Potboiler

As he waded along, he glanced back at the ruined reactor. Cylindrical, flared at the top and bottom, the building looked like some overblown dessert sauced with lime coulis. A jagged crack ran up its side. It was identical to other nuclear reactors he had seen pictures of, only far smaller. The smallest in the world, he thought, remembering Zhulk’s obituary.

He reached the fence in thirty minutes. The goo had thinned enough that he could feel solid earth. He walked parallel to the fence for another twenty minutes and came to an abandoned checkpoint, the barrier arm replaced by a chain welded to the bent fencepost. He ducked underneath and was free.

Just off the dirt driveway was a three-sided wooden shower stall, like those at the beach for washing off sand. A sign read . Decontamination station. He looked down at an ordinary garden hose connected to a pipe rising from the ground. He rinsed the goo off, unzipped the suit, and stepped out of it carefully, leaving it puddled in the stall. He hurried down the driveway to the main road. He walked for a while—he wanted to put some distance between him and the reactor—then stopped and scanned in all directions. He saw dewy moonlit fields. All was quiet, not even a bleat. He took out the cell phone. He was getting one bar, barely. He moved around until it fixed. He closed his eyes and pictured the card. He opened his eyes and dialed.

“Tha,” Fyothor said.

“It’s me,” Pfefferkorn said.

There was a scratchy silence.

“Where are you?” Fyothor said.

“About five or six kilometers outside the city, I think.”

“Has anyone seen you?”

“No.”

“You are alone?”

“Yes.”

Pfefferkorn heard the phone’s mouthpiece muffled. Fyothor spoke to someone. The reply was inaudible. Fyothor came back on. He recited an address.

“It is near the waterfront district.”

“I’ll find it.”

“Come quickly,” Fyothor said and hung up.

Pfefferkorn took a good look at the stars. He might never see them again. In a world where nobody could be trusted, he had just committed a fatal error. He refused to live in that world. He put the phone back in his pocket and walked on.

101.

Fyothor lived on the eleventh floor of a hideous concrete-block tower. The elevator was out of service. The stairwell was slick with urine and sown with condom wrappers. Pfefferkorn’s legs were still sore from climbing out of the reactor and the long hike back to town. He relied heavily on the handrail.

Fyothor had told him to head straight to the end of the corridor. It was a sensible instruction, because most of the apartments were missing numbers. The prevailing hush amplified his knock. The door opened a crack. A hairy arm beckoned him in.

Pfefferkorn stepped into the entry hall. A sack-eyed Fyothor stood re-cinching his bathrobe. Through a doorless frame was the kitchen: a closet with a hotplate and a hand sink. A wooden drying rack nailed to the wall held four plastic plates. There was no refrigerator. It didn’t look like enough for a family to get by on. Down the hall was a darkened room.

“After you,” Fyothor said.

Pfefferkorn groped his way forward. His nose picked up a briny, masculine smell. He could hardly see. The room’s shades were drawn against the moonlight. He stopped short. Fyothor bumped into him from behind. He reached past Pfefferkorn and switched on the light.

Pfefferkorn cringed at the bright blast. Then his eyes opened and he was disappointed to learn that he indeed lived in a world where nobody could be trusted. The person waiting for them was not Fyothor’s wife. If Fyothor even had a wife. And if Fyothor was even his real name. The person waiting for them was six-foot-five. He—for it was a he, very much so—was muscular and mean-looking, with a jet-black goatee and tattoos on his hands and neck. He wore a leather motorcycle jacket and black leather boots, and he was making a growly noise not unlike a garbage disposal. Pfefferkorn sank to his knees, gasping for breath. Nobody had hit him yet, but his mind seemed to know what was coming, and it was determined not to be awake when it came.

102.

“Ahn dbhiguyietzha.”

“Dyiuzhtbhithelnyuio?”

“P’myemyiu.”

“Friend. Friend. Are you all right? Can you hear me?”

Pfefferkorn opened his eyes. Fyothor and the man in the motorcycle jacket were standing over him, fretting. Contrary to expectation, he was not back in his cell, but the selfsame living room, laid out on a mushy sofa. He tried to sit up. They restrained him gently.

“Please, friend, rest. You had a bad fall. You went down like a sack of root vegetables. We thought you had a heart attack.”

Down the hall a kettle whistled. The man in the motorcycle jacket growled and left.

Pfefferkorn palpated himself. He was not tied up, and aside from a sore head, he did not seem to be injured.