— You think there’s going to be a grave, dreamer?
I opened my eyes. No, I flung them open, as wide as they’d go, and gasped.
Standing over me was the dapper gentleman from the carriage. I recognized the black tailcoat and the monocle instantly. The cane was gone. So were the snow-white gloves. The gentleman, focused, without once glancing my way, was filing the nails on his right hand.
— There won’t be a grave, — he informed me. — No one to dig it. Nobody bothers with corpses out here. So it’s you, yourself, all by yourself…
At the word “corpse,” my shock gave way to confusion:
— And who are you?
— A horse in a coat, — the gentleman smirked. — A local, like you are now.
— What kind of place is this?
The gentleman didn’t answer. He inspected his manicure, tossed the nail file aside. Then he turned his gaze on me, scanning me up and down.
– Height one seventy-five, forty-eight, feet forty-two, – the gentleman concluded with striking precision. He turned and walked off sideways and up the slope of the dune. He walked evenly, springily, without effort. His feet did not sink into the sand.
I shouted:
— Wait!
I wanted to find out what this place was, where to go, and why he’d been announcing my measurements.
A pile of questions pressed down on the crown of my head from inside, demanding answers. The gentleman, without stopping, without turning around — just walking, walking, and — hop! — tossed a grenade my way. A khaki-colored metal cylinder, the size of a faceted drinking glass, thudded down in front of my nose. I squeezed my eyes shut.
I screwed my eyes shut. I remembered my life and grew upset – nothing worthy of a dying man’s memories! A kilo of caramels for a birthday at kindergarten and a first slow dance with Lena… or Tanya? Damn! «Johnny, oh yeah» I remembered for life, but her name I can’t recall, though she was definitely the redhead from the eighth unit at Pioneer camp… And nothing else to remember, apart from the redhead and the caramels… A pity. A pity. A pity… Oh yeah...
I peeled my eyelids open. The fragmentation grenade lay ten centimeters in front of my face. Perfectly intact, smelling of grease. The steel ring – what the basic military training manuals call the pin – swung where it should.
The gentleman had vanished beyond the dune’s crest as if he’d never been there. He hadn’t even left footprints in the sand. I looked around. My own footprints were right where they should be. Strange.
And what was this?
A light hum, like a suite by Holst, arose and faded.
I remembered my childhood, the music school where I’d tooted away on the French horn, and the graduation concert. That had thundered! But here? Where was this whispering coming from?
I looked around for the source of the sound and slapped my palm against my thigh. Damn it!
I was in the hollow between two dunes and could see nothing but pink slopes. And the hum, breaking through the hallucinations, was growing louder. Becoming clearer, more distinct, and… and… and turning into the genuine roar of an engine. It was a vehicle’s motor, heading toward the carriage. I heard shouts: Over here! Over here! We’re here!
Damn it all! Real, waking help was on the way!
I forgot about the native in the tailcoat, waved a hand in his direction and, so the movement would not go to waste, picked the grenade up off the sand. I’m no grenadier, but let it be, it’ll come in handy.
Stumbling, slipping, and falling, grenade in hand, I slid back down and clambered back toward the carriage.
I couldn’t imagine a more hellish task. My feet sank into the shifting mush. The slope kept crumbling away. After ten steps — won through desperate effort! — I’d gained maybe a meter. I panted. I wept. I was losing my mind, cursing everything under creation, but I kept crawling. In the end, I got what I wanted.
Utterly spent, having cursed everything and everyone, thoroughly wrung out, I found myself at the summit and saw the thing I’d wanted, the thing I’d dreamed of, the thing I’d prayed for.
It was a tank.
