The house filled with a chemical cloud that made Arkady’s eyes tear. Flames ran down the blood grooves of the floor. His chest stung, though he didn’t feel particularly hurt. Borya’s first kick had folded his knees in a new way and his legs were numb. He dragged himself over the floor to retrieve his jacket and Borya’s gun, a little TK pistol that was empty. He crawled to the door, pulled himself up so that he could exit erect, staggered out and leaned as stiff as a ladder against the wall until sensation returned.

Except for the glow from the butchering house and the headlights of the car, the yard was black. The surface of the lime pit seemed to seethe, but it could have been an effect of raindrops. There was no sign of Max, not even smoke.

The Mercedes switched to high beams and Arkady’s shadow jumped the pit. He stepped back and started to slide, so he stood his ground and fired the Nagant’s last shot, though his eyes were so overloaded he could barely see his hand, much less the car. The lights swung to the side, raced across the yard and onto the road that led through the pens toward the village. Taillights danced from rail to rail until they disappeared.

More on one foot than two, Arkady made it to the step of the truck. His knees still felt rearranged. When he opened his shirt, he could see that his stomach was pocked by cement, no worse than bird shot. He wished he had a cigarette.

He buttoned his shirt and pulled on his jacket, then removed the ignition keys from the truck and locked its back doors. Hobbling to the bunker, he closed it against the rain.

In the last glimmer from the fire, Arkady staggered across the yard to the Zhiguli. The car had the gaping windows and crumpled fender of an abandoned wreck. Max had a head start. On the other hand, the Zhiguli was made for Russian roads.

The radio picked up nothing. He might have been traveling cross-country in Antarctica.

He would have seen more in Antarctica. Snow reflected light, potato fields absorbed it. Man didn’t have to search for black holes in the universe when there were potato fields.

By the time he was on the highway, his leg had stiffened so much from Borya’s kick that he no longer knew whether he had the clutch in or out.

The Ring Road was a starry line of lamps. Above the city, tracers dotted the sky. He tried the radio again. Tchaikovsky, of course. And a warning that a curfew was in effect. Arkady turned the radio off. The air rushing through the broken windows made him feel as if he were reentering earth.