CHAPTER 2. ZERO KILOMETER (Part 2)

  Dmitry stood in the open airlock doorway, shining his light into the guts of the service bay. The situation was worse than he thought. It was ridiculous. Before him stood the reliable, military Cummins diesel generator. Green, oily, eternal. But the engineers who designed this system for extreme conditions were old-school paranoids. They didn't trust electronics alone. Therefore, besides the electric starter button (which was dead now due to "dry" batteries), a small, two-stroke gasoline engine hung on the side of the generator. A "pony motor" (puskach).

  Its job was simple: start with a pull cord, rev up, and then turn the shaft of the main diesel via a clutch. A fail-safe system. With one condition. The pony motor needed gasoline.

  Dmitry unscrewed the cap of the tiny tank. Shone the light inside. Dry. Virgin clean. He had never used it. In Africa, there was always enough sun for panels or charge in the main batteries. He hadn't even thought to fill it before leaving.

  “Gasoline...” Dmitry whispered, feeling anger at his own carelessness boiling inside. “I need two hundred grams of gasoline.”

  He had gasoline. He was prudent. In the rear luggage compartment, the so-called "garage," consumables were stored: oil, antifreeze, and three red metal jerrycans with 95-octane gas. Just in case. For a chainsaw or a freak like this.

  Dmitry moved the beam to the Ark's stern. The light slid along the smooth white side and hit murky black water. The machine sat deep in the swamp, trimmed by the stern. The rear wheels were completely submerged. The bottom edge of the luggage compartment was below the waterline.

  “Flooded,” he stated.

  He didn't just have to go outside. He had to climb into this icy, rotten sludge, open a hatch currently underwater, and grope for a jerrycan.

  Dmitry returned to the living module. The cold had begun to chill him to the marrow. He opened the gear closet.

  “Fine. If I have to dive into shit, I’ll do it in a spacesuit.”

  He put on merino wool thermal underwear—humanity's best invention for retaining heat. Over that—thick fleece pants and a jacket. And on top—rubberized fisherman waders, chest-high, which he bought for fishing on the Nile (and never used). He pulled them up to his armpits, fastened the straps. On his feet—rubber boots fused to the overalls. On his head—a hat and a powerful Petzl headlamp. In his pocket—a folding knife and a multitool.

  “Cosmonaut ready for EVA,” he joked grimly, looking at his reflection in the mirror.

  He went to the exit again. The pneumatic ladder didn't work. It was about a meter down to the swamp surface. Dmitry turned around, grabbed the handrails, and carefully lowered himself. When his feet touched the surface, he expected to hit a solid bottom. But there was no bottom. The swamp accepted him softly, viscously, and greedily. His legs sank into silt up to the knee, then the thigh. Dmitry gasped. Despite the thermals and rubber, the cold of the water hit him like an electric shock. The water was icy. Four degrees, no more. It squeezed his legs, instantly sucking out heat.

  “Damn it...” he exhaled, letting out a cloud of steam.

  Moving was hard. The mud held his legs; every step required effort. Squelching sounds carried over the dead forest for kilometers. Dmitry moved along the hull, holding onto the Ark's cold plating with one hand. To the left was saving steel. To the right—black, unknown bog with protruding snags. It seemed something was moving in the water. Maybe gas rising from the bottom, or maybe something watching his clumsy movements.

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  He reached the rear overhang. There it was, the cargo hatch. Half the door was underwater. The latch handle too. Dmitry took a deep breath, gathering his courage, and thrust his arm into the black water up to the elbow. The jacket sleeve under the waders stayed dry, but the cold burned the skin of his arm even through the rubber glove. He found the latch. Turned the lever. The mechanism, fortunately, was simple, mechanical. Click.

  Dmitry pulled the door toward himself. Water rushed into the compartment, mixing with what was already there.

  “Sorry, tools,” he whispered. “Hope you're stainless.”

  He shone the light inside. The picture was sad. Plastic boxes with spare parts bobbed like floats. Coils of rope were soaked and swollen. Paint cans had overturned. But deep inside, strapped to the wall, hung three red jerrycans. The bottom one was fully submerged. The middle one—halfway.

  Dmitry stepped inside the compartment, plunging into water almost to his waist. The pressure on his legs increased. His back began to ache—the angle, cold, and tension taking their toll. The titanium plate felt like a chunk of dry ice sewn into his body. He gritted his teeth.

  “Fast. Grab and go.”

  He reached the middle can. Fingers, losing sensitivity from the cold, struggled with the strap buckle. Iron clanged. The can came free. It was heavy—twenty liters. Dmitry hoisted it, pressed it to his chest, and began backing out of the compartment. The hardest part was turning around in viscous mud with a load in his hands. His feet slipped on roots hidden underwater.

  Suddenly, his right leg fell into a hole. Dmitry lost his balance. He flailed his arms, trying to stay up, but the heavy can tipped the scales. He fell sideways into the swamp. Icy sludge splashed into his face, flooded his ear, got into his mouth. The taste was disgusting—rot, slime, and something metallic. For a moment, panic seized him. He floundered in black water, feeling no bottom, heavy clothes dragging him down. I’ll drown. Right by my own car. In a puddle.

  He found the Ark's wheel with his hand. Huge tread. Clung to it like a tick. Heaved himself up, spitting out dirty water. Stood up. He was wet from head to toe. Water had poured down the collar of his waders. The cold became absolute, piercing. But he didn't let go of the jerrycan. It floated nearby, red and cheerful against the grayness.

  “Alive,” Dmitry rasped, spitting. “Alive, bitch!”

  He grabbed the can and, abandoning caution, barged through the mud to the generator service hatch. Anger gave him strength. Anger at himself, at the swamp, at this whole world.

  Reaching the hatch, he lifted the can to chest level with shaking hands and set it on the compartment floor. He hauled himself up, flopping over the edge like a beached seal. Climbed inside. It was dry here, but just as cold.

  Dmitry tore off the wet waders and jacket, remaining in thermal underwear that was also wet in places. He was shaking violently. His teeth chattered so hard he feared biting his tongue.

  “N-n-now... N-now we get warm...”

  He opened the can. The smell of gasoline. Sharp, chemical, acrid. In the city, he would have wrinkled his nose. Here, this smell seemed like the finest French perfume. It was the smell of civilization. The smell of energy. The smell of life.

  He splashed gas into the tiny tank of the pony motor, spilling half—his hands were shaking. Screwed the cap on. Pressed the primer bulb three times. Grabbed the pull cord handle.

  “Come on... Let’s go!”

  Yank. The little motor sneezed.

  “Again!”

  Yank. Drrr-nn-nn-nn!

  The small two-stroke engine came alive! It rattled loudly and cheerfully, puffing out a cloud of blue smoke. Dmitry burst out laughing. It was the hysterical laughter of a man who just beat death at arm wrestling.

  He waited a couple of seconds for the starter motor to rev up, then engaged the clutch lever. The howl of the spinning flywheel filled the air. The main diesel, huge and cold, reluctantly began to turn over. Woo-oo-oo... Woo-oo-oo... The pony motor strained, whining on a high note. Woo-oo-oo... Chug... BAM!

  The diesel caught. Black smoke shot from the exhaust. The massive unit shuddered, barked a bass note, and settled into a steady, powerful purr: R-R-R-R-R-R.

  The green light on the generator panel burned steady. "220V. 50Hz".

  Inside the Ark, lights flared. First emergency, then main. Hydraulic pumps hummed. Climate control came alive, starting to blow warm air. Dmitry slid down the wall to the floor, right next to the roaring diesel. He didn't give a damn about the noise. This noise was the best music in the world. He sat in a puddle of his own water and gasoline, dirty, wet, with an aching back, but he was smiling.

  The machine was alive. And that meant he was alive too.

  ?? SYSTEM ALERT: SUPPLY DROP

  Chapter 2 is ALREADY FINISHED and fully uploaded!

  10,000+ words (8 episodes) ahead of the public release right now!

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