wrinkle in the tablecloth. “I had a dream…” she stopped and cleared her throat.
“You always have one.”
“A bad one.” she said stubbornly. Then she started crying.
“What? What am I… it’s an order.” He stuttered and stroked over her fingers. He realized that his tirades weren’t worth a cent now.
“The one-eyed should go himself! She called out angrily and moved her hand away. “Oh that devil with his beret! They can only boss around others… What does he have to lose? He is married to his rifle! What does he know?”
When you make a women cry, the only thing left is to hold her in your arms. Homer was ashamed of himself, he was really sorry. But it was too easy to give in now, to swear that he won’t follow that order, to calm her down and dry her tears – and to remember this missed chance forever. Maybe the last chance in his long life.
So he remained silent.
It was time to gather the officers and instruct them further. But the colonel was still sitting in his office.
The cigarette smoke didn’t even bother him anymore, but it still tempted him.
While the commander of the station moved his finger along the line of the Sevastopolskaya on his map of the Metro and was whispering to himself, sunken in thoughts, Denis Michailovitsch tried to understand what was behind Hunters mysterious return at the Sevastopolskaya. Why did he decide to settle down here and why did he wear his helmet in public almost all the time? That all meant that Istomin was right: Hunter was hiding from something and he had chosen the southern guard post as his hiding place. There he replaced a complete brigade and had become irreplaceable. Whoever demanded his return, whatever price had been placed on his head, neither Istomin or the colonel would have given him up.
His hiding place was brilliant. There were no strangers at the Sevastopolskaya and compared to other caravans that traveled to the “big Metro”, everyone passing through this station kept their tongue behind their teeth. In this small Sparta that desperately held on to their small piece of earth on the end of the world, it was the most important thing to be reliable and relentless in battle. Here secrets still meant something.
But why did Hunter give all this up again? Why did he travel to Hanza out of his free will and risked being recognized? He had volunteered for this operation; Istomin wouldn’t have dared to think about appointing it to him. It probably wasn’t the fate of the lost recon unit that interested the brigadier.
He didn’t fight for the Sevastopolskaya because he loved the station so much, but because of his own reasons that were only known to him.
Maybe he had to fulfill an assignment? That would explain a lot of things: His sudden appearance, his secrecy, the stamina with which he holds the guard post and of course his decision to leave for the Serpuchovskaya immediately.
But then why did he forbade him to inform the others? Who could have sent him expect for them?
No, that was impossible. He was one of the Order. A man that dozens, if not hundreds of people – including Denis Michailovitsch – owed their lives to, who wouldn’t be able to commit treason.
But was this Hunter that had appeared out of the void the same? If he worked for somebody did he receive a signal?
Did that mean that the disappearance of the recon unit was no accident, but a well planned operation?
And what part did the brigadier play in all of this?
The colonel strongly shook his head, as if he wanted to shake away his suspicions that hang on him like leeches, becoming bigger and bigger. Why would he think this about a man that saved his live?
Hunter had served the station without any mistakes and he had never given him the slightest reason for doubts. Thus Denis Michailovitsch forbade himself to think about the brigadier as a deserter, spy or something else.
He had made his decision. “Another tea and then I will go to the boys,” he said overly energetic and snapped his fingers.
Istomin rose from his Metro plan and smiled tiredly. He wanted to dial the number for the adjutant when the telephone ringed. Both were startled and looked at each other. They hadn’t heard that sound for a week. If the officer on duty wanted something he knocked on the door and there was no one else in the station that was able to call the foreman directly.
“Istomin here.” he answered carefully.
“Vladimir Ivanowitsch! The Tulskaya is on the phone” he heard the hastily voice of the adjutant, “but the connection is very bad… probably our men… but the connection.”
“Connect me already!” Istomin screamed into the receiver and hammered his fist on the table with such force that the telephone ringed in pain.
The adjutant turned silent immediately. Istomin could hear a ringing sound, then static and then he heard a distant, almost unrecognizable voice.
Yelena had turned her face towards the wall, to hide her tears. What could she still do to hold him back?
Why did he always reach for the first possibility to leave the station? His miserably excuses “Orders from above” and “Desertion” – she had heard them a hundred times. What wouldn’t she have given, wouldn’t have tried to get rid of his nonsense in these 15 years? But once again it drew him to the tunnels, as if he thought to find something other than darkness, emptiness and doom in it. What was he searching for?
Homer knew exactly what she thought, as if she had spoken it out loud. He felt miserably, but it was too late to retreat. He opened his mouth to say something excusing, something warm, but he remained silent, with every one of his words he would just added oil to the flame.
Over Yelena’s head Moscow cried. A carefully framed color-picture of the Tverskaya Uliza, shining through the translucent midsummer rain, cut out of a shiny almanac, was hanging on the wall. A long time ago, when he was able to move through the Metro freely, all of his fortune was made up by his clothes and this one picture. Others carried crumpled, torn out pages from man oriented magazines in their pockets. But for Homer that wasn’t a replacement. But this picture reminded him of something unspeakable beautiful… something that has been lost forever.
Helplessly he whispered: “Forgive me”, stepped out into the hallway, closed the door carefully behind him and sat himself in front of his apartment. The door of the neighboring apartment was open and two sickly pale children played on the doorstep – a boy and a girl. When they saw Homer they stopped. The patched up teddy bear, about whom the children had argued just one second ago, fell to the ground.
“Uncle Kolya, uncle Kolya! Tell us a story! You promised to tell us one when you returned!”
Homer couldn’t hold back a smile. He forgot the argument with Yelena immediately. “About what?”
“Headless mutants!” screamed the boy excited.
“No! I don’t want mutants!” said the girl shocked.
“They are so terrible, they scare me!”
Homer sighed: “What story do you want, Tanyuscha?”
But the boy answered before her: “Than about the fascists! Or the partisans!”
“I want the story about the Emerald city!” said Tanya and smiled.
“But I told it yesterday. Maybe about the war of Hanza against the Reds?”
“About the Emerald city, about the Emerald city!” both yelled.
“Ok”, agreed Homer. “Somewhere, behind the end of the Sokolnitscheskaya line, behind the seven abandoned stations, the three destroyed bridges and a thousand times a thousand doorways, there lies a mysterious, secret city. It is magical so humans can’t enter. Wizards live there and only they can leave through their portals and enter the city through them again. On top of it, on the surface there is a castle, with towers where once the wizards lived. The name of the castle was…”
“Virsity!” Yelled the small boy and looked at his sister triumphal.
“University”, Homer nodded his head.”When the war began and the atomic bombs were dropped on the earth, the wizards retreated into the castle and laid a spell on the entrance so that the bad humans, that started the war, wouldn’t be able to reach them. And then they lived…”
Homer cleared his throat and stopped.
