Сергей Жарковский – Creature of unknown kind (страница 3)

By the way, in the Pre-Zone area they already began to call the earth beyond the perimeter of the quarantine zone – Earth with a capital letter. “So what did Gorbachev say on Earth?” “Damn, did you hear that Americans are coming from Earth to search for their people… Wish they brought their rations again…”

Vadim was invited to the table. They squatted, facing each other. Vadim always felt uncomfortable sitting this way, both at home in Spartanovka, and at home in Uralmash. The body was protesting, was not accepting the pose. Vadim was stretching out one leg, getting from Bashkalo's hands a Chinese thermos with a little flower, sipping almost warm tea, passing the thermos over the campfire to Petrovich, changing his legs, munching the stew from the can, rising on the left knee, then on the right, so that Bashkalo suddenly grumbled with his throat that he was tired of his, a goose, fidgeting.

Petrovich said nothing, he was squeezing the aluminum thermos lid with his square fingers, silently ate, silently drank, thinking some sort of thought, and Bashkalo quickly fell silent. However, the expectation of a scolding clearly gathered over the fire, and no one was surprised about Petrovich's resulting words after his, Petrovich, coming out of his spell of contemplation.

– You're such a moron, Vasya Bashkalo, – he said heavily. – It would have been better to trust the cart to the cub, and assign you to go as a bumper, behind the group. So what shall we do now, a j-ass band Vasya? Shall we go three poles further from the last one, and sit there on the spot for nothing, wait for tomorrow's vehicle to go back from this side to that one? Such a successful mission you've ditched, Vasya. We were going so well.

Bashkalo twirled his mustache, blushed again, but, of course, not so terribly this time. He slurped from the thermos till coughing. He coughed, letting brown saliva drip between his knees from under his mustache. Shame in people of this kind is usually expressed through passing the buck. That's why Bashkalo gave the thermos not to Vadim, who was the next in the turn, but pointedly returned it to Petrovich.

– Here, Nikolaich, have a drink. And forgive me. This one, – he nodded at Vadim, – hindered us there, at the rails, I nearly knocked him down, twitched, and here, apparently, lost the handle. It's always like this with geese. Sure you know. I'm guilty, of course.

After listening to this Petrovich grinned and began to press an aluminum pancake (the former thermos lid) with his thumb edgeways into the ground near to his foot. Bashkalo was waiting with the outstretched “Chinese”. Petrovich took the thermos and immediately gave it to Vadim.

– Drink it up, cub. And do not hesitate in front of your comrade Ensign on the rails again.

– Can I have your permission to ask a question, comrade Senior Ensign. How did you know about the second railcar? – asked Vadim. As if nothing had happened.

Petrovich, who immersed in forecasting and planning again, first answered mechanically:

– Accidentally, like everything here, by intuition… Didn't understand, what?

The tea in the thermos was running low and the leaves from the bottom climbed to Vadim's mouth.

– No stupid questions in the Zone, warrior! A tourist, damned adulterer! No chattering! – boomed Petrovich, looming over.

Vadim handed him the thermos with the remaining couple of sips and a handful of wet tea leaves, and suddenly Petrovich growled really angrily:

– So you, bitch, dirtbag, weren't at the briefing?

– My fault, comrade Senior Ensign, said Vadim, managing to replace the natural “I don't understand” with “My fault”.

Petrovich pushed the thermos in the ground, unbuckled the gear, pulled out the collar of the hazmat suit and snatched a roll of a blue electrical tape from behind the back.

– You, motherfucker, have a golden ring on your finger! – He said hastily and furiously. – Take it off now! Take it off quickly, you idiot! Is it rooted or what?

– No… – said Vadim, stunned.

– Yes, take off the decoration, turd! – joined Bashkalo, although somewhat lazily. – But where were you, Nikolaich, the old wolf, looking? Here they are, the geese. I'm telling you! And good people die because of them. And poles get lost.

Bashkalo was smiling shiningly, like a toilet in a shop window. The teeth behind his mustache were rare and white as sugar. He was older then Vadim by five or seven years. Vadim could answer him properly, but again he restrained himself and took off the ring. Petrovich feverishly snatched it with a nail, not instantly, hastily picked up the edge of the tape, pulled out a strip, close to an arm's length, crushed it into a ball, put the ring in its middle and began to wrap layer by layer, moving his lips (“Petrovich prays with a guard duty regulations! Ha-ha-ha!”), no longer pulling PVC tape from the roll. He had used up a half. Finally he tore it off. Having formed a ball he weighed it by a hand. And crossed himself twice. Vadim and Bashkalo opened their mouths. Senior Ensign Petrovich, making the sign of the cross is the mosaic of Lomonosov121.

– Here, cub, hide this deeper!

Vadim shoved the tangle with the ring in its stomach (“Happy cake!”, Mumbler squeaked from behind his nose bridge) into the hip pocket. So this is how it is with gold in the Zone.

– Remember, youngster: gold is like a lightning rod in the Zone. Gold catches lightning. And do you know what kind of lightning you get here? Then, if you return, ask your scientists. Who is still alive. Any chains, crosses?

And Petrovich finished the tea in one gulp.

Vadim shook his head.

– No sir.

Bashkalo laughed.

– You should listen to the instructions with your ears, but not with… family guy. – Petrovich said with his usual loudness. – The same was with the poles: it was made from the rod at first, before they got washed with the blood… So what brought you here, damn you, married one?

Vadim was silent. Two (just two!) months ago no one in the world could convince him to return here. Neither for money, nor for the Motherland. He was a happy TV viewer just two months ago, he crawled on his knees to the TV to show Maika that here is the burning bread factory, we used to get bread there, and Americans disappeared right here, exactly here I served… He was a happy viewer. The Range (“Captain Zhitkur!”, interrupted Mumbler) gave him money, fate (“Madness of your dad!”, interrupted Mumbler) gave him Maika, Maika gave him Katty, and Vadim would agree to watch the horrors of Kapustin only on TV. Alex the Ukrainian was choking with tears when in the summer of eighty sixth he read to them letters from Kiev, about radiation, about illicit radiometers, about cops in cellophane. But Vadim would never shed a tear because of the disaster at the Range. He hated and feared it. And now it was the only hope. That which he hated and feared.

It turned out that all this time Petrovich was waiting for an answer.

– Are you silent? Silent-pliant, snotty. Okay. So. This is what we will do in connection with the feat of the comrade Ensign… – He chewed his lips. – So, group, listen to my command. Our mission of reconnaissance, marking a safe track to the “area twenty nine” and inspection of the condition of nuclear weapons as far as is visually possible for such a survey we cannot accomplish anymore. We can't get out without the poles, and will not leave anything for others. Thank you, Vasya, again. We change the route. Take the fallback route. We’ll smoke and go.

Petrovich pulled out the rarity of that summer – a fresh pack of “Rodopi”, opened it and lit up. He neatly rolled the wrapper into a ball (“Puff the ball”, squeaked Mumbler) and shoved it into the fire. The splinters were already burned and cooling, only the tablets glowed blue. Bashkalo breathed noisily and asked for a cigarette with a gesture.

– Where are we changing to? What is the fallback route, Nikolaich?

– Not far, comrade Ensign, – said Petrovich, passing him the cigarette to light up his. – It is a dive for three our poles from here. We didn't manage to do reconnaissance for command… Thanks to you. So let's do science, since the tracks have coincided. Don't soil your pants, Vasya, it's not far. Not far and familiar. My stash is nearby. I want to share it with you. And with this one, the newbie.

– That's it… – said Bashkalo, inhaling. – Share the stash! Pi-iss, not war…

They smoked in front of each other, flicking the ashes in turn into the already totally spirit fluid campfire. It was heavy, sucking, hopelessly-dueling, and Vadim shrugged off the chatter ban again.

– Comrade Senior Ensign… Allow me one more question. To do with work. So all these… weird places… Gitiks. They are all near our equipment, to the railway, as they seem to generate only from equipment, right?

Petrovich laughed.

– He's playing Indians here. Oh, kids, kids… It was true, warrior! And binoculars could be used at first, and sights. But now you will not take a walk along the free-flowing steppe… So you, Sverzhin, of this… thinking kind. For one thousand five hundred per month. How did you say – “gitiks”?