Genesis. Volume 2

October 31, 1986. London. The Iron Whale Hostel. Evening. The hostel smelled of iodine and burnt meat. The smell had soaked into the curtains, the blankets, their hair—sticky, medicinal, with a metallic undertone that wouldn't air out no matter how many windows you opened. Jenny sat in the kitchen, rewrapping her palms with fresh bandages. The old ones were soaked through—blood, her own and others', had blended into a single dark stain, almost black at the edges. She tossed them into the trash, and they landed with a wet slap. She looked at her hands. The skin on her fingers was peeling, as if she'd been in water too long. Or in blood. Between her thumb and index finger, a crack—shallow, but stinging, and the iodine had seeped in, leaving a yellow stain. "You need to eat," Claire said. She'd come an hour ago, bringing food from the takeout place—chips, cold ham sandwiches, tea in a thermos. The bag was wet with condensation, a greasy stain spreading on its side. One of the others had told her over the phone. Or she'd figured it out herself. Claire always figured things out—from a voice, a pause, the way someone breathed into the receiver. "I don't want to," Jenny replied. "I know. But you have to." "In a minute." Claire set a plate in front of her. The chips were already cold, the butter congealed into white waxy patches. Jenny picked up her fork, raised it to her mouth. She couldn't taste anything—only texture, soft and crumbly. Chewed, swallowed. Repeated. The food dropped inside her like into a pit, leaving no trace. "Where's Emma?" Claire asked. "In her room. Liam's with her." "Is she..." "Alive. Sleeping." Claire nodded. She didn't ask about the others—just poured herself some tea and sat across from Jenny, placing her hands flat on the table. She waited for Jenny to finish eating. She knew how to wait. Emma's room was dark. The curtains were drawn, the light off—only a streetlamp seeped through a gap, leaving a yellow strip across the floor, bisecting the linoleum. Dust motes spun in that strip—slowly, almost motionless. Liam sat on a chair pulled close to the bed. He held her hand. Not squeezing—just holding, feeling the pulse under his thumb—rapid, but steady. Emma breathed evenly. Not deeply, but evenly. Her cheeks were pale, dark circles under her eyes—bluish, almost purple, like old bruises. Her lips were cracked, dried blood on the lower one. A bandage wrapped her left shoulder. White, clean, with neat knots. Sasha had done it. Sasha knew how—the bandage was tight, without wrinkles or pinching. "Are you asleep?" Liam asked. She didn't answer. Her lashes fluttered, but her eyes didn't open. "I know you're not." "How?" Her voice was hoarse, as if she hadn't spoken in days. The words scraped her throat. "Your fingers are moving." Emma looked at her hand. Her right one—the one he held. Her fingers were indeed moving—faintly, barely perceptibly, like insect legs. She hadn't noticed. "You're lying," she said. "A little." She tried to sit up. Her abdominal muscles tensed, her shoulder answered with pain—and her body refused to obey. Liam helped—propped a pillow behind her back, then a second, adjusted the blanket so it wouldn't slip. "Lie down." "I am lying." "Lie still." "You're not my mother." "Thanks for the reminder." She smiled. The corner of her mouth twitched—and froze, because even smiling hurt. "How are the others?" she asked. "Alive." "Jack?" "Jack... doesn't remember. He's forgotten names. But he recognizes faces." "That's something." "That's all there is." Emma closed her eyes. Her eyelids were heavy, as if weights had been sewn to them. Liam didn't take his hand away. His palm was warm and dry, and she could feel every line on it, every bump. "You were supposed to die," she said. "I'm aware." "I saw it. In the ritual. Several times. Different each time. Knife. Car. Fall. Blood." She listed them calmly, like a shopping list, and that calmness was unsettling. "You died, and I stood there and couldn't move." "That wasn't me." "I know. But it felt real." She opened her eyes. "There was a smell. Your blood smelled real. Your scream sounded real. I couldn't tell the difference." "Now I'm here. Real." "Prove it." He leaned in and kissed her forehead. His lips were dry, warm, slightly rough. He lingered a second longer than necessary—just so she could feel the warmth. "Enough?" "Almost." "Then sleep." She closed her eyes. She didn't pull her hand away. A minute later, her fingers tightened slightly around his palm—weakly, but consciously. In the common room—which they'd turned into a headquarters, shoving furniture against the walls—Arthur sat on the couch, gripping the iron coin in his hand. The symbol. The seal. Part of the system. He'd been staring at it for half an hour. The metal had warmed in his fingers, grown almost hot. The lines on the coin intertwined, and if you stared too long, they seemed to move. "If you keep staring like that, you'll burn a hole in the table," Max said, entering. The door creaked. He stepped over the threshold and stopped, hands in his pockets. "It won't." "What does it do?" "It holds." "Holds what?" "I don't know." Max sat across from him. A mug of cold tea sat on the table—Arthur had brewed it an hour ago and forgotten it. Max picked it up, took a sip, grimaced. The tea wasn't just cold—it was nothing, water with a hint of bitterness. "Cold." "I'll make a new one." "Don't bother." They were silent. The room was quiet—only the clock ticking on the wall, old, its face chipped, and somewhere outside a car passed, the engine sound slowly dissolving into the silence. "Arthur," Max said. "Yeah?" "In the tunnel. When Kane offered you your father's face." "I remember." "You hesitated for three seconds." Arthur looked up. He met Max's gaze. Not with anger, not with weariness—just looked. His eyes were direct, unguarded. "You counted?" "I counted. One-two-three. Like in boxing. A hit and you're still on your feet, but you've already let one through." "Why?" "So I'd know." Arthur set the coin down. It clinked softly on the table, rolled in a circle before lying flat. "I don't know what you want to hear," he said. "The truth." "The truth is I was ready to sell you all out. For my father. For his face. For the way he smiled." Arthur spoke evenly, but the words came out heavy, as if each weighed more than it should. "For three seconds, I chose. And I chose him. Not you." "But you said no." "Because I realized I wouldn't make it in time. That Kane would cheat. That the price would be higher." He unclenched his fist, looked at the lines on his palm. "Not because I'm a hero." Max was silent. He looked at his own hands. At the fresh cuts—three of them, running across his palm. At his scraped knuckles. At his nails, chewed to the quick, with hangnails he'd torn off with his teeth while waiting for dawn. "I know," he said. "And how do you feel?" "Angry." "At me?" "At myself." Arthur frowned. The coin still lay on the table, the lamplight reflecting off it in a yellow dot. "Why?" "Because I wasn't surprised. When you hesitated, I thought: 'Of course. He's a son. Of course he'll choose his father.'" Max spoke quickly, as if the words were burning his tongue. "It's not anger at you. It's anger at myself for allowing it. As an option. As something that could happen." "It is an option," Arthur said. "And it always will be. You should know that. If it comes down to a choice between my father and you..." He faltered. Swallowed. "I don't know what I'll choose." "Honest." "Pointless to lie." Max nodded. He picked up the mug, took another sip of cold tea, set it back down. Then he asked: "Do you want to stay leader?" "I don't know." Arthur looked at his hands. They lay on the table, palms down, fingers trembling slightly—not from cold, from exhaustion. "I'm tired. Not physically—inside. Like someone wound me up and forgot to put me back. Like someone pulled out the spring." "That's called depression." "That's called war." They fell silent again. The clock ticked, counting seconds that were in no hurry. "I don't want to be leader," Arthur said. "But I don't know who else would be. You? You're angry. Emma? She's injured. Jenny? She's still afraid of mirrors. Lisa? She's sixteen, and her arm is broken. She draws left-handed and pretends it's normal." "Sixteen is a normal age for war," Max said. "None of us are older." "That's why I stay. Not because I'm the best. Because there's no other candidate." "That's not an answer." "There's no other." Max stood. The chair scraped against the linoleum. He walked to the window. Looked out at the street—dark, wet, with sparse streetlights burning every other one. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, the sound muffled, as if from underwater. "I'll watch your back," he said without turning. "Not because I trust you. Because I trust myself. I'll keep an eye out. And if you start choosing again—I'll say something." "Thank you," Arthur said. "Don't mention it." He left. The door closed with a soft click. Arthur was alone. He stared at the iron coin. At the symbol he didn't understand. At the door behind which his friends slept—wounded, broken, alive. Breathing from behind the wall—someone tossing in their sleep, someone coughing, someone falling silent. "Watch your back," he repeated to himself. "That's all I can give." He put the coin back in his pocket. The metal was warm. In the hallway, Max ran into Jack. He was standing against the wall, his back to the wallpaper, staring at the ceiling. Or through it. The wallpaper was old, pale green with tiny flowers, and at shoulder height, a dark stain spread—dampness, or someone's long-ago handprint. Jack was barefoot, his toes curling slightly from the cold linoleum. "Can't sleep?" Max asked. "Can't." "You'll get used to it." "To what?" "Not sleeping." Jack turned his head. The movement was slow, like underwater. His eyes—gray, almost white, like old denim—looked at Max without recognition. But not hostile. More questioning. "You're Max," he said. "Lisa told me." "Yeah." "You gave me a knife. At the hostel. I was checking the balance." He raised his left hand, bent his fingers, as if weighing an invisible object. "You were standing by the window, and I was sitting on the bed. The knife was heavy, with a black handle. I said the balance was good. You said—'use it.'" "You remember?" "I don't remember. But my fingers remember." He raised his left hand, looked at it—at the lines on his palm, the scraped knuckle, the scar by his thumb. His right hung limp. "Weird," he said. "When there's no memory, only reflexes remain. The body is smarter than the head." "Or dumber," Max said. "Depends on how you look at it." Jack didn't answer. He just stood by the wall, breathing, staring into nowhere. His chest rose and fell—evenly, calmly, like a man who'd forgotten what hurry meant. Max wanted to say something more. He couldn't find the words. He walked down the hall, his footsteps too loud in the sleeping hostel's silence. The kitchen light was on. Lisa sat at the table, drawing with her left hand. Not circles—just lines. Jagged, nervous, like an electrocardiogram. The pencil scratched across the paper, occasionally breaking, leaving a torn mark, and she rubbed it out with her finger. "Why aren't you asleep?" Max asked, stopping in the doorway. "What about you?" "I asked first." "Don't want to." She didn't look up. The pencil kept moving. "Every time I close my eyes, I see it." "See what?" "Kane. Crumbling. The gray dust coming out of him. Spinning and not falling. Jack falling." She stopped the pencil. "He's alive, I know. But in my head, he's still falling. Over and over. I can't stop the image." Max sat across from her. He picked up her pencil—simple, yellow, its tip chewed—turned it in his fingers, set it back down. "You're a good artist," he said. "I was a good artist. With my right hand." She looked at the cast. "This one." "You can draw with your left too." "I can. But it's not the same. It's like speaking a foreign language. The words are right, but the accent gives it away." She drew another line. "I see the picture in my head, but my hand does something else. Slightly different. And that 'slightly' is the most important part." "No one listens to the accent. They look at the drawing." Lisa looked up at him. Her eyes had the same shadows as everyone else's—bluish, deep. "You're being philosophical today." "I'm tired today." "It's the same thing." She put the pencil back in the jar. Closed the sketchbook—the cover was stained, covered in pencil dust, smudged with fingerprints. She stood. "Go to sleep, Max." "What about you?" "I'll sit a while. Check on Emma." "She's asleep." "Then I'll check on Jack." She stood and left. Her footsteps were quiet—she'd long since learned to walk silently. Max was alone in the kitchen. He looked at the cold tea, the empty mugs—three of them, each with different chips—at the dirty plate with leftover chips and congealed butter. "I'll watch your back," he repeated to himself. "That's what I said." He stood, turned off the light. The kitchen went dark, only a yellow strip of light seeping in from the hallway. In the dark, he found his way to his room—his fingers remembered the turn of the handle, the creak of the floorboard, the edge of the bed. He lay down without undressing. The springs sagged under his weight. He closed his eyes. Behind his lids—gray powder. Kane crumbling into pieces, like an old fresco. And Arthur, choosing for three seconds. "Three seconds is a long time," Max thought. "That's a whole lifetime." He fell asleep toward dawn, dreaming of nothing at all.