Struggle. Prisoners of Darkness

Believing and loving

Darkened by the absence of light, the figure slowly moved along the wide corridor that stretched across the entire building. A Kalashnikov assault rifle glinted in the faint rays.

Somewhere at the very end of the aisle, a man in tattered overalls was scrubbing the floor. Over time, the stone-and- ceramic floor glared, even in this kind of light. The man was doing his job carefully and persistently.

Heavy clumsy footsteps were heard.

The figure froze in the blackening void of shadow. The man continued to move the rag left and right without changing anything.

A few seconds later, a carefree, but a little tired of something that had passed forever, came out from around the corner and moved down the corridor, away from the man and directly toward the figure. He was not interested in the man

behind him at all, nor was he interested in the shadow at the wall, which did not exist in anyone's consciousness. After passing the shadow, the tent disappeared around the corner he needed.

The figure moved on just as cautiously. There must be a warehouse somewhere nearby. Nothing was known about it, except that it was on the surface, that is, in this building.

The next door had a scrawled triangle on it. Actually, it didn't say anything. The previous ones had squares, circles, strikethroughs, underlines, and God knows what else — no warehouses in the end.

The handle of this door, like all the previous ones, was gray and shabby, and it turned the same way — with difficulty and to no avail. But then it went a little differently — there was a creaking sound. And it was like it was stuck in my ears.

But no one reacted to it: the man in the distance paid no attention and did his work.

The figure swung the door open with determination, making a rather quiet sound, and stepped inside. The room lost any light as it closed.

Blacker than night.

After waiting for about half a minute, neither the silence nor the darkness changed. My fingers flicked a lever on the wall, and the light came on.

Raphael smiled — it's a warehouse.

The room was quite spacious: a wide hall and a small room at the very end. Along the right wall are partly neatly, partly carelessly laid out bags and a few hanging shelves with tin cans and somewhere even with caviar; along the left wall are trays, shelves and cabinets with various types of infantry weapons: at the very end of it all there is even an anti-tank rifle "Spear".

Raphael stepped forward, felt it was loud, and took the next step even more quietly. It seemed to him that the plagues had a sniff for such occasions. That the plague would sense when a man was in the area. That the plague, by its very nature, could not allow a human to recognize that there was enough food, that people could be fed much better, that people's lives could be made easier, that none of this was there solely because of the plague's inner workings.

The miner approached the right wall, quite cautiously and leisurely, and at that very moment he felt that something existed nearby. Every cell in his body screamed for it. Inside, right in his heart, an unknown inaudible voice whispered: "Death is very near."

Raphael didn't flinch, didn't worry. He was not interested in his own death, neither now nor later. He only had to feed his wife and the rest of the human world.

Behind him, twenty centimeters away, the floor creaked.

The thoughts, the doubts, the ponderings-all of them were gone in an instant. Raphael spun around, preparing to pull the trigger.

The automatic was knocked out of his hands, and immediately a plague-like hand was thrust into his neck. Chanhr squeezed the paw viciously and greedily and pulled it upward.

"That's a good thing," Raphael thought as the tent held his weight. — The tent came up to me unnoticed. It weighs one and a half centners… What happened to me?"

Chum tossed the miner to the far wall separating the room from the hall and moved forward.

After flying off the wall and landing on his back, Raphael rolled over onto his belly and began to climb stubbornly upward. Somewhere deep in the mine his wife was waiting. Because of the explosion, there were no wedding events (usually newlyweds were lifted in their arms and held like that while the priest solemnized their marriage): the lovers simply fell asleep and woke up as husband and wife.

"A wife is a beautiful thing, Raphael believed, spitting out blood and clinging to the boardwalk floor. — It's basically the same me, but of a different kind. I can talk to her about anything, I can look into her eyes and see love. She will always take pity when I feel bad. She's always thinking of me. She'll do everything possible and impossible to make me well…

And I'll do it all for her."

Chanhr pressed his foot into the back of the still lying Raphael. Chum leaned on him and twisted his paw to the side.

Then he jumped up and slammed his foot into his back even harder.

Inside, at the very base of his entire body, something crunched. Some vertebrae shifted out of place, some of them shattered into small pieces. The pain was gone. And not just pain. Every sensation except vision was gone.

Raphael lost space: what was going on around him lost importance. The only thought left was of his wife. She would soon give birth. She would soon have a child.

Inhuman strength propelled Raphael. He rested his hand on the floor next to his stomach, pulled his knee up, set his toe, and thrust upward. His joints hardly moved, but the movement was only upward. Here he rose to his knees, straightened his back, and, after waiting a fraction of a second, put his foot from knee to foot. Then, rising a little more, he placed the other foot. Once on his feet, Raphael turned toward the partitioned room.

Chum stood there and rummaged through some kind of box; something inside interested him far more than the disorderly shuffling behind him. He didn't believe the man was capable of doing anything after that.

The shuffling followed one after another. A short, consistent sound. And some endless like a clock, only it sounded a little different.

Changhur felt amused. He thought that the mad man had gone mad from the blow, lying there floundering on the floor. As if that would do anything.

But the sounds got stronger. Stronger and stronger. More and more consistent. And suddenly they stopped. Even the silence stopped.

Changhr listened even harder. Nothing. No shuffling, no breathing, no heartbeat.

Half incomprehension and half concern. Chum turned back around.

Pupils dilated to the very edge of the iris. Bottomless and impenetrable they were eating away at their opponent.

Blood dripped from his mouth down his red lips. The hands were not shaking: they were clutching weapons. From below, the muzzle of a machine gun stared straight into his eyes.

Opening his mouth Raphael said the first thing that came to his tongue, "Your health," and smoothly laid his finger on the trigger.

The machine gun exploded with a thunderous boom and, releasing a line of bullets and soaring upward, riddled the

beast.

Raphael lowered his weapon and turned to his right, toward the shelf of food. He moved closer to see what was

written on the jar: "Salmon Caviar.

"No, it doesn't matter at all what she eats," thought the husband. — As long as she's happy.

Raphael closed his eyes and saw his soulmate. She is standing there, smiling, looking at him, saying, "I love you".

She touches his cheek with her fingertips and he realizes that he is a happy man. "Maria," Raphael said quietly. — I love you."