wasn’t locked. There was no chain shutting her in. No iron balls chained to her legs. This freedom pissed her off too. Obviously they didn’t take her seriously. But what was she supposed to do? Break out?
Fucking pain in the ass.
She went down to the first floor. She had more or less gotten a handle on the layout of the building. The others were probably pretty similar. They looked like dorms, capable of housing dozens at once. Dorms for stupid fucks who spent their days doing nothing but exercise. Her instincts weren’t far off. She wasn’t entirely right, but she wasn’t far off. The Dead Town had been created in the 1950s, and until 1991 it had been known by a number. It was one of many such towns whose presence was never marked on any map. One of any number of such spaces that served as bases or military cities. Not only were people outside the party and the military rarely allowed into these areas, but also ordinary people—ordinary Soviets—didn’t even know they existed. That held even for the residents of nearby cities. They were kept secret, and they stayed that way for almost forty years.
Until they lost their strategic value and were abandoned.
The girl was living in the barracks.
The old man who had kidnapped her had always known about this Dead Town. This town whose location, even now, was not marked on maps.
The old man lived in the Dead Town with the girl. It wasn’t clear whether or not he lived in the same building, but they often sat down together to eat. Perhaps once a week, he came to her room with a video camera. He filmed her. The tape would be used, no doubt, as proof that the hostage was alive and well. This was part of the extortion. Every time the old man turned the camera on the girl, she would spit out, “Hurry up and fucking save me, old man.” “What the fuck’s taking so long, you senile dick.” “So you gotta give ’em a million. I’m worth it, right? Fucking rob the bank if you have to. You’re a yakuza, right?”
Fucking asshole, fucking around like this. Save your princess.
At the end, after the old man had finished his filming, he always talked to her. For instance, he might say: Japanese “soldiers” are killing Russians, everyone is talking about it.
In Russian, of course.
Seems like your dad really loves you, he says.
Whatever…there’s more money in it if you stay here.
The filming took place once a week or so, probably. She wasn’t exactly counting the days. She never thought she’d be here this long. So after her fourth or fifth day as a hostage, she stopped paying attention—who cared whether it was the fourth or fifth, or even the third day, it didn’t fucking matter. Later on, she came to find this infuriating. Because she had no way of knowing when her birthday came. She was pretty sure she must be twelve by now, but maybe not. She probably wasn’t eleven anymore, but maybe she was. Or maybe…she was neither?
Maybe…maybe she was caught in between? In a hole without age, without time?
Some things she could count. The old man sat at the same table with her for roughly two out of every three meals. And not just him. There were others living in this Dead Town too, and most of the time they came for the meals. First there was the old lady who worked in the kitchen. She was a grandmotherly type with broad shoulders, big ass, thick glasses. She made all three meals and looked after the girl’s needs. Then there were two middle-aged women with almost identical faces, most likely the old lady’s daughters. And then there was a middle-aged guy, probably the old lady’s son, whose head was completely bald. None of these four seemed to be related to the old man. Not by blood anyway. Neither did the old lady and the old man appear to be married.
Still, here in the Dead Town, they sat down to take their meals together. Not just them, but the girl too. She was just old enough to be the old man’s granddaughter, except that she wasn’t related to him. She didn’t even belong to the same race.
Still, the pseudo family ate together. All six. All the time.
Ukha, smoked salmon, borscht, some kind of boiled dumpling things.
Sour bread.
Pickled mushrooms, again and again. Always these fucking pickles.
The girl glared across the table at the four or