we’re talking about physical health, that’s probably true. But during that walk home my mental health deteriorated significantly. The city was gripped by some kind of commotion. People where hurrying here and there, almost running. There’s something disturbing about a high-end SUV crammed to the gills with all sorts of household junk, and I saw several cars like that. Before my eyes, cars were hurriedly being loaded up with anything at hand. Thank god nobody was carrying pot plants or washing machines, else one might have thought a war had suddenly started, and everyone was rushing to evacuate the city. A stupid idea, where are you going to run to? There’s nowhere missiles can’t reach.
Anyway, here’s my house. It’s a modern building, but not too tall. Just six floors. They say it was some kind of cutting-edge project. There must be some reason I pay Tarbank all that money every month! The lift was working, so I got to the third floor no problem. I opened my front door, flopped onto the couch, and barked “I want a film!” My home electronics responded appropriately – I am a coder, after all. Something clicked in the system, and the TV came on. So, what’s been going on? My home system’s smart, high-end. It’ll give me the latest news straight away. And it did.
For a while I sat in a stupor, grinning dumbly for some reason. Although there was really absolutely nothing to smile about. My brain stubbornly refused to put two and two together. It just didn’t want to soberly process what I had seen.
It turns out that all that time we were sitting in the office performing the inventory, terrible things were happening in the city. For some reason, all the different law enforcement agencies were up in arms, coming down hard on the management of different companies and plants. We, by which I mean our holding, were far from being an exception, by the way. A huge number of the top managers of various firms “unexpectedly” went on the run – thankfully for them the current border is no Iron Curtain. Then hot on their heels everyone else started running, like they were all suffering from some colossal communal hangover.
It was one thing for the bosses. There’s always something to grab them for. Modern business… well, you know what it’s like. Not always easily differentiated from certain crimes. Tax evasion in particular. That there’s a real mess. No wonder everyone jokes that it’s safer to kill someone than not pay your taxes. After all, murder actually has to be proved, while the taxman can just go ahead and freeze your accounts without any evidence whatsoever – go and prove you’re innocent! So yes, I understand the bosses. Who’d want to swap their cosy bed for a bunk in a Pre-trial Detention Center? That’s what they call the county jail these days, isn’t it? Or is that somewhere else?
But the rest of them – where were they off to? If you’re an accountant, fair enough. You’ll be first to do time after the managers. But if you’re the average engineer or programmer, then what the hell are you running for? The police will mess around for a week or two, make a great show of locking someone up. What’s the problem? They’re not going to put everyone away, are they?
It seems not everyone shared my optimism. The same news report informed me that it had all ended up in sporadic shootouts. It came as a nasty shock. I had no idea that losing your shit was such an infectious condition. That was when the ordinary folk started running. Gunshots outside your window tend to ruin a good night’s sleep. They left in all sorts of ways – in their own cars on the highway, on ships out of the port, and there were even some special evacuation buses.
And so it had gone on up to the present day. The authorities, as always, were making announcements to calm the people. But from what was going on outside, it didn’t seem like anyone was listening.
Basically, it was all some kind of bad joke. The café had closed down. Or opened up, depending how you looked at it. Remembering the guys, we saw hanging round there, I doubt very much they had anything to do with the staff. They’d mentioned on the television that that sort had started looting cafés and shops in these troubled times. Sounds about right
Hang about… What do I have in the way of food? An inspection of cupboards and the fridge brought little joy. A few instant soups, various grains (about three kilos altogether), a few tins, and couple of bottles of whiskey. That was the lot. I would normally get my meals delivered, and what I kept was only for snacks. A few attempts to order dinner ended up much as expected – nobody was taking calls. Something’s very wrong with the network. Grabbing a big bag, I head for the shop.
Well, aren’t I the clever one? The first shop I came to greeted me with locked doors and heavily shuttered windows. Never mind, there’s more than one shop. Ah, hell – the second one’s also closed. As I approach the third, I hear some kind of noise and shouting. I turn the corner.
Ba-bam! Here we go then! I drop to the ground (as they always tell you to on TV) and take a look around – what’s going on here?
Nothing good, that’s for sure. Out of the smashed shop window, two tough-looking guys in camouflage are dragging somebody’s cold dead body. Clearly, it’s a corpse, just look at the blood dripping on the tarmac. And those guys are definitely law enforcement. Look at the assault rifles, the identical camouflage, and the walkie-talkies. Time to move, I’d say.
“Stand where you are!”
Now, there’s an interesting question. If you’re trying to crawl away, how best to respond to that kind of order? Just in case, I decide to freeze on the spot and refrain from asking. Who knows if they share my sophisticated sense of humour?
I hear their footsteps approaching. They kick me in the side, but not hard.
“Get up and keep your hands where I can see them.”
I show them my open palms (and who’d have thought, they’re barely shaking), trying to move calmly.
“What’s in the bag?”
“It’s empty. I was going shopping. For food.”
They tug the bag from my shoulder and turn it inside out.
“Show us some ID.”
“I’ve only got my work pass with me.”
“Let’s see it.”
I pull the pass in its plastic cover out of my pocket.
“So… Karasev, Denis Viktorovich?”
“That’s me.”
“The photo looks like you. Where do you live?”
“Larch Alley, 5. Flat 15. On the third floor.”
My interrogator turns to his comrades, who have now finished searching the corpse and are slowly moving towards us.
“Hey, Commander! This guy’s a local. Lives near here. He came out to do some shopping, would you believe?”
“Are you shitting me or what?”
They surround me, go through my bag again, and pat down my pockets.
“Absolutely empty! Where do these morons come from?”
“Why, what’s happened?” I ask carefully.
“How did you get to be so naive?”
“We had a work crisis… Didn’t leave our desks for nearly a week. We even slept there.”
One of the new arrivals, judging by the attitude of the others towards him the commander himself, laughs.
“All
