“Really?” said Stas. “He’s probably swearing a blue streak.”
“No,” said Uncle Yura. “He was killed.”
“Really?” said Stas, and left it at that.
Main Street was empty and veiled in thick night fog, although by the clock it was five in the afternoon. The fog ahead of them had a reddish tinge and it was glimmering restlessly. Every now and then bright patches of white light flared up in it—either searchlights or powerful headlamps—and from that direction, muffled by the fog but still sometimes drowning out the rumble of the wheels and clopping of hooves, they heard shooting. Something was happening up there.
In the buildings lining the street many of the windows were lit up, but mostly on the higher floors, above the second. There were no queues at the locked stores and kiosks, but Andrei noticed that people were standing in some of the courtyard entrances and doorways, cautiously glancing out then hiding again, and the most audacious came out onto the sidewalk and looked in the direction of the glittering and crackling in the fog. Objects looking like dark sacks were lying here and there on the sidewalk. Andrei didn’t realize what they were at first, and after a while he was surprised to realize that they were dead baboons. A solitary horse was grazing in a small park square beside a dark school.
The cart rumbled and rattled, and no one spoke. Selma quietly felt for Andrei’s hand and he gave way to the pain and exhaustion, slumping completely against her warm sweater and closing his eyes. I’m in bad shape, he thought. Oh, really bad shape… What garbage was that Kensi was spouting—what fascist coup did he mean? It’s just that the cold, the anger, and hopelessness have driven everyone wild… The Experiment is the Experiment…
At that moment the cart gave a sudden jolt, and above the rumbling of the wheels Andrei heard a shriek so savage and piercing that he came to instantly, covered in sweat. He straightened up and started swinging his head to and fro crazily.
Uncle Yura swore fiercely, hauling on the reins with all his might to hold back the horses, which were straining hard to one side, and at the same time something on fire, a bundle of flames, hurtled along the sidewalk on the left, uttering inhuman screeches that were somehow entirely human, filled with pain and terror, and scattering splashes of fire behind it, and before Andrei could even gather his wits, Stas had jumped smartly down off the cart and cut down the living torch with two short bursts from his automatic, setting the panes of glass jangling in a shop window. The fiery bundle somersaulted along the sidewalk, tumbling over and over, gave one last pitiful squeal, and froze.
“That’s an end to its suffering, poor creature,” Stas said hoarsely, and Andrei finally realized that it was a baboon, a burning baboon. What crazy nonsense was this… Now it was lying there, hanging off the edge of the sidewalk, still burning slowly, and the heavy stench it gave off was spreading along the street.
Uncle Yura set the horse moving, the cart pulled away, and Stas set off beside it on foot, with his hand resting on the planking side. Andrei strained his neck out, looking forward into the pink, glimmering fog, which had turned very bright. Yes, something was happening up there, something absolutely incomprehensible—they could hear strange howling from that direction, shots, the roar of engines, and every now and a bright flash of crimson flared up and immediately faded away.
“Listen, Stas,” Uncle Yura said suddenly, without looking around. “You run on ahead, brother, take a look at what’s happening up there. And I’ll follow on after you, softly, softly…”
“OK,” said Stas, taking his automatic under his arm, and he jogged forward, sticking to the wall of the building. Very soon he was lost to sight in the glimmering fog, and Uncle Yura carried on pulling the horses up until they stopped completely.
“Sit more comfortably,” Selma whispered.
Andrei jerked his shoulder.
“Nothing like that happened,” Selma went on, still whispering. “It was the building manager, he was going round all the apartments, asking if anyone was concealing weapons—”
“Shut up,” Andrei said through his teeth.
“Honestly,” Selma whispered. “He only called in for a moment, he was just on his way out—”
“So he was leaving without his trousers?” Andrei inquired icily, desperately struggling to drive away the hideous memory of hanging on Yura and Stas in limp exhaustion while he watched the scene in the hallway of his own apartment: some short-ass with white eyes furtively closing his robe, with his flannel long johns showing underneath it. And then watching Selma’s revoltingly innocent, drunken face over the short-ass’s shoulder as the expression of innocence on that face changed to fright, and then to despair.
“But that’s how he was going round the apartments, in his robe!” Selma whispered.
“Listen, just shut up,” said Andrei. “Shut up, for God’s sake. I’m not your husband, you’re not my wife. What concern is all this of mine?”
“But I love you, honey,” Selma whispered despairingly. “Only you.”
Uncle Yura started loudly clearing his throat. “Someone’s coming,” he announced.
A huge, dark shape loomed out of the darkness ahead and came toward them, then bright headlamps flashed—it was a truck, a massive dump truck. It stopped about twenty paces from the cart, with its engine rumbling. They heard a raucous voice giving orders, then some men clambered out over the side of the truck and started dejectedly wandering around in the road. A door slammed and another dark figure separated from the truck, stood still for a moment, then headed straight toward the cart at a stroll.
“He’s coming this way,” Uncle Yura announced. “I tell you what, Andrei… don’t you interfere in the conversation. I’ll do the talking.”
The man reached the cart. He was clearly one of the so-called militiamen, wearing a short little coat with white armbands on the sleeves. He had a rifle hanging over his shoulder, barrel downward.
“Ah, farmers,” said the militiaman. “Howdy, guys.”
“Howdy, if you’re not joking,” Uncle Yura responded after a short pause.
The militiaman hesitated, twisted his head this way and that, as if he were uncertain, then asked diffidently, “Have you got any bread to sell?”
“No bread,” said Uncle Yura.
“Well maybe you’ve got some meat, a few potatoes…”
“Potatoes he wants,” said Uncle Yura.
The militiaman became completely embarrassed; he sniffed, sighed, looked in the direction of his truck, and then roared, as if in sudden relief, “It’s over there, still lying over there! You blind assholes! It’s lying over there, all burned up!” Then he darted off, tramping noisily on his flat feet, and ran along the roadway. They saw him waving his arms about and giving instructions, and heard the dejected men snarling back feebly and indistinctly, as they dragged along something dark, strained hard to swing it to and fro, then tossed it into the back of the dump truck.
“Potatoes he wants,” Uncle Yura growled. “Meat!”
The truck set off and drove past them, right up close. It gave off a terrible smell of scorched fur and flesh. It was loaded right up to the top; appalling, twisted silhouettes drifted by against the background of the faintly illuminated wall of a building, and Andrei suddenly felt a cold frost creep across his skin: sticking up out of this appalling heap was a distinctly white, human hand with the fingers splayed out. The dejected men standing in the truck clutched at each other and the sides of the truck, and huddled close to the cab. There were five or six of them, respectable-looking men in hats.