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Artwork: 20 Derelict Cthuloids by Will Jacques

Safe Haven
Denis Bushlatov

'Semantics' was the key word in that early morning vertigo. Every word, even the simplest, irritated him, seemed fostered and even alien.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he stared at his reflection and tried to bring a hint of order to that chaos in his head.

‘It seems, I haven't woken up yet,’ he said to the mirror and shivered. Somehow, the words 'woken up' reminded him of a lump of naked infant rats, all of them thoroughly infected with bubonic plague.

‘Wo-ken-up,’ he repeated, and shivered again. ‘Av-de-yev woke-up.’ Even his own last name had some queasy undertones.

No, really, why Avdeyev? Why not Mamontov, Tirkas, or Kuchko? Why not Steinman, for goodness’ sake? It must mean something! After all, there is something behind all this.... He scratched his chin, noting that shaving would be a good idea.

‘Av-deyev. What a spineless and yet a creepy last name. Avdey. Augeas. King. Bling. Baguette. Cranberries.’ Totally confused, he shook his head, dried off quickly and left the bathroom.

Semantics still worried Avdeyev during breakfast and after, when he was getting ready for work. With a decadent astonishment he asked himself why trousers are called 'trousers' and not 'trouts', why jacket is called 'jacket' and not 'coverlet', and why does the word 'Copenhagen' come laden with such a blunt threat.

‘I'm going crazy,’ he whispered cautiously on his way to the parking lot. ‘I am losing it. Yet, it's undeniable. If you listen, really listen to the words, their loathsome artificiality becomes obvious. It is like a hatch over the abyss, one only has to lift it slightly and the abyss will reveal itself in all its monstrous beauty.’

It took a while to get the car started, much coughing and grumbling. Avdeyev repeatedly cranked the ignition key, trying hard not to think about the metaphysical repulsiveness of the word 'key'. Finally the engine revved up, belching a cloud of black smoke.

‘What the heck is going on,’ shrugged Avdeyev. ‘I have to get it over to a garage. But when? And why, exactly, “have to”? And for what? It drives fine. I can't do everything, damn it! I am not Shiva Maharaj!’ His last sentence was a bit loud and he immediately got scared that the parking attendants would think he was completely crazy.

He drove to the gray coloured, unbelievably filthy editorial facility in an awful mood. The revolution of words gave way to a black despair.

When he passed by the sleepy, semi-blind watchman, he didn’t call out his name, and with a mean pleasure watched how the old man bustled about in his glass kennel.

‘Let him guess who it was, let him suffer, just like me!’ Avdeyev smirked, but halfway up the staircase he felt ashamed.

The door of his tiny office was cracked opened. Judging by the sounds coming from the room, Scarabich, a small and inebriated proof-reader who shared the same office room with him, had already shown up. Avdeyev made a sour face. Rat-faced and alienating Scarabich irritated him beyond measure.

‘Would you look at that,’ he thought savagely, ‘every day, he drinks like a fish and is still alive. And he, probably, never has to worry about semantics or meanings. He is like a roach – everything is too good for him.’ Feeling how his hatred for Scarabich was becoming tangible, Avdeyev kicked the door and stomping loudly, like he owned the place, walked in.

Mikhael Nevadovich Scarabich was sitting at the table in his outrageously, unseasonably unbuttoned checkered shirt and was aggressively drinking his tea. Judging by the clinging smell he had already had a lot of cheap brandy.

He looked at the newcomer with expressionless fish eyes, hiccupped and returned to a frazzled manuscript that was lying in front of him on the table overflowing with paper. But soon he smirked in perplexion and went back to stare at Avdeyev.

‘So, Vladimir Stepanovich,’ he said, not without difficulty, ‘didn’t your mother teach you to knock on the toilet door before you enter?’ and hooted happily.

Avdeyev paused for a moment, visualizing how Scarabich would get buried and how, during the eulogy, his body would fall out for everyone to see. He liked that image, but the word 'eulogy' seemed disgustingly soft like an abscess. He winced, looked away and walked over to his table.

‘You didn’t answer me, Stepanovich, too bad,’ sarcastically remarked Scarabich. ‘Now I’ll subconsciously harbour evil. And one day I will devour you... maybe even today,’ he hooted happily looking at foggy-eyed Avdeyev. ‘Oh, and here is the thing, while you are digesting this, practically a confession about a kind of “you are dead!” interpretation in such a modern sense, in a manner of speaking, an implication forbearing your quick death…,’ he fell silent, having lost his train of thought, dimly looked at Avdeyev, frowned, tried to taste the tea, but scowled, set aside the cup, smacking his lips drearily and nastily. ‘Well then, Proskurnya was looking for you all morning. Seemed important.’

‘Tell me, Scarabich,’ muttered Avdeyev, ‘you are not a teenager any more. You graduated in philology with honours, you got through your master’s and even taught.., rumour has it anyway. Why are you such...?’

‘An asshole? Is that what you wanted to say, Stepanich?’ Scarabich slurped his tea and grimaced as if he’d got toothache. ‘Maybe it isn't me who is the asshole? Maybe the world around us is an asshole? Well, whatever! When you come back I will share something with you,’ he winked almost forwardly. ‘I have some leftover “Ararat”, so we can drown your grief. You see, I have to eat you later, so, you understand, at least drink some,’ and he burst into series of hooting sobs.

Avdeyev flipped him off and went out of the office.

Going up to see the chief editor, he tried to tune into his feelings. Words of his native language no longer appeared alien, anxiety had passed, and even Scarabich's idiotic remark seemed almost appropriate.

‘He really is an unlucky man,’ it occurred to Avdeyev, ‘no wife, no children… He returns, like, every evening to his bachelor pad and drinks, when he's got money. I should be nice to him sometimes.’

At the chief editor’s door, the only decent-looking door in the whole building, Avdeyev paused, straightened his jacket, wiped his sweaty palms over his trousers, coughed and knocked gently.

‘Come in!’ came a voice from behind the door.

Avdeyev came in and carefully closed the door. Suddenly a wave of weakness washed over him. All his morning suffering, despair, anxiety and unexplainable butterflies in the stomach came back at once. Looking up at the editorial desk, he was surprised to discover that it was empty. But who, pray tell, answered his call?

There was some groaning below and then Proskurnya's large head with gray wiry hair rose slowly over the desk. The chief editor was unshaven and wore a stubbornly dreary facial expression. Sitting up at the desk, he looked up at Avdeyev from under the frown, and grabbing a pen he began to scribble furiously.

‘Investors are coming tomorrow,’ he muttered suddenly, ‘but we have nothing. No-thing!’ He threw his pen aside and stared at Avdeyev. ‘No hotel, no banquet, no driver! The City Council is silent. City D-duma,’1 he chuckled contemptuously. ‘Duma is considering. There is only one state marine newspaper in the city and it's too cheap to shell out some shitty... five or eight hundred bucks.’

‘B-but they have to be here in two weeks...’ began Avdeyev, going cold inside.

Polish typographers Sanmar had been absolutely vital for Marine Messenger. Over the past two years, Proskurnya had been trying relentlessly to persuade his Polish colleagues to sponsor the publication of his book, How We Sold the Black Sea Fleet, in Russian and Polish. The chief editor had been strongly convinced that the publication of this monumental work wouldn’t only help to strengthen the shaky position of the newspaper, but also bring an awful amount of dividends. Being a man of action, he had involved several competent translators, who had promptly translated the unpublished book into both Polish and English – the chief editor believed that demand among politically conscious western readers was inevitable. Moreover, there had been a website dedicated to the book and Proskurnya had repeatedly mentioned it as a forthcoming sensation in an editorial column of the newspaper.

With considerable enthusiasm, he had been looking for sponsors, both amongst government institutions and representatives of marine business in the area. However, despite all his efforts and practically fanatical belief in the success of the manuscript, there hadn't been anyone willing to invest in the publication and its subsequent promotion on the international market. Foreign publishers had simply ignored the letters of the chief editor.

At first, Sanmar hadn't even considered cooperating, but little by little, the aggressive preaching of Proskurnya had convinced the board of directors to inspect the project in person.

After that, the madness of the chief editor had shifted into a manic phase. Over the next three days, he had walked the corridors visiting accountants and proofreaders, declaiming a great success. Collecting himself, he had called an assembly to put together a detailed plan for the meeting, including the selection of a hotel for distinguished guests, excursions and later entertainment.

‘Damn it!’ he had shrieked in the heat of the moment, ‘let’s get them whores!’ But soon, after learning the prices of the local love priestesses, he had dismissed that profound idea.

The meeting had been scheduled for the end of November. Proskurnya had appointed the ones responsible for a hotel, a restaurant, and even a rental car to pick up the distinguished guests from the airport, because the only company car, Volga2, had been in the shop for the third month in a row, and it was embarrassing to use Avdeyev’s Lada3 or the rusted out Moskowich4 belonging to the accountant Bubentsov.

Avdeyev had taken his assignment of choosing a hotel very seriously. He had conducted a survey among three and four-star hotels in the city, bearing in mind that prices should be reasonable and service respectable (‘Without these modern shenanigans!’ had hinted the chief editor mysteriously) and had put his attention on a few variants. Having submitted them for Proskurnya's approval, he had been very surprised when after a moment’s consideration the chief editor had rejected them all and had suggested to make reservations in a hotel with the insipid name 'Safe Haven', located on the coast.

‘My friends stayed there once,’ said the chief editor. ‘They were happy.’

A week from now, Avdeyev planned to go there personally, have a look around and book the rooms without further delay.

Proskurnya's declaration shocked him to the core.

‘Have to?’ bellowed the chief editor. ‘It's we who have to!’ he stared at Avdeyev and suddenly licked his lips. The flicker was so fast that Avdeyev doubted the reality of it.

‘Now, you listen to me. Now, I repeat, right now, drop everything and go to the “Safe Haven”. Run, if you have to. See how it is and book the rooms. Let them write us an invoice, we'll pay for everything. Call me back when you're done. If there are any problems... Oh, Vladimir Stepanovich, I hope there won’t be any problems. Ok, there and back in a flash.’

And again his fat purple tongue slipped between his lips. It seemed for a split moment that the tongue was forked. Avdeyev shuddered and pushed the delusion away.

‘Don't worry, Leonid Petrovich, I can do it. Everything will be hunky-dory,’ he smiled nervously.

Proskurnya stared at him like a bull.

‘Hunky-dory?’ he repeated, purpling slowly. ‘Hunky-dory??? If you do not call me back in a flippin' hour and say that everything is hunky-dory, I... I guarantee you, Avdeyev, I gua-ran-tee you, I...’, his face went beet-red, ‘Are you still here? Run!’

Avdeyev leapt out of the office and tore across the hall.

The hotel was located on the edge of the city. This inconvenience was well compensated by a panoramic view of the sea. At least that's how it was described on the website, and Avdeyev sincerely hoped it to be so.

After leaving the centre of the city, he turned left and drove for a while along Nikolskaya Street. In the heat of an election campaign, the mayor had remembered his duties and restored most of the main streets, as well as several branching ones. Nikolskaya Street was full of cosy three-storey governor's mansions intermingled with five-storey Stalinkas5. Sycamores grew by the side of the road, sprinkling it with colourful leaves. Rays of the autumn sun, gleaming through the clouds, painted the landscape in romantic and mystical colours.

Having gone along Nikolskaya Street, Avdeyev turned right, passed under the bridge and discovered a completely different part of the city. Neat Stalinkas made way for ugly concrete constructions. Seedy and seemingly uninhabited industrial buildings practically competed in ugliness. Occasional strollers plodded the dirty sidewalk and the wind swept dry leaves along deserted streets. Pavements had been shattered, upturned slabs and potholes were all over. Avdeyev reduced his speed and focused on the road.

Passing the bus stop, he saw a few sickly children standing around a burlap sack. Without slowing down, Avdeyev looked into the side-view mirror to see the children kicking the wriggling bag in turns. He even thought he heard a pig-like squeal.

The landscape grew more and more desolate. Single storey warehouses lined up along the road, strewn all over with industrial waste; most of the windows were broken, the walls were covered with graffiti. Occasional residential housing – two-storey lopsided coquina buildings – were staring at him with cavernous openings and looked uninhabited.

Rare passers-by shied away from Avdeyev's car and their presence felt awkward, as if this place wasn't fit for human habitation.

‘Damn it,’ grumbled Avdeyev and shivered, that's how alien his own voice seemed to him, ‘who would have thought that the road could be so terrible? Maybe I should tell them some jokes on the way? It’s a good thing that the hotel is at the seaside.’

He gripped the steering wheel tighter and pressed the gas pedal, changing into fourth gear. Deep in thought, he was moving too slow.

‘Strange that no one has honked yet,’ he thought, and suddenly noticed that there weren't any cars on the way. The district seemed paralyzed.

The street he was following ended in an abrupt T-intersection. Avdeyev groaned, turned on his emergency lights and stopped at the curb. Traffic lights blinked monotonous yellow. There was an open field, covered by dusty dry grass just beyond the crossroad. A smooth track ran on the left. Judging from the rusted out sign, it would take him back into the city. The road on the right-hand side was laid out with concrete slabs and some withered weeds growing in between. There was no sign there, but logic indicated that Avdeyev needed to turn right.

He shrugged, shifted into second gear and pulled away from the curb with the Lada's protesting screech. After about 150 metres, he saw a man standing by the road. Impulsively, Avdeyev drew up, leaned over to the passenger door and rolled down the window.

The man, standing sideways to him, did not budge. He was dressed in a faded sweater and a denim jacket and he was swaying in his wide stance, looking straight out in front. There was something unpleasant and unnatural about his pose.

‘Maybe I am losing it,’ shook Avdeyev. He smiled, as friendly as was humanly possible, and addressed the man.

‘Excuse me, sir. Can you help me?’ The man glanced at him and grinned, widely opening his mouth full of rotten, black, but surprisingly long and sharp teeth overlaying each other.

‘If you are looking for the sea,’ he buzzed, ‘then after five hundred metres turn right, then another kilometre straight ahead and you will see it.’

‘I’m looking for the “Safe Haven”,' said Avdeyev politely, trying not to notice man's hideous grin or his gnat's voice.

‘Oh, I see. There will be a sign – straight to the “Crave Graven”.’

‘Wh-what, sorry?’ Avdeyev's feet went cold.

‘I said, there will be a sign that will direct you to the “Safe Haven”,’ buzzed the stranger and, without a pause, walked away swinging his long arms.

Avdeyev leaned back in his seat. ‘He said... he said...,’ he repeated again and again.

‘He said nothing. You are hearing things, Vladimir. It is just a weird day today. Maybe, Vladimir, you should visit an endocrinologist?’ He laughed, but stopped short. In the pressing, hollow silence his own laughter sounded pathetic.

Having closed the window, he pulled away and a few metres down he passed the same stranger – he was standing by the side of the road and seemed a perfectly flat cut-out of a scarecrow. Avdeyev gave a short beep and pressed on the gas, trying to avoid looking in the rear-view mirror – it seemed like the stranger had two transparent wings flapping in the wind behind him.

He did as he was told, turned right when he reached the bend. The road was now going through land quite overgrown – at times there were some crooked hovels with boarded up windows. Naked trees lifted their broken branches in prayer to the hulking heavy sky. The roadside was coloured only with garbage. Surprisingly large and skinny dogs scoured the neighbourhood. At the bend, Avdeyev saw two fighting dogs – they braced each other with sinewy hands and...

He slammed the brakes so hard that his car began to drift. He looked back, but apart from the piles of garbage he didn't see anything. His body began to shake. After regaining control of his breathing, Avdeyev pulled down a sun visor and stared at his reflection, bulging his eyes.

‘You are going crazy,’ he whispered and winced – the word ‘crazy’ had a buzzing sound.

It was quite obvious that the only way the Poles would move willingly into the 'Safe Haven' was if they were passed out drunk. No matter what kind of a 'panoramic view of the sea' it had, the neighbourhood could only evoke abhorrence and fear.

Logically, he should have called Proskurnya to explain to him that 'Safe Haven' failed the inspection and he was off to find another hotel.

Is that so?’ squeaked someone in his head. ‘So, I am going to call Proskurnya and tell him everything? And what if all the other hotels are full? What if the other hotels are twice as expensive?’

‘Moreover,’ thought Avdeyev vindictively, ‘I gave him other options. It's his own fault.’

At the thought that the Poles would see dogs with human hands, and maybe something worse, he felt cold.

‘I’ll tell Proskurnya that I’m sick,’ it dawned on him, ‘I'll stay in bed for a week and come back when things sort themselves out.’

But something suggested to him that things would never sort themselves out right.

The Lada pulled stridently away. The road after the bend was well-kept, but the landscape remained dull and unattractive. Both sides were covered by a wasteland overgrown with dry weeds. Along the road lay empty bottles, decomposing tyres and heaps of construction rubble. There weren't any dogs around, but Avdeyev felt some movement on the left and right sides of the car.

There was a spacious asphalted platform to which the road led. Avdeyev stepped on the gas, overcoming a small rise, and drove onto it. He parked his Lada near an old Ford coated with mud and leaves, turned off the engine and got out of the car.

The platform was enclosed by a short decorative fence, just beyond which there was a cliff and further off, about fifty metres away, the sea swayed below.

In the distance of the horizon, where a few silhouettes of ships were barely visible on a waterway, an impending gray sky united with an enormous mass of water. Gray waves rolled over buoys to break over the groyne and, with new found strength, attacked the rocky shore. Cold black water foamed at the crests. The view was as breathtaking as it was alien. Black, unyielding, evil – the sea denied any human association with it. Even ships on the horizon seemed smelted out of water.

Avdeyev just stood there, breathing in the cool sea air. The silence on the platform was broken only by far cries of seagulls. Here, in a deserted parking lot, face to face with raging nature, he felt like the last of all living beings, like H. G. Wells’ time wanderer who had seen beyond the event horizon.

When human beings are going to disappear, when the last intelligent primate kicks the bucket, the world won't change one little bit. The great sea will still roll its waves, leaves will still fall in autumn, the sky will still cry with rain. Seagulls and corroded ships will remain in the harbour, the city will remain behind it and the road will still lead into the city.

Autumn will be followed by winter. Blizzards will come and snow will cover the peaceful ground.

Then spring will come. The world will wake up, and every drop of dew will sparkle like a rainbow, grass will grow green in the fields, and the first timid sprouts will burst through the cracks in the pavement.

We won’t be there to see it. But the world won’t care.

‘Well,’ he let it slip out, ‘whatever makes the Poles happy.’

He looked to the right and saw a bent road sign 'To Safe Haven'.

To crave graven.

Avdeyev grinned stupidly, inhaled deeply, got into his car and, having backed up, went in the direction of a five-storey building located nearby, on a hill.

Behind him, the Ford all caked with mud lowered itself onto two front wheels and crouched.

Avdeyev, however, did not see it.

He parked in a small parking lot in front of the main entrance, turned off the engine and got out of the car. Up close, the hotel did not present itself in any better way. Walls that were once grey, peeled, flaked and looked seedy. A murky hallway darkened behind wide open doors. The building seemed to be abandoned.

‘Damn it all to hell,’ thought Avdeyev. ‘Who are the Poles to me?’ He even reached for his mobile phone, but remembering Proskurnya's angry face, smiled nervously and walked up the grassy steps.

The dimly lit hall looked neglected. There was a thick layer of dust and leaves on the floor, as well as on a registration desk. Avdeyev saw two wicker chairs, which stood inappropriately in the middle of the hall, chuckled and turned to the desk. Having found no buttons, no bell, he knocked on a wooden dusty surface and coughed a bit. He walked down the hall studying the heavy, opaque, drawn curtains at the windows, then the low coffee table covered with yellowish newspapers, around which, in fact, the wicker chairs should have stood. One of the newspapers, covered with dark stains, drew his attention. He approached the table, picked up the newspaper and blew the dust off it. In mute amazement he stared at the title of a cover story:

‘Olium’s rats devour babies in their mothers' wombs!’ screamed bright huge letters, clearly visible on the dirty sheet of paper.

And below:

‘Bloodbath at the cemetery! Olium’s children are in danger!’

He brought the paper up close to his eyes and tried to make out the fine text.

‘Today, October 48, 1612, the Olium’s Sea Sentinel discovered uncountable hordes of rats marching up the main pier. Monsters were carrying banners of the province Dead Calm and possessed significant reserves of firearms. Many of them were under the influence of alcohol and shouted anti-monarchistic slogans. Our reporter...’ The following text was thickly covered with black paint so that only a few words peeked through. In utter disbelief, Avdeyev tried to turn the pages over, but only succeeded in tearing them lengthwise.

‘Bloody hell,’ he cursed and reached out for a glossy magazine, the cover of which displayed a picture of an unusually fat baby flanked by two men of regular proportions, each of whom seemed dwarfed by the baby. The magazine was called 'Mnemon of Olium', that's what it said on the cover, anyway.

Someone coughed softly behind him.

Avdeyev jerked, dropped the magazine and span around. There was no one behind him. However, a short, thick man with a large wen on his neck mysteriously materialized behind the reception desk. He looked arrogant and at the same time slightly bored.

‘Fooling around with magazines, are we?’ he said, as if had caught Avdeyev masturbating. ‘Would you like me to recommend something for you?’

‘Actually, I...’

‘For the Poles. Lodgings. Yes,’ said the man in a mechanical tone.

He walked out from behind the stand and offered Avdeyev his plump hand.

‘Lampreyin, Anton Pavlovich. Almost like Chekhov, but... you know... Lampreyin. Well, you understand.’

‘Avdeyev, Vladimir Stepanovich.’ In dismay, Avdeyev shook Lampreyin's outstretched hand, ‘But how did you...?’

‘It has already been done, Vladimir Stepanovich!’ Lampreyin began waving his hands. ‘Proskurnya sent for a reservation a week ago. A card payment! And how!’

‘Reservation?’ Avdeyev felt queasy for some reason, ‘Excuse me, but....’

‘That's what he said, our Proskurnya!’ interrupted Lampreyin, ‘a week past! By phone! If my colleague will have any questions – help him out with brandy! Show him the suites, inform him in detail and then he will report to me. That’s what he said!’

‘But then... I mean, I thought....’

‘Well, think about it, Vladimir Stepanovich. This will take twenty minutes tops. I’ve known your chief since we were schoolboys. I remember how we sneaked pancakes into gymnastics class, and our headmaster, who was very strict, but that's beside the point,’ Lampreyin slightly shook his head and dandruff snowed all over his shoulders. ‘In any case, your task won't really be bothersome. Look over the rooms, go down to the kitchen, taste our cooking and confirm that the level of service measures up to the expectations of your distinguished guests.’

‘I'll... just make a call...’ Avdeyev dug into his pocket, but as soon as he brought out the phone, Lampreyin leapt away from him by a good two metres and buzzed in monotone, ‘It's not how we do it here, we don't even get a signal, we’re used to doing it the old way!’

Avdeyev, feeling completely lost, still turned on the phone and, selecting the chief editor from his contacts', pressed the call button.

The phone was silent. There was neither the sound of a connection, nor a polite operator, nor short beeps. In the buzzing silence, Avdeyev thought he heard some creepy hissing on the other end.

He shrugged helplessly and put the phone back in his pocket. ‘You know what,’ he said carefully, ‘you should have a... uh, a land line....’ And for some reason he suddenly added, ‘I'll pay for the call.’

Lampreyin snickered unpleasantly, ‘It has been broken for about two months now. Don't even think about it. I can see that you are weary of travelling. Let me get you some brandy,’ and he winked rather lecherously, ‘and then perhaps life will shine in new colours!’

He took Avdeyev by the elbow and pulled him to a staircase.

‘Let me tell you what we are going to do,’ he chattered incessantly, ‘we are going to go up to the second floor, where you will inspect the lodgings. Then we will stroll down to the kitchen, where you can admire the skills of our cooks. Do not worry: a bit of this, a bit of that and, in the meanwhile, I will warm us some tumblers, slice a lemon... so we can, you know, like in old times!’

Avdeyev, stupefied, listened to Lampreyin’s blabbering, only partially catching the meaning of phrases. He couldn't help but feel surrounded by the surrealness of his circumstances. To top it all, there was some innate inaccuracy in Lampreyin’s words, a small detail that did not quite fit into the overall picture. He tried to focus on it, but to accomplish that he had to stop, and Lampreyin, clasping his hand, was not about to slow down.

‘Hold on!’ Avdeyev collected himself and pulled out his hand. ‘Listen to me!’

Lampreyin stopped and turned to Avdeyev with a look of a real astonishment and even a touch of sadness on his face. He raised one eyebrow, curved up his back imploringly and leaned his body towards Avdeyev.

‘I do not think that our guests will appreciate this... this place,’ muttered Avdeyev, trying to look just over and to the left of Lampreyin. ‘It is… in a sense, it is dusty and…. Oh, yes!’ he heard his own voice, as if from a distance, rising up to a shriek, ‘All these... magazines, what is that? What is that supposed to mean?’

Lampreyin took a few small chicken steps, quickly covering the distance between them and whispered hotly, ‘It's not important, Vladimir Stepanovich, don’t mind it. We will clean out everything, everything. And besides, your chief HIMSELF… PERSONALLY.... Just look at the rooms. The hall is nothing, we have mops, we can, you know, oh-so-much!’ He shook his clenched fists over his head and unexpectedly dropped down to his knees in front of Avdeyev.

‘I beg you!’ he wailed, clutching Avdeyev's legs. ‘I have children!’

Avdeyev moaned in confusion and tried to get away, but it was not meant to be. Lampreyin held on like a leech.

‘Don’t ruin me…,’ he whimpered quietly.

‘All right, get up… get up, damn it. It's all too much.’ Avdeyev fought an impulse to sit down and put his arm around Lampreyin's shoulder. ‘What the hell... I drove for a long time… Let’s go, I’ll take a look at your rooms…. Really, what nonsense.’

‘Exactly!’ Lampreyin leapt up onto his feet, dusted his wrinkled trousers and smiled broadly. ‘Right on the money, Vladimir Stepanovich! Our whole life is complete nonsense. All those magazines, forget about them... just an amateur craft workshop, psha!’ He gave a contemptuous wave in an indefinite direction and waddled up the stairs.

Avdeyev followed him. His eyes automatically noticed the abandoned nature of the whole flight of stairs, with unwashed steps, dirty cobwebs in the corners, peeling dirty pink paint on the walls.

‘What am I doing here?’ he asked himself. He was really bothered by the magazines on the table and that little inaccuracy in Lampreyin’s words which he sensed, but could not quite grasp.

‘It doesn't matter. Whatever! It makes things even more interesting.’

Finally, having decided to accept these events as a fun adventure, he felt considerable relief.

‘To the brim?’ he heard.

He stared at Lampreyin.

‘I say, do you want your brandy glass full to the brim?’

‘Well... No, nothing at all. I'm driving,’ Avdeyev forced the words out, glancing back.
.
Thinking about it, he did not notice how they got up to the second floor. The staircase led them up into the centre of a narrow dark hallway, on both sides of which there were numerous doors. There was an unmistakable smell of rotten meat.

‘Here we are! Please, follow me to the right,’ swayed Lampreyin, making inviting gestures.

Avdeyev followed him obediently, trying not to breathe. It seemed that the entire floor had died. In the echoing silence Avdeyev could hear his own heart beating and the noisy wheezing of Lampreyin.

‘You won’t regret it, Vladimir Stepanovich, believe me,’ continued the receptionist, ‘this hotel is like the 'Hilton'! Not just the 'Hilton', it is a notch above! Well, here we are!!’

They stopped in front of a narrow door, rolled roughly over with brown paint. Right in its centre the word 'Lux' was handwritten in black marker.

‘Luxation!’ shrieked Lampreyin. With a theatrical gesture, he fished out a heavy key from his back pocket and put it into the keyhole. The tight lock was creaking and had to be forced open. It was obvious the door hadn't been open for a long time.

‘We are going to heat up the sauna, of course. And why not, for the distinguished guests!’ rasped Lampreyin amiably, wrestling with a keyhole.

Finally, the door opened with infernal screeching. The stench of carrion rolled out of the suite.

Lampreyin, like a snake, darted into the doorway, fumbled in the darkness for a few seconds, clicked on a light switch and the room was instantly filled with a yellow light.

‘Ta-da!!!’ yelled Lampreyin. ‘Welcome to our humble abode, Vladimir Stepanovich!’

Avdeyev, in a state of deep shock, slowly, on rubber feet, walked into a small doorway, took a few more steps and found himself in the room, in the corner of which was a sofa with a caved-in back. Two torn tuffets were lying nearby. In the opposite corner, a huge black and white television was standing on a once-polished, wooden nightstand.

There, in the centre of the room was a large rectangular table on four long, thin legs. On the table was a bulging decanter, half full of greenish liquid. A turned-over glass was collecting dust near the decanter. There were also two chairs by the table, one tattered faux leather desk chair and a second wooden chair without any upholstery. A swear word in large letters was scratched into the back of the wooden one.

The wallpaper was coloured poison-yellow and ornamented with small pink flowers. The ceiling with rusty stains was scary to look at.

But the most shocking of all was a huge picture that was hanging to his left. On a fly-specked canvas was portrayed a naked and tortured old man, who was sitting on a chair. His right leg was tied to a leg of the chair, and he was stretching the left one outward, which was cut off at the knee. Around him, standing hand in hand, were obese and rosy-cheeked babies, each one twice the size of the old man.

The old man smiled affably.

Trying not to show his emotions, Avdeyev turned around and slowly walked out of the suite.

Cheerful Lampreyin was awaiting him in the hallway. Behind the receptionist, Avdeyev saw a large man with a fleshy, cruel face in a chef's hat.

‘So, what do you think?’ yelped Lampreyin. ‘First class? Just like in Paris?’

Avdeyev began moving backwards.

‘I have to say something,’ he thought feverishly, to put his mind at ease, ‘and then, get to the car, to the police, to the hospital, to the hell away from here!’

A phone rang somewhere far away.

And suddenly he got it. Before he had time to pull himself together, the words started flying right out of his mouth.

‘The phone!’ he gasped, backing away ever faster, ‘you said that it does not work.... A cell doesn’t receive any signal, right?’

Lampreyin and his sinister companion remained motionless. The distance between them and Avdeyev increased rapidly.

‘Of course, Vladimir Stepanovich, that's what I said,’ replied the receptionist condescendingly, ‘do my words give you any reason for doubt?’

‘Of course not,’ now he was almost running backwards, ‘but pray tell me, how could Proskurnya call you a week ago?’

Lampreyin shrugged, ‘That's true – how? The hell knows how! However, allow me to explain. You see, your chief editor is not Proskurnya, but Proshrgrnragrnya, and you ought to listen to the true semantics of the words, Vladimir Offeringovich!’ The receptionist stepped aside and his quiet companion rushed forward, moving with inhumanly fast leaps from shadow to shadow.

Avdeyev squealed, turned around and dashed for the stairs at full speed.

He almost made it when a huge paw grabbed him by the hair and tore him away from the ground, like a puppy.

‘Don't kill him, Alexey!’ he heard, writhing in the air.

With an internal grunt, the cook threw him headfirst against the wall.

Avdeyev heard a loud crack and then someone turned off the lights.

The realization of 'self' came out of the darkness. He existed. He breathed. He felt pain and fear. He heard a low growl of voices, reminiscent of distant thunder, of ringing, metallic clanging, crunching. He was impaired, but still felt his body – crippled, broken and wet. He was naked.

He was dying.

Avdeyev tried to move his arms, but they seemed to be glued to the surface. The effort caused a severe pain in the forearms. He screamed but nothing escaped his throat, just a hoarse croak. Losing all control, he thrashed like he was possessed, he felt his torso lift off the rough and wet surface, but his arms still stayed in the same place.

‘They tied me down’ was his first flash of conscious thought, ‘Lampreyin... and that cook-thing. They tied me down, beat me and... And what?’

Sounds around him harmonized into a hubbub of joyous voices, laughter, clinking of wine glasses and what sounded like a clatter of forks on plates. He tried to open his eyelids. They opened up with difficulty, as if glued together, and then immediately closed his eyes from the glare. He lay some more and slowly opened his eyes to stare in horror and disbelief at what was only a few metres away from him.

Only after a while he realized that abhorring entwinement of claws and tentacles was a lamp, cleverly made of metallic constructions.

He was looking at the low stone ceiling at the centre of which was a blinding, profane chandelier.

Avdeyev instinctively tried to cover his eyes and again failed to lift his arms up.

He turned his head slowly.

And then he saw them.

He was lying on a long wooden table, stretched out along the boards.

The monsters stood right above him. Much taller than human beings, fat, slick, anthropomorphic creatures that looked like gigantic babies. Their toothy smiles were so wide that it seemed their faces were cut in half. They were drooling.

There were some people next to them. In the bright light of the horrible chandelier, Avdeyev recognized Lampreyin and the man with the buzzing mouth that he met on the way, and the gorilla-like cook, who was standing in a corner, holding a cleaver. And a bit further…. No, it was a mistake, it couldn't be!

But it could. And it wasn't. Standing to the left of the creatures was the chief editor of Marine Messenger, in a full suit and tie, arms akimbo, Leonid Petrovich Proskurnya.

Looking out from behind his back was Mikhael Nevadovich Scarabich, a proofreader and a cannibal.

Avdeyev felt that he was losing consciousness. Moaning, he lunged again, screaming in pain, and, looking down, he saw himself.

They had undressed him and nailed him to the table with large bolts.

‘Would you look at that, our Offeringovich is awake!’ squeaked Lampreyin, bowing subserviently. ‘All ready for our Distinguished Guests!’

‘Oh, goody, goody...’ rasped one of the creatures. It licked its lips, revealing a fat rotten tongue, and stared at Avdeyev with dull fish eyes.

‘Did he... come himssself?’ rustled the second monster.

‘Sure... I mean, yes he did,’ quickly reported Lampreyin. ‘We only showed him the way, the direction if you will, but he inspected the room by himself, and was presented to the likeness of the Young Ones. Just like he was supposed to,’ he wiped his forehead.

‘I would like to add,’ peeped Scarabich jumping with anticipation, ‘that our Food has graduated with two diplomas, PhD in Philology, and is my friend!’ he sobbed theatrically and wiped his nose. Proskurnya shushed him and Scarabich stared at the floor.

‘Comrades!’ the chief editor saluted with his right hand, ‘on this glorious day, on behalf of the Zealots of True Faith Consortium, as well as the editorial board of the Marine Messenger, I would like to express my deepest gratitude to our friends, patrons and sponsors from the great empire of Rats, thank them for their tolerance of our mistakes, patience and infinite kindness, generosity and understanding. We, Olium’s children, vermin at the feet of the Abiding, your slaves and followers, we praise you!’ he fell onto his knees in front of the monsters.

‘Welcome to our table, gentlemen, bon appétit,’ Lampreyin curved up his back imploringly.

‘Wait a minute!’ someone squealed belatedly in Avdeyev's head, ‘But the Poles... Devil take the Poles!!! And Black Sea Fleet!! They will slaughter me like a sheep!’ he whimpered and arched his whole body, but all in vain. It was already over.

‘GOOOOD!!! VERY GOOOOD!!!’ roared the first monster. He snorted and with one unnatural movement wormed over to the table. He reached out his fat arms, gripped Avdeyev's left hand and with a tremendous force he ripped the tendons with a sickening crunch. Then he opened his huge black mouth, sent this terrible trophy into the nauseating darkness and began chewing it with gusto, loudly crunching the bones.

Avdeyev felt an unbearable, animal pain. He opened his mouth to scream, but at that time the second monster slithered himself beside him, took him by the jaw and twisted it off with a strip of his neck-skin.

‘In the name of the brotherly cooperation between the underground city of Olium and the Lords of Rats!’ roared the creature, waving the jaw.

‘And the eternal prosperity of our nations!’ replied Proskurnya in sync.

The black world, bleak and dismal, was fading into the bloody mist around Avdeyev. He was cold but he perceived that cold indirectly, much like pain. As if all of this wasn’t really happening to him and concerned him very little. He knew that in a moment he’d be dead, bleed out before those abominable creatures would devour his body, but it didn’t seem important to him now.

Waves of death were gently rocking him. He shuddered only once. He sobbed.

And let go, lulled by the waters of the quiet safe haven.

Notes
1. The City Administration in Ukraine.

2. Old Soviet car.

3. Old Soviet car.

4. Old Soviet car.

5. Project apartments built during the reign of Stalin.


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