METRO 2033: The Gospel According to Artyom.

Dmitry Glukhovsky

THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO ARTYOM

The previously unpublished epilogue

of Metro 2033

Metro2033.com

A couple of white plastic bags borne by the wind stick to my face.

I take them off my mask's visor and release them – the bags, re-united with the wind, float away like jellyfish.

No actual animal lives here – not the regular ones, nor the radiation-adjusted mutants.

Not a single living blade of grass or a leaf for kilometers around… It's just soot and melted iron, ashes and concrete rubble around here.
S
hould
the wind
bring any seeds here
,
th
ey
, after falling onto this cursed soil, would simply wither and never even get a chance to sprout.

Even the plastic bags stopping here for a bit of rest don't stay long and soon continue their aimless migration.

I come here every day and I've long since lost count of the days I spent here.

I don a heavy hazard suit, put on my gas mask, take my weapon and start my climb up the escalator. At first people used to see me off with unusual stares, a mix of condescension, admiration and mockery. They got used to it soon, and now they pay me no attention at all. I like it better this way.

I
don't
even
know what am I looking
for
here myself. I might not even be looking for anything
in particular
at all.
A
fter all, they do say that the murderers are for some reason drawn towards the place where
they carried out
their crime, so might it just be an acute case of that?

One thing I know for certain – I'm not going to find any forgiveness or hope here.

I rabble the dirt with my boot, rummage through the melted iron bars.

I only find soot instead of forgiveness and ashes instead of hope.

And I will be coming here until my legs give.

*
             
*
             
*

They gave me a hero's welcome.

They were ragged, they were tattered, bloodied and burned. I came down from a
bomb-crippled
concrete broadcast tower, but the look in their eyes told me I might as well be coming down from heaven in a shiny chariot.

All I wanted was to die, so I ripped the gas mask off my face. The air, the polluted and poisoned air
,
which I wanted to taste for so long, filled my lungs. Yet I felt nothing.

I stumbled along the street hoping something would just eat me before I got
back to
the Metro. But the monsters that were quite recently longing for my blood had apparently developed disgust towards it now.

And when I reached the Metro, a crowd was already waiting for me there.

They came topside despite the taboo
,
to see the ground I won back for their children from the demons. And when they saw me breathe surface's frosty air some of them started removing their masks
,
too. It seemed to them that my victory had already given their long lost world right back to them. What they didn't know was that I'd just destroyed their last chance for salvation. And I never told them.

I saw a woman with a child among those who came to welcome me back. Didn't she fear for the boy's life? She probably did. Yet, just a few hours before she knew for sure she was going to die. Everybody here, all these worn-out people
,
until quite recently were ready to die. They stayed at a besieged stat
ion for they had nowhere to run.
T
hey stayed to defend their home until the end, which was absolutely sure to follow soon. Would people
,
granted pardon mere
moments before their execution
,
be afraid of catching a cold? They wouldn't be afraid of anything.

They had no idea their execution was simply replaced with a life sentence.

The boy being held by his mother had already taken off his improvised gas mask and was waving towards me.

–
       
Look, Artyom! Look! It's snowing!

Grey flakes were slowly falling down, covering the brown dirt and the black cracked asphalt. I caught some and rubbed them on my palm.

–
       
Yahoo! Snow! –
the
boy was ecstatic.

–
       
That's just ashes, – I
said
.

*
             
*
             
*

I'm a coward, so I'll be their hero.

I won't ever muster the courage needed to tell them what had actually transpired. And should I even spill my guts, they'd still never believe me – or they'd think the Dark Ones had actually managed to put my mind under control.

There are already legends being told about me, and some crazy old man's even writing a book: a boy from a backwater station has to cross all of Metro to save his home along with humanity in general from hellspawn invading from the surface… Having weathered numerous battles and becoming stronger he gets a hold of the powerful weapon devised by the ancestors and strikes the evil abominations down. Trying to escape their fate the despicable creatures assault the boy's mind but he overcomes this final exam, does not yield to the temptation and triumphs…

Our children won't know how to write, the children of our children won't
even know what
letters
were
. There won't be anyone left capable of reading the book about the Metro, but the troglodytes still living in the tunnels will tell this tale
one an
other while sitting around their fires gnawing upon the bones of their enemies for as long as they retain the ability to speak. I have firmly secured an eternal central place in the legends of the cannibal savages for myself. A fitting punishment for my cowardice.

When asked about how did it all start, I always tell that it all started that day we opened that airlock at the Botanical Gardens. We
–
meaning yours truly and two of my friends. We were mere kids back then and we had no idea what were we doing. Sure thing, we broke some rules – but has there ever been a boy
who
never broke any rules?

Who's brilliant idea it was to visit the abandoned station, who took the others along? I always tell them that I don't remember, that it was either Vitali “the Splinter” or Eugene. 

I always lie.

It is a safe lie, for there's no way to ascertain the truth – both Vitali and Eugene are dead now. And even if they were still alive, they'd cover for me. Just
like
I'd always covered for them.

No, it did not start the moment the massive airlock doors shrugged and opened with a grinding sound, opening a road to hell for us and a road to our home for the demons.

It was a totally different day – a sunny, sparkling-fresh yet warm, filled with incredibly sweet scents that I can't even remember, though I definitely know I never experienced anything like that ever since.

–
       
So, Artyom, – my Mom smiled to me. – How about going for a walk in the Botanical Gardens? What do you say?

–
       
Great! – I shouted. – I'm all for it!

I remember how we rode there in an almost empty Metro carriage – it was a day off after all. I remember how we took a short escalator to the surface, how we exited a spacious glass pavilion and saw a street buried in verdure. I remember the small clouds moving across the limitless sky and soft, cool wind on my face. There was an ice-cream stand right at the exit, so we got in the line.

–
       
Which are you going to have – a wafer cup or a chocolate chip one?

–
       
W
afer! Chocolate! Both!

–
       
You have to choose one, – replied Mom with a shade of strictness. – Can't have them
all
, you know you're allergic!

–
       
Well, maybe you could get the chocolate chip one while I get the wafer cup?  And then we both share!

–
       
All right, – she laughed.

Even eating both ice-creams at once wouldn't have done me any harm that day, for that would basically be the last dessert that I had ever since.

Then we entered the Gardens and walked along the wide winding alleys until the dinner time. Having lost our way we accidentally found a tiny Japan-themed
garden lost
in the vast park. A pond filled with the water lilies, a rickety bridge crossing it and unbelievably beautiful birds swimming around dark mirror-like surface…

It's actually amazing how much I remember. I remember so much stuff I could easily do without... And yet I forget the most important of all – the sight of her face.

My mother's face.

I don't know why or who prohibited me
from seeing her eyes, her smile and
her hair. I never accepted this prohibition, and for as long as I remember I always wanted to go back to that day – to the whispering alleys, the mandarin ducks, the warm asphalt with sun beams piercing the cover of the trees. Back to my mom.

And yet, the world I was seeking so desperately is gone forever, and my mother's gone with it. There's nothing left of that world except for that day and two or three rough sketches still stored in my memory: an evening in our flat, cozy light from a lamp, warmth…

I only wish I could recall her face. The way she looked at me. The way she whispered that I've nothing to fear. The way she'd wink at me. I'd sell my soul just to recall that. I'd do that any day, any time. And I did.

The Judgment Day came. The righteous and the sinful were called
to be
rendered to according to their deeds. And we hid from God's sight in the Metro, and we were saved from His wrath and He apparently decided that flushing us out wasn't worth the trouble. Then He went about his business or, perhaps, died, and we stayed on this discarded Earth. And we continued going along its orbit into nothingness.

             
The Humanity was executed, while we two were among those given a short reprieve. Hers has proven to be way too short, mine – way too long. 

             
My mom was devoured by rats. I don't remember that day. But, if I was spared from that memory in exchange for the one about that summer morning in the Botanical Gardens, I'm ready to exchange them back. Do you hear me, whoever you are?..

             
I was picked up by a man who thought he'd adopt me. A pity, I was not ready to become his son. We grew closer, and yet we remained strangers forever. The shadow of my mother, whom he was unable to save from the rat onslaught and whom I was unable to bring myself up to die with, remained between us. I never told him a word of reproach, but I could not completely forgive him, either.