Four… Crack!
Alik’s hairy chest was ripped to pieces with a juicy burst.
Five…
The muzzle of the gun was trained on the graybeard. Aslan’s chin was trembling slightly.
“If you want to live, run! Get out!”
People and rats scattered every which way in the smoke from the shooting spree. Only the old man-boy, drenched in blood, remained motionless. He was sitting on the floor with his legs spread wide apart, stunned.
“Who are you?” he whispered.
Slowly, shaking off the last coil of rope, Kate stood up on legs that had grown numb and her knees cracked. The ceiling was low enough that she had to stoop. She disengaged the Walther peaceably.
“I’m her big sister.”
“What have you done? People and rats live in peace. Once a year we bring them sacrifices. I communicate with the Gray Tribe. I know their language. It’s all over now. You killed Mother Rat. Now chaos will reign!”
“That’s your problem. You kidnapped my sister. She belongs to me.” She picked up Sonya, soft and warm, and pulled her against her chest. She was with Sonya; Sonya was here. No one would ever be able to separate them again. Even if the horde of rats attempted a counterattack.
“Rats are everywhere! You can’t hide from them. They’ll never forgive you!”
“That may be, but I can shoot ‘em up real good.”
The Nutcracker wanted to say something, but suddenly his wrinkles seemed to draw together into one, he began to whisper quietly, and his parched fingertips started snapping out a rhythm. Snap-snap-snap…
A sense of calm surged through Kate’s exhausted body. She felt like sitting down to rest, or maybe even lying down. That would feel so nice, wouldn’t it? After all, the boy was so sweet.
Snappity-snap…
Enervated and drowsy, Kate extended her arm mechanically, then pulled the trigger, almost without aiming. Faster than lightning, the Nutcracker was blown away into the darkness. The midget’s brains seeped out of a hole in his forehead. His body twitched in the convulsions of death, then grew still. Lying on his back, his arms spread wide apart, he looked like a discarded toy. Kate’s swoon burst. Pain and clarity returned.
“If you can snap, you should know how to crack,” she whispered. “You rat.”
She hugged Sonya close to her. “Time to go home, sister.”
Kate carried Sonya with one arm, not noticing the weight. With her other hand, she hid the Walther in the folds of the doll dress. She was ready to kill anyone who crossed her path. Her sister, lolling on her shoulder, was floating in deep sleep. They had strung her out on sleeping pills, but her breathing was regular. She had not even lost weight in the month she had spent in captivity in the basement.
Haymarket Square was bathed in the soft light of the White Night. The passersby glanced back, startled at the woman dressed in sports clothes carrying a large doll in her arms, all smeared in blood.
Dashing past the new receptionist on shift, who couldn’t be bothered to notice her, Kate hurried up to her room and locked the door behind her. That was unnecessary: who would dare come in? Still, she didn’t have much time. She changed the clothes of the sleeping Sonya, ripping the doll’s dress to shreds. Only then did she wash the remnants of Porphyry’s brains off her face. The rest took almost no time at alclass="underline" leave the suitcase behind, toss the backpack over her shoulder, carry her sleeping sister under one arm.
Running out onto the street, Kate flagged down the third cab that drove by, just like her trainer had told her to do. Casually opening the door, she said, her voice calm and confident: “One thousand dollars to the border with Finland. Three if you take us all the way to the airport.”
The driver agreed without a moment’s thought. He only noted politely, “Your jacket has some spots on it. Looks like blood.”
Kate settled herself in the backseat with Sonya on her knees, and said, “I was taking care of a rat problem.”
The taxi driver stared at her in the rearview mirror.
She managed to muster a weak smile. “Just kidding, it’s all right. You mind your own business, and I’ll mind mine. Just steer the wheel and earn your three grand.” Kate didn’t want to waste another bullet. “Excuse me, but we’re running late for our flight.”
The car sped through the empty streets of a city that would forever be alien to her. Haymarket Square dissolved into the soft pale gray of the White Night.
Sonya stirred lightly and opened her eyes. “Hey, big sis! You know, I had a dream about the Nutcracker.”
“Don’t worry, sweetie, it was just a dream. There is no such thing as the Nutcracker.”
“No? Where did he go?”
“He burst.”
“Like a balloon?”
“No, like a rat. He went kaboom!” She made a loud snap with her fingers.
Sonya sighed and settled down more comfortably. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
“The Nutcracker fed me Big Macs. It was nice…”
Kate was calm. Absolutely calm. She still had four bullets left.
Crackity-crack…
PARANOIA
by Mikhail Lialin
Lake Dolgoe
Translated by Margarita Shalina
But the main distinction lies in this, that whereas wine disorders the mental faculties, opium, on the contrary (if taken in a proper manner), introduces amongst them the most exquisite order, legislation, and harmony.
—Thomas De Quincey, Confessions of an English Opium Eater
Eighteenth of August in the year 20—
H elp yourselves.”
Three-mile-long lines. Uh-huh.
“Walk your mile.”
Amphetamine. The rush begins.
“What do you suggest?”
“You can put it up your nose. I’ll put it in my coffee. I don’t like to snort—get a runny nose after.”
K sweeps his line into a mug of coffee. I turn to C.
“What do you say?”
“Snort half, the other half—with coffee.”
“That’s what we’ll do.”
C rolls a tight straw out of a hundred-ruble note after a few tries. Checks it, makes sure it fits in a nostril. Divides my line into two parts. Passes me the straw.
“Well… your substances reflect your money.”
I put the bill in my right nostril. The paper squeaks. I inhale. Pass the bill to C.
K throws the remaining half into a mug. I take the mug and begin to drink slowly.
We’ve cleared the glass tabletop. We sit.
“Nah-nah, nah. Absolutely no way.”
K takes the used hundred-ruble note from C, sticks it in the center of a wad of cash. Adjusts it, turns it over, and folds it in half. “This’ll be the first thing they see.”
C crawls to the computer, puts on music, a video.
The room we’re getting loaded in is located on Komendantsky Prospect. It’s K’s apartment, he’s painted the room all white. A wardrobe lines the entire side of a wall, which has a big heart drawn on it.
We sit on a sectional sofa near the window. There’s a table in front of us, holding up a monitor, mugs, a rolling kit, tobacco, a brown cube of hashish.
There are shelves in the corner on the wall behind us. K claims that he gathered the wood for the shelves from the shore of the Gulf of Finland. The boards are nautical—veiny, warped, the grain is gray.
There are a lot of things stacked on the shelves. There’s a bust of Pushkin in the corner. K tells of how he dug it out from under a heap of trash last spring. The bust is primed for painting. Across from us is a carpentry table. K works with wood professionally.