Goshka fell asleep on the tram and refused to wake up when we reached our stop. Marina had to carry him as she squeezed through the crowd on the packed tram toward the exit. I struggled to keep up, wrangling my bag and a pair of suitcases. The other passengers glanced at us with mistrust and apprehension because we looked too much like refugees. Refugees always tended to irritate the locals, especially those who had no place to escape to themselves …

The tram moved on, leaving us in the middle of an unlit street. I’d never been to this neighborhood before, didn’t even know a place like this existed in Novosibirsk. An endless concrete fence stretched behind us. Ahead loomed a massive dark hill.

“It’s over there.” I pointed toward the top of the hill, barely visible against the night sky.

“Oh.” Marina held Goshka tighter. “Are you sure?”

I shrugged. I didn’t recall the last time I’d been sure of anything.

“Where’s the building?” asked Marina.

“Can’t see it from down here. They’re under a blackout, I guess.”

“Then how are we going to get there?”

I picked up the suitcases. “Let’s go. We’ll figure it out.”

A well-trodden series of rotting wooden steps led toward the top. The staircase twisted, stitching the hill with gently sloping steps, making the ascent easier but much longer. It sapped all our strength. Marina was afraid to wait at the bottom with Goshka while I pulled the suitcases up the hill and came back for them. Too many stories circulated in the city about these kinds of outskirt neighborhoods at night. I couldn’t wait to reach the damn building myself. If it turned out I’d screwed up, that this was the wrong hill and there was no building here at all, we’d probably both break into tears.

But the building was there. A gray, unremarkable nine-story structure with a lobby and metal bars over its windows. Back in the days of Khrushchev’s massive housing projects, these tall apartment buildings were called “candles.” There were several cars parked in the lot in front of the building. Damn! How did I not realize there was a paved road leading up to this building? We’d climbed in the dark like a bunch of idiots. Then again, the road was probably farther away on the other side of the hill, and we weren’t likely to flag a car.

The armored entrance was equipped with a security eyehole and an intercom housed in a metal box. I put the suitcases down and dialed the apartment number. For a long time, nothing happened. Goshka whimpered in his sleep. He was probably cold.

“Hush, little one. We’ll put you to bed soon,” Marina whispered.

But what if they don’t let us in, I wondered. What then? Might as well tighten the noose around our own necks …

There was a loud click, and I rejoiced. I grabbed the cold metal handle. The door gave only after I put some weight into it. The stale, warm air in the lobby smelled of cats.

“Everyone inside,” I ordered cheerfully.

So far, everything was going well. The lobby was covered in graffiti, simple messages scrawled across the dirty walls. Someone plus Someone Else equals a heart skewered by an arrow. Fatty is a dumbass. And, of course, the ubiquitous Death to the Aliens. Familiar sentiments one might see in any apartment building. There was no security guard, no doorman.

I set the suitcases down again, this time in front of the elevator. After lugging them around all day, my back was aching in protest. The charred, formless stub that remained of the call button was also a familiar sight. I mashed it in and leaned toward the door. There was a sound, but I couldn’t tell if it came from water pipes, the wind in the shaft, or if the cabin was on its way down.

“The elevator is out of order.”

I turned. A thick man lazily descended the staircase. He wore a sweatsuit and slippers with no socks. He took bites of a large lard sandwich and chewed as indolently as he walked. His disheveled hair was streaked with gray, and stubble covered his meaty face. A bandage covered one of his eyes. Everything about this character made him seem sketchy.

I picked up the suitcases—yet again—and headed toward the staircase.

He blocked my way. “Who are you here to see?”

“Friends,” I said.

“Which apartment?” His lips glistened with lard. A thick slab of it on a large piece of bread drew the eye and smelled sharply of garlic. It seemed indecent, somehow, given the rationing.

“What’s it to you?” I asked.

“I’m the building manager,” he said, and waved the sandwich as though it were some sort of proof. “We don’t let strangers loiter here, given the times. You know how it is these days; you have to keep an eye on everything.” He adjusted his bandage. “Where do your friends live?”

“Apartment seventeen,” I said reluctantly. I really didn’t want to discuss the matter with him.

The building manager grinned. “Why didn’t you say so? ‘Friends,’ he says! Are you here to emigrate?”

I shuddered. His reaction both scared and pleased me. It rekindled my hope. “Is that really here?” I asked.

The building manager didn’t reply. He took a bite of his sandwich and eyed our luggage.

“Who sent you?”

“Sorry.” Marina took several nervous steps toward us. “We promised not to say. We swore. We can’t betray our friends’ confidence.”

The building manager stared her up and down with his clingy, blue-gray eye. “I take it your friends didn’t warn you?”

“Warn us about what?”

He nodded toward the suitcases. “Warn you that you can’t bring anything with you.”

“What?”

“Everyone thinks only of themselves. There are so many people who want to get out,” he lectured as he wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “But the ship doesn’t stretch!” He pulled the lid of the garbage chute open and threw what was left of his sandwich into the darkness. “Follow me.”

He pulled a keyring from the depths of his sweatpants and opened the rusty metal door under the staircase, revealing unlit stairs.

“The suitcases go into the basement,” declared the building manager. “The light switch is on the left. Don’t forget to turn it off after you’re done, then go to apartment two and get in line for your documents.”

“Is the line long?” asked Marina.

“It’s different for everyone. Some people are going on two weeks.”

We exchanged glances.

“We have a small child,” said Marina. “He’s already been crying …”

“Look, miss,” the building manager said, shaking his head. “We have grown men crying like babies here. No one wants to stay and face certain death … What’s happening in the city?”

“Same old,” I said. “Everyone’s waiting.”

“Won’t be long,” he said. “We already lost Barnaul.”

“We surrendered Cherepanovo overnight as well,” I said.

“Oh, my …” The building manager glanced at his watch. “Hurry up and drop off your stuff. I have to go!”

I hurried down the stairs and shoved our belongings indiscriminately into some corner. When I returned, the building manager was waiting, fidgeting with his keys.

“Good. Now head to apartment two. There’s a list.”

“We were told to go to apartment seventeen,” I pointed out timidly.

“Who knows anymore?” the building manager mumbled. “There are so few spaces! Too many people will screw up the ship.”

“What kind of a ship is it?” asked Marina. “Where is it? How do we get there?”

The building manager, who was already ascending the stairs, turned. “You keep asking those kinds of questions, miss, you might end up outside. Good luck getting out then, on your own power.”

Apartment two turned out to be a large hall made of several apartments. The walls had been demolished, the baths and toilets removed, the plumbing pipes cut and sealed. There wasn’t any furniture, not even a stool, let alone couches or beds. Despite its size, the apartment was crowded: a teeming mass of people sat or laid on the floor, walked around stepping over the others, drank water straight from the single faucet protruding from the wall of what used to be a kitchen. Someone scribbled on a sheet of paper placed on a windowsill. Children blubbered and cried. Goshka woke up and began crying also. The air smelled rancid and stale.

“My God,” Marina whispered.

“Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

I pushed my way toward the lists hanging on one of the walls. A dozen people milled around them. One was crossing things out and scribbling with a ballpoint pen.

“Add us in,” I ordered. “The Petrekhov family. Three seats.”

The man holding the pen sized me up. “Did you pass the interview?”

“With the building manager? Yeah.”

“Fuck’s sake,” the man said calmly. “Who cares about the building manager? Did they take you into the dark room yet?”

Er … Do you mean the basement?” I asked. “We’ve been there.”

The man was visibly losing interest in me. “Sit down and wait for your interview.” He waved in no particular direction.

“How will they know to call us?” I asked. “You didn’t write us down!”

“Same way you knew to come here,” said someone in an unhealthy wheeze. “Sit down and don’t cause waves.”

I turned away and went back. Goshka wasn’t crying anymore. He stood upright, holding his mother by the hand so she wouldn’t be afraid, and feigned disinterest in a wind-up puppy toy another child held nearby.

“So?” Marina asked.

“All good. They’ll call us in for an interview soon.”

“Goshka needs to pee.”

“Pee,” Goshka repeated without taking his eyes from the toy the girl was holding.

“Sure.” I leaned toward a rotund woman who sat on the floor next to us. “Excuse me, where’s the restroom?”

“What do you mean, where?” she said with a sudden flare of indignation. “Outside, of course! Though the way it smells in here, not everyone knows that.” She turned away, breathing heavily.

“Thanks,” I said. “Okay, let’s go. His extra pair of pants is back in the suitcase, so let’s not take any chances.”

Outside we got sidetracked. Goshka was enthralled by the sight of a car roaring up the hill. Its brakes squealed when it came to a stop in front of the entrance. The large Jeep’s fog lights illuminated the building, despite the mandated citywide blackout. To be fair, it was a pointless order. There had been no air raids in this war so far, and if any were to take place the blackouts weren’t going to help.

No one exited the Jeep.

“The car drove itself,” Goshka declared.

The Jeep door swung outward, and a thin man stepped out. He wore a long trench coat and sunglasses. His hairdo was a bleached-blond Mohawk with shaved sides, which made him look like a pencil with a rubber top. He held a half-empty bottle of whisky.

“Is this the spot?” He spoke in a tone of opprobrium toward mankind and with the voice of a man who’d just woken from deep sleep.

“Depends on what spot you’re looking for,” I said.

“What? Who the hell are you?” The man raised his voice. “You in charge here?”

“The person in charge is inside,” I told him in order to disengage. “Let’s go, son.”

“Hold!” the man ordered. “I didn’t say you could go. Is this where the ship is gonna land?”

He was too wasted to be really dangerous. I picked Goshka up, turned around, and carried him inside without saying another word. The building manager was smoking in the lobby.

“There’s a drunk outside,” I told him. “Drove up here and is asking if this is where the ship is going to land.”

The building manager took a drag of his cigarette, slowly exhaled, and squinted his one eye at me. “What’s your interest in this?” he asked evenly.

“I’m just letting you know … We still have to pass the interview.”

“Don’t you worry, your turn will come—”

The front door opened, and the drunk pushed an enormous wheeled travel bag inside.

“What the hell? You all taking me for a fool?” he raged. Then he saw me. “You! Lead me to the ship right now. I’m asking nicely for the last—”

The building manager crushed the cigarette butt under his heel and stepped in front of the guy. “No luggage!”

“What?” The man laughed. “No luggage at all?”

“None,” the building manager said sternly.

“Oh, really?” The man drew a machine gun from inside his coat. “How about now? Huh?”

I ushered Goshka behind me and backed up slowly toward one of the apartments.

“Come on, buddy,” the man told the building manager. “Show me where to go. Move it!”

“Fine. Follow me,” the building manager said nonchalantly. He headed up the stairs. The drunk followed him, wrangling his bag.

We ducked back into apartment two, and I shut the door behind us. “Mom,” Goshka shouted across the room. He took off toward Marina, jumping over the feet of people sitting on the floor. “We saw a big car!”

“Everything okay?” Marina asked when I caught up.

“Fine.” I decided not to test her nerves with the story of the drunk. “Have they called our name yet?”

“No. They only called one family while you were gone. But at least I found us a nice corner to wait in, where no one is going to be stepping over us.”

We tried to get comfortable as we waited, listening to the muted cacophony of snoring, coughs, and bits of conversation.

“—Every floor is the same. Packed in like sardines. Some out in the halls, and on the seventh floor even in the elevator cabin. But the ninth floor is empty.”

“There’s a dark room there. People are led there, one by one. They look you over and decide whether to let you onto the ship.”

“Who looks you over, in the dark?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they have some special equipment—”

Goshka quickly made friends with a three-year-old girl. Together they were busy turning the key on a wind-up puppy toy.

“You know,” Marina said quietly, looking away. “I heard we lost the town of Evsino.”

“Who says?”

“This one guy … He was called in already.”

“How would he know?”

“He has a radio receiver and catches occasional bits of communications.”

“Whose communications?”

“I don’t know. Just snippets of conversation.”

“Well, then it’s just conversations, not facts.” I patted her on the shoulder, all the while thinking, damn … Evsino? That’s only an hour away by train. Where’s their ship? I hope it gets here in time …

“Also …” Marina stared down with large blue eyes that were just like Goshka’s. “They’re saying the enemy’s been seen on the outskirts of Iskitim.”

“That’s definitely made up,” I said. “Anyone who’s seen them wouldn’t be around to talk about it.”

“You’re absolutely right,” said a man wearing a dusty hat and smudged glasses. “Stupid rumors. People who spread this filth should be executed by firing squad. They’re spies, trying to cause a panic.”

“Spies?” An old woman across from him unwrapped her headscarf so she could hear better.

“Spies and saboteurs,” said the man in glasses. “The same ones that set fire to the oil refinery, and blew up the apartment buildings on Gusinka Street.”

“Those buildings blew up because they had gas stoves,” said someone by the window. “The residents fled without bothering to turn off the gas.”

“How would you know?” asked Glasses.

“Because no buildings with electric stoves blew up!”

“Those blew up, too,” said someone else. “The news stopped reporting on it.”

“If you ask me, that’s a better way to go than to fall into enemy hands. One moment you’re sitting comfortably at home, the next—bam! You’re gone.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why are you trying to get onto the ship? You could just sit at home and wait for a gas leak.”

“Where is the ship? Who’s ever even seen it?”

“Hey, you, by the window, shut it!” someone shouted nervously. “Because of fools like you they’ll toss all of us out!”

The conversation died down.

Our chances aren’t good, I thought. How are we ever to get onto the ship? How are we going to push our way through this crowd? If there’s a stampede, I’ll fight tooth and nail to get Marina and Goshka past them and on board. But even if we make it, then what? How is this mysterious ship—be it a rocket, a plane, or a submarine—to get past the enemy blockade? And where will it go?

I couldn’t worry about that. The important thing was to make it on board. But our odds were getting worse by the minute. Perhaps the only way was to follow the example of that thug with a machine gun. He may have been drunk as a skunk, but he was no fool. He was probably on the ship already …

The apartment door opened, and I saw him. If not for his pencil-like appearance, I might not have recognized him. He no longer had his sunglasses, his trench coat, his bag, or, especially, his machine gun. Moreover, he seemed quiet, depressed, and completely sober.

“Hey, new guy,” called the man monitoring the sign-up sheet. “You, blondie.”

The newcomer looked up.

“You had your interview?” asked the man. He seemed to already know the answer.

The blond nodded.

“Sign in, then. What’s your name?”

“Tylenol.”

“Huh. Would that be a first or a last name?”

The newcomer shrugged.

“Fine. Tylenol it is.” The man wrote it down. “You’re number seven hundred and fourteen.”

“Excuse me, what do they ask during the interview?” asked a woman who sat next to Tylenol.

“They don’t ask anything, but …” Tylenol sat, hugging his knees. “You have to answer for everything.”

“And how did you answer?” The curious woman wouldn’t let it go.

“How can I answer?” Tylenol stared at his knees. “I left my family back in the city. My wife and son …”

“What do you mean, left? Why didn’t you bring them with you?!”

All heads turned toward the blond man.

“Because I couldn’t go home!” Tylenol punched the floor. “They’re using them as bait, trying to lure me there!”

“Who?”

“The bratva! Who else? They’re going crazy with fear. If I come home, they’ll end me for sure. Me, and Galya, and Denis …”

“What for?” asked the woman.

Tylenol spat on the floor and wiped the spittle with his boot.

“There’s a rumor going around that you have to pay in blood to survive,” he said. “The bratva, they believe if you take out two of your own, the enemy will let you live. They believe you can buy one life for the price of two.”

The room was silent.

“We drew lots,” Tylenol whispered. “To see who got to live and who … I lost. When the time came to go under the knife, I couldn’t do it. I’m not a sheep! I fought my way out, and ran. Now they’re looking for me. They’re forcing Galya to call me, to beg me to come home.” He grabbed his head with both hands. “I can hear her voice trembling! They’ll kill them whether I come back or not.” He pulled a clenched fist away, holding a clump of his blond hair. “What now? Save myself, or go die with them?”

Everyone in the room remained quiet. Only an old man by the door kept coughing into his hat.

Why are we sitting here? I thought. Whatever his drama, this man arrived after we did, and he already underwent the interview! I have to find the building manager and make him take us there, or I won’t need a machine gun to take out his remaining eye!

“Be ready,” I told Marina. “As soon as I beckon to you from the door, take Goshka and come to me, quietly.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, fear in her voice.

“Don’t worry. I just want to have a few words with the building manager.”

To my surprise, the lobby was a hotbed of activity. The metal door was propped open, and a pickup truck with its tailgate down was backed up to the entrance. Some ashen-faced people dressed in torn clothes carried heavy boxes from the truck into the basement. The building manager observed and made notes on a ripped sheet of paper.

“Need some help?” I asked.

He glanced at me. “Nah. We’re almost done.”

“What’s in the boxes?”

He didn’t respond. “Thirty-two, thirty-three … okay, last one. Close it up!”

I helped him raise the tailgate, then the pickup drove off downhill.

“Is it food?” I asked.

“Come on!” He laughed. “Some weirdo showed up with a collection of rocks. Collected them his entire life, he says. They’re priceless, he says. What am I supposed to do with that? Good thing they fit into the basement, otherwise we’d just have to abandon them in the street. People just don’t get it; when you go there”—he looked at me meaningfully—“you can’t bring anything with you. Not food, not money, not guns … Nothing!”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said. “That guy with the gun, you sent him straight to the interview. My family and I are still—”

“There will be no more interviews,” he said, heading back into the building.

“What do you mean, no more?” I tripped and almost fell on the step, but caught up to him and grabbed his sleeve.

“Just so,” he said kindly, touching my hand. “They’re no longer necessary.”

The world spun in front of my eyes. “What about us? Are we not necessary?”

The building manager laughed.

“You turned all white there! Don’t sweat it. We’re taking everyone. No interviews needed. Everyone who believed and who came here will be saved.”

“What do you mean, everyone?” I was still too scared to let go of his sleeve.

“It’s like I said. What, you think we’re going to kick people out into the street? Everyone in the building is going to go. The owners, they aren’t heartless.”

“What owners?” I wasn’t quite thinking straight.

“The owners of the ship, of course! I guess our owners now, too, since we’re asking them to quarter and feed us for an undetermined length of time. Happy?” The building manager grinned. “Don’t keel over from joy, now.”

Ah, when will be go … I mean get to … board the ship?” I managed to ask.

“Not the sharpest knife in the drawer, are you?” he said. “Still don’t get it? Fine, follow me, I’ll explain.”

Apartment two was dead silent. Everyone, even the children, listened to my story with rapt attention. Afterward, someone a bit slower on the uptake reluctantly raised his hand.

“You mean to say this is the ship?”

“Yes,” I said. “Simply put, the ship is the building we’re in. To be more precise, the area in which the building is located. This area will be transported to another world … Well, another place. Along with our bodies. You see, only the living things will be transported. All our belongings, and even the building itself, will remain here.”

“So we’re going to arrive there naked?” someone asked.

I nodded. “Naked. Until we get some new clothes.”

“Possessions can always be replaced,” said someone by the window. “The important question is, will they take everyone?”

“Yes, everyone! Don’t worry. As I explained, all living creatures located in this area will be transported. They don’t care how many of us are here.”

“Who are they?” asked the dusty man in glasses. “What if they’re the same aliens we’re fighting against?”

“Well …” I paced along the wall as I thought. People scampered, making way for me.

“It’s the same civilization that’s exterminating us. The same species. But a different tribe. They fight among themselves. One faction wants to kill us, another to save us.”

“How can we trust them?” Someone sighed. “Where will they take us? What will they do to us?”

“I don’t know. But what alternative have we got?”

Everyone was quiet for a time. Then a man said, “All of this is rather suspicious.”

“I believe!” A seventeen-year-old kid by the door rose to his feet. “We’ll make a life there. Raise children. And one day we’ll come back home! The only thing is, we need to get more people. Look at how much space we still have: the stairs, the corridors, lots of room. We should pack the building with people!”

“It’s too late,” I said. “It would take lots of time to find people. Phones are down, and there’s no other way to communicate—”

“We can send a signal. I have an idea!” The kid ran out the door. The others looked at each other in confusion, then some followed him.

“Stay here,” I told Marina. “Don’t let Goshka go anywhere, either. God forbid there’s a stampede.”

The people milled in front of the building. The kid who’d run out first was messing with Tylenol’s Jeep. The gas cap was popped off and a strip of material—probably a tie—was shoved into the tank.

“Make room,” the kid shouted, and flicked the lighter. Blue flame engulfed the tie and raced toward the gas tank.

Tylenol stepped out of the building. “What the hell are you doing?” he began saying, but a loud boom drowned out his voice. Blue flame raced upward from the car’s roof and into the sky. The Jeep burned like an oversized torch.

“It’s all good,” the kid shouted, rubbing at his singed eyebrows. “People will see this and come!”

“You …” Tylenol tackled him to the ground, then punched him in the teeth. “What’s wrong with you? Goddamn moron.”

I grabbed Tylenol from the back, trying to pull him off the kid. “Stop it! You fool, what the hell do you need with your car? You can’t take it with you.”

Tylenol headbutted my jaw, but I hung on tight.

“I don’t care about the Jeep,” Tylenol shouted hysterically. “He’s calling for strangers while my family is left behind! What about them?!”

Tylenol broke free, leaving me holding strips of his shirt. He dropped to his knees beside the stunned kid, his face in his hands, and cried loudly enough to be heard over the roar of the flames.

An hour passed. All apartments on all floors, as well as the staircases and elevator, were filled with people. Parents held their children. It was unbearably stuffy, but no one complained. We waited. Goshka sat atop my shoulders like it was his favorite place on Earth. On Earth. There was no room for us on Earth anymore.

The crowd stirred.

Someone on another floor screamed. “The super! Where’s the super? He isn’t here. He ran away!”

“There’s some woman shouting,” said someone by the door.

Shh! Let me hear.”

Here we go again, I thought. What’s happening over there?

“I used to work with explosives,” a shrill voice shouted from afar. “If the boxes are marked with a triangle, it means there’s dynamite inside!”

I immediately recalled the thirty-three boxes loaded into the basement earlier that day. But were they marked with a triangle?

“People, it’s all a lie!” someone shouted desperately. “They want to blow us up!”

“Door! Open the door! Everyone outside!”

“It doesn’t open! Like someone is blocking it from the other side!”

Ahh! I’m scared! Let me out!”

The crowd shifted and roiled like the stormy sea. People struggled to remain on their feet.

“Why is this fool shouting?” I screamed. “The children are being crushed because of her. Let her go to the basement and look at the boxes herself if she wants to.”

“All the doors are locked,” came the response from the corridor. “The front door, and the door to the basement. And the super is missing!”

“He isn’t missing!” I barely outshouted the rising howls of the crowd. “Stop panicking! Everyone stay still. The building manager is on the higher floors. Hey, let me pass.” I moved toward the door with the terrified Goshka on my shoulders. Marina held fast to my belt and followed along.

In the lobby the human waves were even rowdier. Someone twisted on the floor in the midst of a panic attack. People kicked at the locked doors. The basement door gave in first. Several people, along with the woman who’d started the panic, rushed downstairs.

“Let me through,” screamed an old man with a curly beard. “I’m an expert. I’m a professor of chemistry!”

They let him pass, and he disappeared through the dark entrance to the basement. Some muted noises could be heard from down there—I couldn’t tell if they were screaming or the sound of nails being ripped from wood.

“Calm down! We’ll have our answer soon!” I kept shouting until someone poked me in the ribs.

“Quiet!”

The noise in the lobby died down. We could hear steps from the basement. The old professor returned. Everyone stared at him, too fearful to ask the question. Marina’s hand found mine.

The professor looked around, checked his watch for some reason. Finally, it dawned on him that everyone was waiting for his verdict.

“No, no,” he said quietly. “Everything’s all right. There’s no danger.”

“What about the dynamite?” someone shouted.

“There’s no dynamite.” The old man stole a glance at his watch again. “Everything is all right. We’re about to take off …”

“How do you know?” A stocky young man with an army haircut pushed his way toward the front.

“Oh, because the—what do you call it?—the control panel is down there. Yeah.”

“Let me see.” The stocky man stepped forward.

“No!” The professor spread his hands, as though to block the basement entrance with his body. “You see, it’s pointless. The countdown has already begun! We’re in the final seconds. Look …”

He squinted at his watch.

“Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven …”

Everyone in the lobby, the staircases, and all the floors of the miserable gray building counted along with him.

Six …

Five …

Four …

Three …

Two …

One …

Start.