They strode through the nocturnal Dust Zone quickly and in silence. They couldn’t wait to return to the warmth of Grandpa’s kitchen. It must be past midnight, Jirka realized. But he wasn’t tired. The very opposite was true! He was more alert and perceptive than ever, as though his stay in the Dust Zone had sharpened his senses. He heard every rustle, noticed every reflection in the windows as they passed, his nose palpably sensed the damp stones and rotting leaves. But what would his grandfather do after they’ve brought him these strange light bulbs? Would he know how to use them to somehow halt the expanding Dust Zone?
“I’m thirsty,” said En. They stopped in front of a palatial house. On either side of the entrance stood mute statues of women in flowing garments, supporting the wide second-floor balcony. Jirka handed En a water canteen, and as she drank he took one of the light bulbs out of the bag and carefully examined it. The moon emerged from behind a cloud and immersed the Dust Zone in pale light.
Just then En gasped and her eyes became wide with alarm.
“Behind you,” she whispered, jumping to her feet.
Jirka turned to look. His pulse raced. When they’d passed it earlier, the alley behind them was dark like the others. Now with the moon shining, a gangly shadow stretched from the alley into the street. It was the hulking figure of a man. En didn’t waste any time: “Run!”
She grabbed the paper sack with the two remaining green light bulbs, and she bolted up the street.
“Doggone it! Go after her!” squawked a familiar hoarse voice. Good grief! The dark shadow sprung from the alley. Jirka took the backpack and ran after En. He could still make out her form in the dark. Behind him was a clamor of footsteps and heavy breathing. He ran as fast as he could manage it on the slippery pavement, not turning around to look. Were both of them there? They must be—blast it! Behind them, Kraus was bellowing away. What if he has a weapon? Run, run, keep on running straight ahead… And breathe. What’s happened to En? There she was, way up ahead, he’d catch up. And what about this thing? In his hand, Jirka still held one of the green light bulbs.
The heavy footsteps behind him were getting closer and closer. Faster and faster. This won’t do, he’ll catch me, Jirka thought to himself one tenth of a second before strong fingers grasped his shoulder and dragged him to the ground. A sharp pain in his knee, a blow to the chin, the rough surface of the pavement impressed upon his face, the smell of blood. Shattering glass. As he’d fallen, the green bulb had flown out of his hand. He opened one eye, and in front of his face he saw someone’s knee wearing dark jeans. Kraus’s comrade was kneeling in a greenish puddle left by the broken light bulb.
“Don’t move, and nothing will happen to you,” the fellow snarled.
Jirka didn’t listen. He lifted himself with his forearms, rolled over onto his stomach, and gave two kicks backward. He struck something. When the grip loosened for a moment, he wrenched free and jumped to his feet. He was about to run, but the man grabbed the hood of his coat and yanked him backwards. Jirka jerked away, the hood tore off and remained in his attacker’s hand. He ran. A terrific pain in his knee. Don’t think. Don’t feel. I don’t have my backpack, he realized. Where’s En?
The street curved to the left and downward, there were steps, an abandoned lot and on the other side a dark gulley with churning water, above it a narrow footbridge and in the middle of the bridge a gas lamp. His knee was about to give out. He glanced over his shoulder. Hrouda’s henchman was at his heels. Someone was standing on the bridge. It was En, and across from her was Kraus. Four meters apart, standing face to face. Between the fingers of En’s left hand he saw the remaining light bulbs. She was shaking, but she didn’t run. She can’t go any further, Jirka thought to himself. He had to help her, had to go to her. This blasted knee! Kraus strode across the bridge, but En didn’t move. Jirka could not let him catch her.
“Run!” he called to her, but she didn’t move a muscle.
She stood like a pillar of salt, frightened to death. Just then her free hand began searching her pocket, yet it was too late—Kraus was too close. At the last moment, she did something unexpected. Kraus lunged at the hand in which she was holding the light bulbs, and En took one step backward and flung them away. They traced an arc through the air, glittering. Jirka saw Kraus turn his head after them before they splashed onto the stream’s surface and were seized by the muddy current. “Well, that’s that,” Jirka thought. We’ll never get them to Grandpa now. Kraus caught En by the shoulders and shouted something angrily. She closed her eyes in terror.
Jirka finally reached the footbridge. Two quick steps. With all his strength he struck Kraus, who released En and then staggered for a moment and caught himself against the flimsy metal rail. His weight was too much for it, it snapped, and Kraus fell into the water.
“Run!” Jirka shouted at En, catching her arm and pulling her away. They’d have no more than fifteen seconds before Kraus recovered and dragged himself from the ditch. Where had the other one disappeared to? Jirka looked around. The fellow was approaching them slowly, not running but limping. He was just now descending the steps to the abandoned lot. This was their chance, they had to run for it. Now.
They tore further down the street, hand in hand. En gasped for breath. She was still grasping the canteen— in her terror, she must have forgotten she was holding it.
“Help!” shouted Jirka with all his strength. “Help!”
They had nothing to lose—maybe by some miracle they would stumble upon a friend. Maybe Kraus and his partner wouldn’t hurt them in front of witnesses. But the Dust Zone was as dead and as silent as ever; nothing stirred, nothing made a sound. A crossroads. To the left or to the right? To the left. A narrow, winding alley. A church in the distance. Was it the Saint Florian bell tower? They were going in the wrong direction. They would never reach Grandpa this way. Cripes!
“I can’t go any further,” whispered En, squeezing his hand.
“Just a bit further, you can do it,” Jirka urged her.
I could outrun them if I wanted to, Jirka told himself. But En wouldn’t manage it. Kraus appeared in the street behind them, snorting furiously and hurtling in their direction, his boots sloshing beneath him. His brawny henchman seemed to have walked off his injury and was now following closely behind. Jirka realized they should have disappeared into one of these houses earlier. Now it was too late—any house was a trap. They had to make it to the church.
“Help!” he called once more.
A young, dark-haired woman appeared wearing an elegant, bright yellow coat and glasses with oblong frames. There was no telling where she had come from, it must have been one of the side alleys. Now she stood in the middle of the street, staring with a puzzled expression as the bruised, bloody-nosed Jirka dragged En along behind him with the two goons in pursuit.
Jirka could barely help collapsing at her feet. “Please help us! Those men want to hurt us! Save us!”
The woman said nothing but aimed her gaze first at Jirka and then at Kraus, who’d stopped roughly fifteen meters away from them and was now waiting for his slower sidekick.
“Those men are chasing you?” the woman asked in bewilderment, and Jirka assured her that they were. The dark-haired woman turned to Kraus: “Can you tell me what’s going on here?”
Kraus exhaled deeply and gestured that he would reply in a moment. The other fellow was just arriving and posted himself at his side.
The woman stepped between Jirka and En and protectively put her hands on their shoulders. “Don’t worry. I’ll have a word with these gentlemen.”
Kraus took two steps forward. En shrunk back, but the woman held her. “Don’t be afraid, we’ll get to the bottom of this. I’m sure there’s been a misunderstanding. What do you want with these kids?” she called in Kraus’s direction. She gave Jirka a friendly smile.
“Well…” Kraus dragged out in a hoarse voice, “They have something that belongs to us.”
“And what exactly?” the young woman asked, exchanging a long stare with Kraus.
Something isn’t right here, Jirka heard himself think. But before he could do anything, the woman turned on her heel and, in a single rapid movement, caught Em’s wrist and twisted it behind her back as the other hand pressed Em’s shoulder. Em suddenly found she’d become a shield between Jirka and this strange woman. Jirka froze in place.
“Get lost, little man,” the woman whispered, her face contorting into an amused grimace.
“Jirka, run!” Em cried, her body twisting.
Jirka knew he couldn’t leave Em, and before he could act it was too late. Suddenly, Kraus was standing right next to him—Kraus’s left hand caught him below the back of his neck and his right hand was squeezing his forearm painfully. Jirka tried to defend himself, he tugged and kicked, but he quickly ran out of strength. Physically, he was no match for either Kraus or the other. It was over.
Meanwhile, the other goon had grabbed En. The dark-haired woman took a step backward and was adjusting her coat, running the back of her hand over it as though brushing off some invisible speck. She swept a lock of hair from her forehead. Her smile was gone, replaced by a cool, professional expression.
“An utterly botched operation,” she spat scornfully in Kraus’s direction.
“Kindly shut your mouth, Monika,” Kraus replied. “There were a few complications, but we’re in the clear now.”
“In the clear?” Monika repeated sarcastically, glancing at Kraus’s sweaty face. “So you’re in the clear, Navrátil has a sprained ankle, and I have to fix everything. If you think I’m going to cover for you when this reaches the chief, you can forget it. You’ve screwed up.”
The other fellow Navrátil muttered softly: “We’ve got the kids now, so calm down.”
For about ten minutes they led them through the Dust Zone. They made several turns, so many that Jirka utterly lost his sense of where they were. Monika led the way with her hands in her pockets, then came Kraus and Jirka, and bringing up the rear were Navrátil with En.
When Jirka began to turn to see whether En was all right, Kraus jabbed him in the ribs and pushed him forward, saying: “Let’s go, no slowing down!”
The air was becoming cool. Above the Dust Zone the stars were shimmering, and a frost descended over the crooked alleys. A massive, white full moon hung over the sheer roofs and was visible on the surfaces of puddles. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Behind a window a candle flickered.
“Help…” Jirka gasped. An instant later a blow struck him, and the palm of Kraus’s hand pressed his mouth closed. A pain shot through his left arm, which was still twisted behind his back.
“Do that again and I’ll snap it in two,” Kraus uttered darkly.
They halted in front of a tall tenement house with boarded windows. Monika banged on the door. Thirty seconds passed before a voice inquired quietly from behind the door: “Who’s there?”
“It’s us, Tom,” Monika replied, and the door cracked slightly before opening all the way. Behind it lurked a lanky, sharp-boned boy with tousled black hair and a freckled face, maybe sixteen years old but certainly no older. He scrutinized Jirka and En curiously as they were led past him. Eventually he closed the door behind them and locked it.
They walked up a poorly lit staircase to the third story and entered one of the adjoining flats. If Jirka guessed correctly, it contained no more than four rooms. They left the little entryway and found themselves in a large room with two more doors leading to the left and to the right. Apart from several chairs, the room had no furniture, not even a floor rug. Rucksacks and other items were strewn about the cold floor beneath a window: clothes, bottled drinks, rolled up ground mats, sleeping bags, small plastic bags of food, packs of playing cards. The room was lit by two spirit burners and a corner stove, its flames visible through the edge of its door. On a metal grate beneath a chimney lay firewood, an axe, a pack of fire lighters, and a box of matches.
Kraus led them into a windowless backroom where there stood a small table and three wobbly chairs. Off to the side next to a wall lay a mattress with a blanket on it.
“You’re going to stay here for a while. See what happens if you try and pull something stupid,” he said. His eyes passed over the bare walls before he turned and closed the door behind him. In the lock a key turned. An impenetrable darkness set in.
Jirka whispered: “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” En murmured softly. “What are we going to do?”
Jirka didn’t reply. No one knows where we are, he noted bitterly. And no one is going to look for us here.