatically. She crawled out, taking the wrench with her, and continued exploring. The emptiness and desolation made her shudder, and every sound seemed to be the footsteps of an ominous stalker.​ ​ Further discoveries followed, like stingy gifts from a lean horn of plenty. First, Olga found the desired water in a bottle of strange crystal glass, which looked like cheap plastic. She was so thirsty that she tore off the tin lid and, after a quick sniff to see if it wasn't acetone, she downed a good gulp. It was only after she had gulped down at least a third of it that she realized that the transparent liquid could be anything. But it was too late to complain, so Olga finished half of it, and then, making a considerable effort, set the jar aside. She still had to get something to Kryp. The lid stubbornly refused to fit back on, so Olga gave up and left the bottle on the table for now. Deciding that she would find something to plug it up later.​ ​ In the open table, which looked like a draftsman's machine, the girl finally found a knife and a roll of duct tape. Life immediately became a little more fun. Olga made an improvised belt out of a scrap of rope that looked like thick and shaggy postal twine, and tearing a dozen sheets from a notebook, made sheaths wrapped in duct tape, then hung them from the rope belt. She checked to see if the knife would fall out. It hadn't.​ ​ The blade was interesting, very old, and worn in appearance, just like the old American "Ka-Bar" from the commercials. Olga assumed that it had been in use for more than a year, maybe decades. At one time it was longer and wider, with a distinct combat look. But it must have been broken, sharpened, and re-sharpened, so that in the end all that was left was an icicle-like fragment about a palm and a half long. The handle was plastic, treated with coarse sandpaper, and at the end of it, there was the same eagle stamped in hard plastic. The drawing was heavily frayed from time but retained recognizable outlines.​ ​ They worshipped an eagle or something... An eagle and an ominous skull, in which a pinion had been embedded for some reason. This steampunk head was often found on plaques, which were bolted to every complex machine. Sometimes the plaques were limited to just an engraved pattern, sometimes they came with waxed scrolls or individual plaques of polished copper or brass, generally shiny and yellow. It didn't look much like instructions. No pictures, just the same Latin-like alphabet and lots of numbers. There was a diamond instead of a zero, and the other numbers were stylized too, but generally had recognizable features. The numbers were grouped and seemed to be repeated, but the girl had no time to deal with this cabbalism.​ ​ Later.​ ​ Olga sighed heavily and realized that she would have to search dead man. With the seeming confusion and chaos all around, everything of any value was thoroughly swept away. And there was no way to bandage Kryp with a dirty rag. And some medicine would come in handy. Olga took the bottle, weighed the wrench, and strode back, carefully avoiding the piles of broken glass and protruding strands of wire, spread out like a real prickly hedgehog.​ ​ Something clicked, a piercing screech, and the rectangular grate under the ceiling, which Olga had mistaken for a vent, made a series of coughing sounds, then erupted into a stream of words. The player was damaged or was playing a ruined tape, the individual words were drowned in hoarse, background noises so that the speech seemed like gurgling soup. But it sounded solemn and more like a Catholic prayer from a historical movie.​ ​ Olga grimaced and ducked back into the shadows, just in case. So far she had not seen anything that could pose a danger, but everything around her seemed so incomprehensible and alien that she imagined an insidious enemy masking his steps in the general background. The wheezing prayer stretched on endlessly, like gum in a comedy. Olga managed to get a little bored and wistfully thought that Kryp must be dead by now. Finally, to the accompaniment of some march, the wheezing ended, leaving behind a resounding echo that echoed unrealistically long in the empty corridors.​ ​ In the echo was hidden the outside noise, which Olga heard literally in the last moments before the source emerged from the dark... alleyway? It was unclear what to call the alley, dark as a closet, branching away from the radial corridor. Something buzzed and rattled in there, like a massive chain that rattled with every step. The girl barely had time to hide again in the next room, full of offices with drawers pulled out and empty. The buzzer moved down the corridor, heading toward the balcony above the atrium. Something clangs at the door, and Olga holds her breath, gripping the handle of her knife.​ ​ It passed by, noisily and very characteristically, as a small turbine, with a rustling whistle. Only the smell remained smoky and smoky, like from a boiler room. Olga was familiar with this smell from her old life. And it really did seem to reek of real smoke. Waiting until something was ten meters away, Olga quietly looked around the corner to see what was making so much noise. Here was a good time to be surprised, but the girl was dead tired of new impressions and only noted that another inconceivable shit was taking place.​ ​ The thing was very visible from the "back," because it moved toward the light and stood out clearly against the corridor doorway. Most of all it looked like the top of a dried-up corpse. Almost like a recent mummy, only without clothes that had been shoved into a grating machine, pierced with dozens of spokes, wires, thin translucent tubes, and welded to a caterpillar chassis. The tracks were narrow and had a highly raised drive wheel in the middle of the track. "The head" of the self-propelled zombie was encased in a cubic grid, which in turn spread out flexible hoses on its sides, topped with excellent imitations of skulls. The skulls glowed with greenish eyepieces, one on each, as if they had belonged to one-eyed pirates in a former life. The hoses were in constant motion, spinning their skulls a hundred and eighty degrees.​ ​ All this gave the unpleasant impression that the mysterious mechanism was looking around with deadheads. One could only marvel at the sick imagination of the sick freaks who had camouflaged the video cameras in such a way. The "arms" of the self-propelled dead man ended in claws with extra hooks, like a junkie robot. Behind the "back" of the machine smoked black smoke from a cylindrical thing that looked like a bloated fire extinguisher, seemingly with a couple of gauges and an exhaust pipe that spiraled like a pig's tail in a children's book.​ ​ The machine stopped, whirred, clicked its hooked grip, then turned slightly, twirling its tracks in different directions, and rolled briskly toward the corpse. Olga had an uneasy feeling that the skulls really "see," because the car was very carefully skirting the obstacles. Only broken glass crunched under the small links of the track. Inadvertently and without reason, she remembered that the caterpillar creep looked something like a garbage robot from a cartoon.​ ​ The zombie tractor, meanwhile, reached the dead man. It stood for a while, puffing the cauldron behind its back, twisting its skulls. Something squeaked and tapped rhythmically in the deadheads as if there was a disk drive from the time of the prehistoric computers. Then one of the clawed "arms" shot forward with unexpected rapidity, extending like a telescopic fishing rod. It clawed at the corpse's leg. Without turning around, the machine moved back, repeating exactly its previous trajectory. The boiler hissed heavily, the smoke heavier, the hidden valve hissed loudly, and let out a jet of steam. The corpse dragged along, clinging to everything.​ Olga hid again, cursing heartily. The corpse's property was now crawling away in an unknown direction. Perhaps the dead man's car was more harmless than the automatic vacuum cleaner the cats ride on YouTube. Or maybe it wasn't. The girl wasn't going to find out, not even for poor Kryp's sake. And to tell the truth, right now the temporary companion made her think only negatively, as a heavy and useless burden.​ ​ The caterpillars squeaked in front of the door. For a moment Olga thought the car was slowing down. Her heartbeat jump out of rhythm, but it didn't. Just a soft rustling of a limp body, whose movement was accompanied by the rustling of fabric. This led the girl to one very positive thought, all that remained was to wait until it could be verified. Olga waited, like Winnie the Pooh, for a little while. And then a little longer, until there was nothing left at all, in the sense until the noise of the zombie robot was silenced in the humming darkness. She looked out into the hallway.​ ​ So it is, the machine dragged the dead man away for some reason, but was indifferent to his equipment, which, partially broken, was left scattered all over the visible path of the trail, where it was torn off the obstacles. Strange that the dead man had not been torn to pieces by wires and everything else.​ ​ We'll live, thought the girl, trying on where to start.​ ​ And then The Sound appeared.​ ​ Olga was already used to the fact that hearing here is as overwhelming as vision. Wherever that "here" was. But everything she had heard before was either familiar or had a perfectly understandable nature. The noise of the wild crowd behind the wall. By the way, they hadn't been crawling through the tunnels that long, so this wild mob had to be around here somewhere! Technical noises, the rattle of the speaker, the squeak of a steam-powered buzzer.​ ​ But this...​ ​ The muffled moaning seemed to be born in the very center of something enormous that stretched around it, blossoming out of a single long note, multiplying with each passing moment. It was as if an entire chorus of hungry demons was picking up on the satanic conductor's lead shriek. No mechanism could have produced such a Sound. Only a living creature could wail so terrifyingly. In the lingering howl, one could clearly read the unthinkable anger, the utter hatred, the mortal threat. It was the way Death herself would announce that she was on the hunt for mortal souls.​ ​ The sound suddenly ended, cut off at the highest note at the moment when Olga was already preparing to lose her hearing. All that remained was a ringing silence, even the mechanisms hidden around her seemed to fall silent in the terror.​ ​ "Fuck your mom," Olga whispered. "A fucking circus with horses, faggots, and murderous clowns. When will it all end..."​ ​ She crouched under the table, covered her head with her hands, and almost cut herself, forgetting that she was clutching a knife in her hand. She thought she was going to burst into tears of horror. But there were no tears, her eyes felt dry. And in her head, the thought rang insistently that she should go, that she should see what loot fell from the dead man.​ ​ Because Kryp won't heal himself.​ ​ Because it's not going to be easy to survive in a world where such a horrible thing can yell, so you have to collect every nail you can get your hands on.​ ​ She must.​ ​ * * *​