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  Seeing as I had exhausted all possibilities, I hung up the phone and headed for the kitchen - I needed to make sure that I had enough food.

  Luckily, I had picked up some groceries the day before - not a lot, but better than nothing. Perishable foods would have to go first - that included things like eggs, bread, and milk. After that, if I was still locked up, I'd have to switch to potatoes and rice.

  While in the kitchen, I searched through my bottom drawers until I found what I was looking for. A hatchet for meat. It wasn't very big and impressive and remembering the postman's final hours I doubted it would help me against the beast lurking outside. But feeling it rest in my hand, feeling the weight of its steel and carefully thumbing its blade, I felt a bit calmer. The hatchet was not for self-defense as much as it was for making me feel in control.

  I thought about doing a quick check online - perhaps I'd see something on the news that would shed some light on what was going on? But when I turned on my old PC, I immediately noticed that there was no Wi-Fi signal. Restarting the router did nothing - just like the landline, the internet didn't work.

  Which meant that my only contact with the outside world was my radio. At that moment, I thought that I was probably the only person in the entire town who had that kind of power.

  Seeing as there was nothing else I could do, I went toward the guest room, where my radio was. Perhaps I'd be able to filter some news out of the radio noise.

  The radio wasn't playing "Swan Lake" anymore - the transmission was over, and not even the usual song of the cricket was there - for the first time in many years. The unusual silence made me a bit anxious: I could understand the internet and the landline not working, but if even the numbering station went silent, then things really were serious. I checked the frequency to see if perhaps I had changed it before leaving, but it was correct.

  "The Cricket" was dead. It had outlived its usefulness and was now abandoned. The object of my infatuation, the thing that I had been stalking for the past year, was now gone, and I had little doubt that it wouldn't return.

  At least I was there during its final moment. Held its hand and recorded its will as it was sending out its final message to the world.

  Of course, there were other numbering stations across Russia, but "The Cricket" was not only the closest one - it held a special place in my heart. It was the station that my grandpa used to introduce me to what became my hobby, and in doing so unveiled the mysterious world of cryptography, with its rich history, with stories from war times which could easily rival the epicness of any Ian Fleming novel, and, of course, with the numbering stations. The mysterious metal monoliths that were erected long before I was even born.

  Numbering stations first appeared after WW2, and they are still used to this day. Their main purpose was to transmit encrypted data. Since there is no real way to "hide" radio transmissions the military decided that it was more practical to encrypt the message instead. And so, throughout the state, numerous stations sprang up, filling the broadcast with noises.

  Normal people - pretty much anyone with a radio - could still listen to the numbering stations. It wasn't even prosecuted - the military was confident in their encryption abilities. Most of the time the stations were idly transmitting some dedicated sound - like the squeaking of a wheel or water dripping. And only sometimes, their monotone sound would break up for the actual transmission. It wasn't anything like in the movie, no convoluted coded phrases. More like a string of numbers and letters.

  A completely dry, boring, and uncrackable code. Yet still, there were those who were intrigued by it.

  Which was how the entire new hobby emerged. "Radio stalking." Something my grandpa had gotten me into. The hobby of patiently waiting for your game. Waiting for months for an opening that lasts only 30 seconds - and if you were lucky to score, to write it down, you can try to dissect it. Break its code if your mind is sharp enough to crack its purposefully uncrackable shell of encryption and feast on the secrets the mortals like you were not supposed to know. Eat the fruit of knowledge and get away with it.

  Which was what I had been doing for the past year with my crude tools. An old radio and a notebook.

  Many radio stalkers would scoff at me for being so backward, and some would tell me that digital radio, which could automatically record the message which could then be further analyzed on the PC, would be better and easier to use. In a way, I agreed with them - in the same way, smokers agree with non-smokers that their habit is deadly. But for me, it wasn't about the efficiency. It was about nostalgia. It was about being authentic, keeping it real.

  For my humble needs, the machine did the trick. Yes, it was way past its prime, and yet just like in the old times, it could pick up the transmissions all the way from the other side of the globe. Grandpa said that in his youth, before he got into radio stalking, he was using it to get some help from Louis Armstrong to give his dates some class.

  I sat down in front of the table and opened my logbook. The string of code, written in my shaky hand diagonally across the page, was staring at me. Teasing me with its secrets.

  Without the encryption key, special equipment, and internet access I wouldn't be able to crack the code, I knew it. I could only dream of learning about what was hidden behind the encryption wall.

  But even though its contents would forever remain a mystery, there were a few things I could piece together. First of all, the fact that the numbering station went silent after the transmission was leading me to think that the station had served its purpose - whatever that was. Second, I was confident that the transmission taking place some ten minutes before the sirens went off was not a coincidence. Perhaps it was even meant to alert the military higher-ups to sound the alarm, as well as everyone else beyond the town's borders.

  Which, in turn, could mean only one thing: whatever had transpired that morning, the military was expecting it. Expecting it for decades, perhaps even since the town's inception… or perhaps, considering that the town's purpose was an enigma, even since before that.

  The only mystery that I had absolutely no clue for was the identity and, even above that, the reasons of the unknown welder who had sealed us in. What could possibly drive someone to do such a thing, and why did it happen on the same day as two of the most important events in the town's history? Was he trying to protect us from the dangers outside or condemn us to a horrible hungry death? Did he know something about what was going to happen as well?

  I saw no other explanation, and the fact that he held a secret I couldn't crack was driving me crazy.

  I knew only one thing: he was probably still with us. There was no reason to weld the doors shut from within if he didn't intend to stay. Even if he planned to get out of the building after doing his deed, it would be more practical to seal the door from the outside. One of the nineteen other apartments was holding the answer to my questions - or at least some of them. I just needed to find out which door to knock on.

  "Well, eighteen other apartments" - I thought, remembering my neighbors from the fifth floor. They definitely weren't the ones behind it - I simply knew them too well to know that for a fact.

  And if I found him, if I learned why he did it, then… Perhaps I would get an insight into what was going on around us. It wasn't like it was some important information, but...

  I looked at the radio, which was quietly buzzing with white noise next to me. "The Cricket" was still dead.

  My previous hobby which I poured a year of effort into turned up to be a dead-end, so it wasn't like I had anything better to do anyway to spare some time.

  The pensioners outside got quieter: the original shock of being stranded had passed, and their voices got a bit calmer. They seemed to be discussing something with each other.

  It was no use staying alone, I decided. I got up and headed for the door outside.

  It was time to pay a visit to Nikita and Natasha.

  CHAPTER 4 - Means of Escape

  As I left my apartment an
old man charged past me. He threw me an annoyed glance before proceeding downstairs. I shook my shoulders and headed upwards.

  Almost all of the doors were open, and the tenants were outside their apartments, discussing the events. Every now and then someone would hurriedly leave their apartment to immediately enter the next one, where their voice would join the others that were already arguing about something in the kitchen.

  Even though all means of communication were down the news about our situation was spreading fast, through the old-fashioned, sometimes unreliable but always inextinguishable method - the word of mouth. The old people were reliable gossipers, so in the twenty minutes, I'd spent inside my apartment they had alerted everyone in the building on every little detail they knew - and, as I was sure, a dozen details they had made up.

  As I was passing the talking crowd, I slowed down to catch their conversation. Perhaps they'd learned something new about our situation.

  "The phones are down" - the old man conspiratorially whispered, looking around. His hands were trembling to the beat of agitation in his voice. I noted a faint smell of alcohol coming from him. When his gaze passed through me I pretended I didn't even see him. I didn't want to make him think I was eavesdropping.

  "I tried calling my brother who lives out of town but there was no connection" - he continued after a small pause. "I called the police but those shmucks are of no use. They just asked me what I'd seen and then told me to await rescue. Now they're not even picking up the phone."

  "They must be already out of town by now" - the other man said with authority, rubbing his beard.

  "I tell you, the police are not what they used to be when I was young. They only care about meeting the quota now, that's all - and they can't even do that. They don't care about people" - the first man said.

  I remembered that the outdated practice of setting a quota of solved cases for the police was established back in the USSR, and to that day there was a rare chance of "winning a lottery" - by being blamed for a crime you haven't committed. But I decided to keep my thoughts to myself.

  "Well, maybe it's not their job at this point" - the woman in her fifties defended them. "If the air horn sirens are being used it's not the police's job to protect the people anymore - it's up to the army then."

  "Army isn't what it used to be, either" - the trembling man argued.

  "Why did they sign the sirens, by the way?" - the second man wondered aloud.

  "Isn't it obvious?" - the first man seemed to have all the answers. "The Americans must've attacked our town because of the strategic importance it holds! That thing outside that ate the postman - it was their mountain lion, I'll tell you that."

  "Don't give me that" - the bearded man made a face like he ate something sour. "Our town used to be deemed important" - he reminded everyone present.

  "Don't you think that what happens now could be because of…?" - the woman started before the man glared at her to shut up. When she raised an eyebrow in surprise he nodded at me. Immediately the three of them turned to me. The trembling man crossed his arms and puffed out his chest in a weak attempt at displaying strength.

  "What apartment are you from?" - he inquired with suspicion.

  I sighed and proceeded upstairs. It was clear that they wouldn't share their theories with me - no matter how outlandish they were, and I wasn't in the mood for another interrogation.

  "Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!" - I heard the man shout at me, but he didn't follow me: his indignation could only push him so far.

  I reached the fifth, final floor. Since there wasn’t another flight of stairs leading upward, space there was less cramped. But there was still an opportunity to ascend – if you had the desire and the bravery to do so: going above the railings there was a metal ladder, leading to the hatch in the ceiling – an entrance to the roof. The ladder looked old and rickety, and for some reason the architects decided to put the hatch not near the wall but right above the stairwell, scaling it would require some serious bravery.

  There was no one at the stairwell, but two doors were open, and I could hear the sound of a heated discussion coming from within. The tenants, usually secretive and protective of their property, must've decided that at that point the door would only serve as an obstacle on their way down, where they could pick up some new rumors.

  The door I needed was the one on the right - it was the apartment where my only friends in the entire building, Nikita and Natasha, lived. A boyfriend and a girlfriend, both of them were around my age, and we'd spent a lot of hours playing board games or simply talking. In the situation I was facing, it was the best course of action to stick to my people. Climb up to the highest point of elevation and regroup with my tribe - which technically was exactly what I was doing.

  I walked up to their door and rang the bell.

  No one opened. I rang the bell again and again. Were they even home? Was I all alone, left to my own devices?

  After two more minutes, I heard the sound of someone's feet lazily shuffling against the carpet, and I breathed out in relief. Somebody was home, after all. I wasn't alone.

  Immediately I felt a poke of guilt that I was hoping some other familiar face was stranded in there with me, but when the door opened I forgot all about that.

  It was Natasha who opened the door. She was wearing her improvised pajamas - an oversized t-shirt and a pair of boxers that looked male - and her hair was an unkempt mess. She could barely keep her eyes open and was stretching and yawning all the time.

  "Were you sleeping?" - I wondered, genuinely surprised. I knew she and Nikita were sleepyheads, but I was surprised that they managed to sleep through even the literal end of the world.

  "I went to bed very late today" - she explained.

  "And you…didn't hear anything?" - I carefully asked her.

  "Earplugs" - she explained, patting her left earlobe. I saw an orange piece of foam still sticking out of her ear above it. "I barely heard you ringing. Was it you earlier? I thought I heard someone ring the doorbell but I'm not sure if it was a dream or something."

  "No" - I said. Her words confirmed my earlier suspicions about her: it seemed that not even the end of the world could wake her up.

  "I see" - she yawned and stretched, lifting herself on her toes. A little bit more and I'd expect her to take off and float to the ceiling. "So why the early visit?" - she wondered, rubbing her eyes. "I thought you had work today."

  I sighed and bit my lip. There she was, so carefree and chipper, so refreshed despite not having enough sleep. Probably the last blip of happiness on our town's misery radar. There was just no right way to break such news to her. I didn't have it in me to pull her out of her blissful ignorance.

  But before I said anything, I realized that something was wrong. We were standing at her door for a full minute…Yet still, there were only two of us.

  No one else joined us, no one else came out of the apartment to see what the early visit was about.

  "Where's Nikita?" - I wondered.

  "I don't know, what hour is it?" - she asked me.

  "It's about nine in the morning, give or take" - I quickly said, wanting to get back to the topic. "So where is he? Is he inside?"

  "He stayed at his friend's place. He'll come back later today. We wanted to go to the park to feed the ducks one last time before they left" - she explained, rubbing her eyes.

  "You mean he's not here?" - I asked, raising my hand to my mouth in shock. Terror spilled through my guts. It felt like I swallowed a cup of ice - everything went numb.

  "Yeah, but we agreed that he'd come to wake me up at noon" - she explained. "Why?" - she suddenly asked. It seemed that she finally recognized from my expression that something was wrong. "Did something happen?"

  ***

  Five minutes later, we were sitting in her kitchen - similar to mine, only you could tell that they took more care after it. No dirty plates in the kitchen sink, no towels clustered around. Everything was clean and tidy, and I
knew if I opened one of the shelves all the cutlery would be organized.

  "You can't be serious" - Natasha told me as she was holding the phone up to her ear. She was calling Nikita - again and again. The girl I saw five minutes ago was gone. That last blip of happiness I admired had gone silent.

  "The phones aren't working, give it a rest" - I told her. "And neither does the landline."

  "Damn it" - she whispered anxiously, carelessly throwing the phone onto the table. "Why would they do that? Don't they understand that people will want to know if their close ones are safe? What is it, 1986?" - she wondered aloud.

  She was biting her thumbnail as she started pacing back and forth across the room - similar to a tiger in a cage I once saw in a zoo. Her gaze, cute and sleepy just some minutes ago, now had a razor-sharp focus in it.

  "I'm not sure" - I answered her question. "Maybe they're trying to keep it all under the lid. Maybe they don't want the panic to spread."

  "So they're hiding something" - she said, nodding her head in agreement. "Right. What, like a catastrophe of some sort? Like Chernobyl? Like Kyshtym[5]?"

  I just shook my shoulders: "I don't know, but I doubt it's anything as dangerous as that. There are no nuclear stations or anything like that nearby."

  "Yura[6], you don't use the sirens to evacuate the city and you don't cut off all means of communications unless it's something VERY dangerous and they want people to shut up about it" - she argued. "This is bad. This is very, very bad. We need to get out of here!"

  "Natasha, I’ve told you already, haven’t I?" – I told her patiently. She was very worked up, and I didn’t want to argue with the last close person I had left. "There’s something outside, and-"

  "Something outside? Yura, do you hear yourself?" – she questioned me. "What can possibly be there that we have to stay inside? You make it sound like there’s some bigger-than-life monster out there!"

  "I don’t know what it is," – I explained to her patiently. "But let’s face the facts: it’s dangerous outside, there’s been a town-wide evacuation, and the doors are locked anyway. Why risk everything and go out there?"