Chapter 4

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With a sigh of relief, the girl closed the skull hatch, leaving the abandoned "atrium" behind. Hiding in a technical tunnel seemed silly on the one hand, but kind of safe on the other. And it was much warmer in here. Only now did she realize how cold she was. And she was glad of her one hundred and sixty-five centimeters, which made moving on her hands and knees through the pipe conditionally acceptable.

Kryp lay motionless. Only his chest was heaving faintly beneath the mesh T-shirt. The face was faded, more gaunt, like a wooden mask, covered with a thin layer of wax. The yellow light of the "beer can" flickered alarmingly, ready about to change to red. The wounded man reeked of blood, sweat, and everything else that accompanies a bedridden patient who is not cared for with a bedpan. Olga was familiar with the smell, perhaps all too well. Her hands immediately went numb and trembled. Memories of the last days of her mother's life came flooding back. The guilt stung painfully again. The only and beloved daughter could have cared much better for a cancer patient. And no matter how many times you repeat that no, she could not, the conscience could not be soothed.

The girl did not bother the poor man. Sitting down next to him, she laid out her findings in two rows against the concrete wall. A knife, a notebook, a crescent wrench, a bottle. A pencil case, which Olga decided to use as a container for sundries. Something that looked like an IIFS. It was thoroughly torn, but still usable. Thanks to a fucking zombie on caterpillars, damn it. Two bags of blue-green, coarse weave material that looked like a rough tarpaulin. One had a zipper with very large prongs, the other had stick buttons. Both were about the right size for a first aid kit, but she decided not to open them without Kryp. So, what else... A folding double-toothed fork on a loose rivet. The fork the girl after a brief moment's consideration slipped into her pocket. A knife was a knife, but as her experience had taught her, it was always a good idea to have something small and stubby.

A dozen and a half tattered rags, which were something between woven napkins and vase liners. Five gray pencils of varying lengths, of very poor quality, but conditionally usable. If Kryp is going to last a little longer, we need to establish communication somehow, at least with pictures. The pencils fit comfortably in the pencil case.

There was also a metal bottle, like an aluminum flask, in which something was familiarly overflowing. The inscription said "exerciti cibaria spiritus sublimatus," which was written on one side. Or "amasec erz." if the green letters on the other side were to be trusted. The container seemed unusual on one side and very familiar on the other. After some reflection, Olga realized what it was all about - the strictly military look of the "bottle." Stamping in everything, from the shape and rough seams to the stenciled letters. The bottle looked as if it was asking for a shelf in some godforsaken garrison, next to a revolver and a dry ration.

The plug was wrong again. unscrewing in the opposite direction. Olga sniffed cautiously. It smelled of some kind of alcohol, very strong, very very strong. And a little bit of coffee, as if there had been put two or three packets of instant (and just as fake) Nescafe in the fake cognac. The girl dripped the thick, viscous liquid onto the tip of her fingernail. The smell intensified, becoming even more caffeinated, alcoholic, and fake.

Considering that there were no drawings on the container and not a single familiar word on it, the "exerciti" could have been anything. It could be normal alcohol, poison for fleas, liquid for sweaty feet. Logically, Olga estimated the chances of running into methyl alcohol as relatively small. And she risked the next step in her organoleptic examination by licking a teal drop. The dark brown nastiness tasted as harsh as it smelled, but overall nothing that Olga had not encountered before. It was just very nasty booze.

"Vodka, it's hard water," the girl quoted in a whisper as she finally got her breath back and wiped away the tears squeezed by the infernal elixir. It was getting warm, even hot.

On the one hand, she wanted to take another shot. Just to calm down a bit. On the other hand, she needed to conserve her supply. The coffee crap could be used as an antiseptic. Besides, if it turned out to be a poison, it would be easier to recover from a small dose.

Olga sat there for a couple of minutes, listening to the sensations and wondering if it was time to put two fingers in her mouth. The "amasec erz" left a nasty and lingering aftertaste, but nothing fatal.

"Not so bad as "777"," she summed up, sniffed her nose, and continued her inventory. She did not remember the legendary Soviet drink because of her youth, but her stepfather remembered it in the mood as the standard of the God-awful booze of industrial bottling.

Again a bundle of rags that could be unraveled into bandages. He didn't seem to have any open wounds, only fractures, and severe bruises, but it might come in handy. She should make him some kind of splint for his leg... Olga grimaced, figuring she had spotted a couple of appropriately sized poles. But now she would not go back for them for sure. Later.

Something resembling rough hemp or a light version of glass wool. Finally, almost two liters of water were in a glass jar with a screw cap. The water was definitely not for drinking. The jar was found under a leaking pipe, and the liquid reeked of sludge and iron. But it was good for supposed hygienic procedures. The jar was also food for thought. The water did not evaporate and at the same time did not overflow. The jar had been put in relatively recently. Who and why had done this in the middle of an abandoned floor? Another mystery.

There was still some small stuff left, which the girl took rather for the procedure, just to be on the safe side. Olga did not sort out the junk, deciding that it was time to wake Kryp. Especially since the light on the IV blinked more and more alarmingly. Only now Olga realize how exhausted she was. And the fact that her "experience" of being in this infernal circus numbered at most a few hours. Well, maybe a little more, considering the muddled consciousness during the process of dragging Kryp through the tunnels. She might have lost consciousness a couple of times there, but not for long.

Olga rolled a makeshift pillow out of the bag and tried to put it under the wounded man's head. Then two things happened simultaneously - the "can" beeped and turned on the red light, and Kryp tried to kill her. Before his bloodshot eyes were even open, his relatively whole hand shot forward like a snake in a rush. The blow was aimed at her throat and would likely have finished the girl off, but Kryp was hampered by an awkward angle and a coordination problem. His fingers clamped together in a "plank" only to slip down her cheek. On the return move, the suddenly frisky half-dead man tried to grab at Olga's throat to strangle her, but the jerk burned the rest of Kryp's power, and the girl had no trouble getting free. The total damage was two abrasions, one on her cheek and one on her neck. And extremely strong WTF feeling.

She recoiled as far as she could in the cramped tunnel from the crouched position on all fours. Her hand moved on its own to the hilt of the knife that still hung in its scabbard on her rope belt.

"What the fuck."

Kryp only now seemed to realize what had happened, his blank stare becoming a little more meaningful. The wounded man looked at his hand with roughly the same expression that Olga was looking at him.

"I'll leave you now, you ungrateful jerk," she promised, pushing back a little more. The only thing stopping her was the fact that now Kryp was between her and the hatch with the skull cogwheel. And moving in the opposite direction, toward the stone crypt, was terrifying. She gripped the plastic handle of the old knife harder.

"Nos paenitet," Kryp whispered, putting his palm forward. "Et noluerunt..."

Olga looked at him for a long time, maybe half a minute, maybe longer. The girl had never considered herself an expert on human nature, one who reads unmistakably in the eyes and souls. But now she was ready to swear that Creep was ashamed and embarrassed. His cheeks even flushed a little, as pale as a poorly powdered dead man's.

"An asshole." She said with passion. The man hardly understood, but the intonation was right again. He covered his eyes with the palm of his shaking fingers and turned away. Then his gaze fell upon the treasure along the gray wall. And the unbelievable happened - Kryp smiled. For the first time in all their brief acquaintance, as far as the girl remembered. Well, to tell you the truth, it was hard to call it a smile, and yet...

"Nos autem qui dives," he whispered. "Tu es valde fortis. In tuo fortuna es pro nobis."

And so it was clear that the words of sincere gratitude had been spoken. Olga hesitated some more and then decided that it was time to give forgiveness. Well, really, trying to kill her with malice would be beyond foolishness, considering Kryp's condition. Most likely the man had acted on automatic, instinctively defending himself in a confused state of mind.

"And you're not so simple," Olga muttered to herself, remembering the swiftness with which Kryp had attacked. If it weren't for his general half-deadness, the girl would have remained a cooling corpse here. Apparently, the crappy dandy knew how to fight and how to kill.

The first thing she did was to partially quench the wounded man's thirst. Very carefully, giving not water, but a soaked rag. The hell knew what was wrong with Kryp's insides and whether he could swallow. At least this way he wouldn't die of dehydration. Probably not. Then the man pulled the needle out of his neck with a look of hopeless longing, dropped the IV tube.

"Exhausta," he exhaled. "Finis."

Olga understood what "finis" meant without translation, answering briefly and vigorously:

"Fuck that."

Now was the time to show Kryp the contents of the pouches. She adjusted the roll under the man's head so he could see better, and then she showed him. The response was a second smile, even more, cheerful than the first. He was pleased with what he saw and with a faint movement pointed to that greenish bundle with buttons.

Then Olga unzipped the pouch and took out the contents one by one, showing them to Kryp. He either shook his head or nodded. It did seem to be a field first aid kit. It looked better on the inside than on the outside. Beneath the tattered cover was a sturdy, smooth, synthetic-looking fabric. The bottles and pencil cases were also several grades above what Olga had already seen here. A different quality of workmanship, a much finer and clearer typeface. And still no drawings, but there was a tiny emblem. It resembled the badge that hung around Creep's neck, only the vertical stick was a different shape. It had an extension at the top, and in the middle, instead of a skull, there was a picture of a fist clutching an apothecary scale.

Taking medications and mixtures was another challenge. Krip himself could not handle it properly with one hand, and Olga had no idea how to open and dose it all. However, after some minutes of muffled swearing in two languages and groans of pain, the wounded man managed to get what he saw fit. The healer carefully stowed the rest of the medicine aside.

It's not like the first aid kit made much difference in Kryp's condition. But at least he was in no hurry to die, even without the IV. There came a moment that Olga was "anticipating" with a gnashing of teeth.

"It's hygiene time," she said.

Kryp, of course, did not understand. Neither did he understand later, when Olga chose rags that seemed cleaner and opened a jar of technical water.

Would you like a sip?" She offered the coffee booze to Kryp.

Kryp smiled a third time and slowly shook his head with words:

"No. Non autem templum ab anima, ad Imperatorem."

"So, no is no." The girl agreed, took a sip for courage, and approached the patient.

Kryp looked at her with a look of grim suspicion.

"Come on," the self-proclaimed nurse chided him. "Your penis is not such a treasure."

"O Deus meus," the guy whispered, realizing what awaited him.

It was terrible and incredibly, excruciatingly hard. Harder than a self-loving strong man can only be a self-loving, strong man who has become helpless but he's still trying to seem strong. Kryp rolled his eyes in helpless anger, looked away, and suffered, it seemed, even more than from pain. Olga restrained herself with a frantic effort from covering him in a multi-story scolding. Because she was already having a hard time, and the patient was also actively disturbing her with his inappropriate shyness. But, at the very least, she managed to bring the patient into relative order. Very relative, but still a little better than before.

As expected, Kryp had few actual wounds. Mostly bruises, or, rather, one solid and horrific bruise all over the left side of his body, from his foot to his collarbone. Olga thought again that the medicine here must be some kind of miraculous. Will is will, but, as the old paramedic at the clinic used to say, "you can't fuck with anatomy". If half of your body is a hematoma and at least three joints are broken... Anyway, another mystery, which she put on another shelf to "think later".

"I'm done," Olga reported, at last tossing the used rags away. Pity, she didn't have a proper bag to tie the stinking garbage in. But what can she do?

Kryp suffered silently, no longer flushed, but crimson, like the sun before sunset. But the nurse was not about to give him a break. She looked intently at Kryp. She poked herself in the chest with her finger and said firmly:

"Olga."

Kryp immediately understood where she was going and seemed happy to be able to forget about the hygiene procedures. The guy eagerly repeated and called himself back. The problem was that he couldn't seem to pronounce the "l" and "g" side by side, something was falling out. After a dozen unsuccessful attempts, he finally got it out with a distinctly questioning intonation, as if asking permission:

"Olla."

So named "Olla" chewed her lips and decided that that would be fine. The beginning of positive communication had been established. Here, however, problem number two appeared - just like the first time, the girl could not understand the quick shorthand with which Kryp had called himself. It was time for a notebook.

He grasped the idea of communicating with pictures on the fly and happily. It took a few hard minutes for him to get comfortable enough to pick up the pencil without breaking or dropping it. Olga had to hold the notebook in her weight because Kryp could only act with one hand. It was uncomfortable, but they somehow adapted. The first thing the wounded man did was draw his name. Olga was more or less getting the hang of the local script, which was based on Latin with a few extra letters and all sorts of gothic-style trinkets.

"Fidus?" The girl couldn't help but smile faintly. "Fidus Kryptman?"

She found Kryp's name very funny. Considering how much the unfortunate man had endured, and the strength of spirit he had shown, his name had to be something special. Very heroic. Roland, say, or Richard the Lionheart.

But Fidus? That was incredibly funny. And Olga decided to herself that she would still call him "Kryp". Fidus, meanwhile, sketched a female figure, the kind that very young children usually draw - a triangle as the torso, a round head without a neck, stick-arms, and everything else. He looked at Olga and suddenly winked. The girl realized that Kryp had imitated her and hummed. The joke, strictly speaking, was not so good, but in their situation, even a drop of optimistic humor sparkled as a real diamond. And it also occurred to her that the badly maimed Kryp was not only keeping himself together but trying to cheer her up as best he could. It was worth the price, and it was respectful.

Kryp, meanwhile, began to draw some mysterious crap. He was very tired, became even weaker, and had trouble holding the instrument, but he didn't give up. It looked like this smear of repeatedly crossed lines was very important. Fidus drew, biting his lip with eagerness and pain, and then passed out in an instant. He dropped the pencil stump and closed his eyes. Olga woke up, terrified that the guy was finally going to die. But all Kryp did was fall asleep. This time he didn't go into another sick fainting state, he just fell asleep.

Now that he'd been washed a bit, and his face had smoothed out in his sleep, free of the unrelenting grimace of pain, Fidus appeared very young. And even a little handsome. A face, perhaps, a little broad, a tawdry military haircut, the kind you see in movies of ancient Romans, little sideburns that looked with short hair like a straight in a gay club, or vice versa. But still, good-looking. And dangerous. Olga rubbed her neck and face where Kryp's stiff, wood-like fingers had brushed over it.

She should disinfect it.

Later.

But later she could be dead.

The alcohol burned the scratches like acid, which was good. So disinfection was more reliable. Olga thought about how she could wipe her face, and then she felt something small and hard in her pocket... That's right, she had completely missed it! A small mirror in a wooden frame, very crude and obviously homemade. It looked like someone had taken a burnt splinter and glued it to a piece of board, scraping the edges with a rasp. The girl had found the object by accident; someone had thrown it on the floor and even seemed to want to stomp on it, judging by the muddy footprints around it. Olga twirled the object in her hand, willing and afraid to look at herself. But then she did it. And tears came to her eyes.

The girl had a pretty good idea of what she looked like. She was sweating profusely, covered in blood, dirt, and dust. But imagining is one thing, seeing for herself is quite another. From the cracked polygon in the reddish light of the lamps looked silently a horrible monster. It was filthy to no end and so disheveled that the ends of its dyed hair stuck out like needles in every direction. Her eyes were sunken into orbits, glistening out of the deep shadows with a feverish gleam like that of a hunted beast. Smears of dried blood stained the face like a wicked parody of Native American movies. The corners of his lips dipped downward as if they were glued on. It made her face look like a bad papier-mache mask. Olga did not even notice how her tears began to flow, one by one. The unfortunate girl realized she was sobbing only when she saw the thin streaks on the crust of dirt in the reflection. One tiny droplet fell on the glass as if it had evaporated, disappeared without a trace.

The mirror surface trembled and rippled. Olga felt a slight prick in her fingers. It did not hurt, but it was unpleasant, like a weak electric shock. The mirror seemed to go blind. The reflection disappeared beneath a gray veil. In the depths of the mirror cataract, the outlines of something strange appeared - a shadow in the heart of another shadow, as if woven from thousands of obsidian needles... Then, at last, Olga dropped the trinket. It fell with a thump but did not shatter. She blinked, and it was as before. It was just a cheap and cracked trinket. She didn't want to take it in her hands again or look at her reflection in the red light, which did such tricks with shadows. The girl left the dubious find lying on the rough floor.

The tears would not stop. Olga turned her back to the sleeping Creep, pulled her knees up to her chin, and hugged them tightly with her arms. Her joints ached, every muscle ached, her neck demanded a pillow, and she desperately wanted to bathe properly, but she could not waste water. There was less than a third of it left, and the Kryp was not going to get any cleaner. So she'll have to find more.

And pillow...

Her soul became very empty and very sad. The darkest hopelessness overwhelmed the mind, powerfully whispering "we're going to die, we're both going to die here...". Olga sobbed softly, not even trying to imagine how far her fate had taken her. More than anything, she wanted to die right now, so that all this would finally be over.

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