Andriy Karamazov

“Vladimir Petrovich from apartment 3 used to work there” – Dima rushed across the street to a three-story building with the crumbling beige plaster. The downpour turned the old flower bed in front of it into a pool of mud. Dima hunched under the white wall of water. His wet feet felt cold. – “The door is blocked. Let me try that cellar window. I’ll wait inside till the storm is over.”

He landed in a dirty puddle of water among the piles of old paper and broken shelves. Dima squatted, raised his Kalashnikov and surveyed the room. “Smells like the time stopped here before I was even born” – he covered his nose for a second, then sneezed. It came unnaturally loud but the sound died quickly. Dima moved to the left of the door frame, checked his life detector. Listened. Then he pulled out a phone, turned on the camera and stuck it slowly out into the hallway. 

“Clear.”

The broken floor tiles creaked under his feet in the hallway. Some walls were crumbling. Tracing the right wall, he moved into the next room. A half-broken office table laid in the middle, the shelves had collapsed into piles of splintered wood, torn yellow paper covered the floor like a thick carpet… The faded wallpapers showed the signs of wear in places where the chairs used to touch them. Dima took one stripe on the wall and peeled it off together with the plaster. Parts of old concrete fell on the floor. 

“Quiet, you dumbass.” 

He pulled one of the remaining drawers closer and sat down on it. A supermarket receipt from eighteen years ago – all faded but still flat – slipped out of it: “Vodka Stolichnaya, svinnaya salami, sir, seledka…”  

“Maybe this room was his office” – the thought entertained Dima. He shifted his gaze to a demolished card index wardrobe in front of him. 

Outside, the downpour slammed against the matte window glass. The rattle of the shower muffled all other sounds. Dima returned to the hallway and set up a tripwire with an RGD-5 grenade. Back in the room, he took off his backpack and leaned against the wall, laying the Kalashnikov across his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment. The building was still; the hiss of the rain – hypnotizing. Dima felt his limbs getting heavier, his right hand slipped down from the hip. 

“Stay alert!”

He moved closer to the card index wardrobe and rummaged inside. The cards carried names on them and were sorted out alphabetically. Some stuck together. Some fell apart. The records’ edges under several letters showed more signs of wear than the others. Dima pulled out a black and white 5 x 8 cm photo from behind the letter G. It had wavy edges and a yellow stain. Its upper left corner had a thick bent. A young woman in a light summer dress with butterfly motifs smiled at Dima, her right hand gently touching her cheek. 

He paused. Outside, the shower still battered the building. Inside, it was calm as a coffin. Dima recalled home. Then he turned his attention back to the cards and searched for Vladimir Petrovich. Nothing. He skipped through the entire letter – nothing for the entire family. Dima stopped. Keeping one of his hands on the row of cards, he looked sideways. Then his gaze fell on the drawer with his last name letter on it. Dima hesitated for a moment, then pulled. 

“What is all of this?”

It was getting dark outside. He found a half-burnt candle in his backpack and lit it. The warm light flickered. The dancing shadows on the peeling wallpapers reminded Dima of the evenings without electricity in his childhood. “Back then it was fun…” He looked around. The corners of the room drowned in darkness. Dima moved closer to the candle and fished out a card with his name on it.

Dmitriy Novikov, bo… 12.03.2002. Bas…ard. Address… Political sta…ing: threa… Edu..tion: middle scho…; Average … The … measures: observa…on.

Dima gasped for air and crumpled the card in his fist. He spun around to the room exit and aimed his Kalashnikov in the darkness of the hallway. Carefully placing his feet between the rubble, he moved to the door. Listened. Then peered out. His pulse ran amok. 

“What am I doing?” – he lowered the weapon and returned to his drawer on the floor. The card with his name on it lay crumpled in a ball amid the trash. Dima stopped breathing and looked around again. Then picked up his card and shoved it in the pocket of his suit. He sat and reached out to the drawer again, but froze half way. Something tightened in his chest, then dropped. Dima touched the card of his mother and pulled it out of the paper stack from the second attempt. He raised it to the candlelight: 

Irina Nov…ova, born 27…1980. Singl… Ad…ress… …tical standing: enemy. Educ…: middle school; low average…  The … mea…res: Elimin…te. 

At the top of the card somebody wrote “Whore” with a ball pen. The stone in Dima’s chest grew, his breath got heavy. He glanced over the card again, jumped up and kicked the wardrobe. The wooden box slammed against the wall and fell apart in a cloud of dust. The index cards scattered all over the floor. Dima squeezed his eyelids and stretched out his arms sideways as if trying to hold the walls from moving on him. He screamed, then swung his Kalashnikov, spun around and pulled the trigger. He kept pressing it even after the magazine got empty, then sank to his knees. His breathing grew faster. Dima wrinkled his nose – the stagnant air made him shudder. He bent over and vomited.