Claws of Mercy

Ruslan woke up and crawled out of the cramped sleeping bag. Not even in the pioneer camp had it been so uncomfortable. His whole body ached. There was a noise and a strange hissing outside. Ruslan opened the door of the wagon, and barely managed to dodge the sparks that usually fly off from working welders. What the hell! They can’t have fireworks at night on a construction site.

Some shadows were replacing the workers, carrying bricks from wheelbarrows, pouring cement, working with trowels and picks. The work was confused and inept. It did more harm than good.

“Hey, you!” Ruslan called out, and flinched when red eyes stared at him.

They’re not construction workers. They’re not wearing helmets or uniforms. And they were shorter than grown men. The strangers were small, thin and dark, like shadows. They hissed at Ruslan with needle-sharp teeth and continued working. They were industrious, but they were wasting building material. Everything in their hands was breaking instead of being useful.

Ruslan couldn’t understand what was happening. Did he really see the Ushebti working at the construction site? Or was it all a nightmare?

There was no time to think. No one was awake but him. The guard was nowhere to be seen, and the industrious laborers were tearing everything down. Their sharp teeth glinted like needles and easily ripped stones from concrete blocks.

How to stop them? How could he justify himself to the oligarch if the building was destroyed the next morning?

Ruslan didn’t know what to do. Maybe hit them all with a crane. The Ushebti only got angry when he tried to take action. Well, now they’re going to jump on him and bring everything down with it. They might even dance on the wreckage to celebrate the successful destruction. Or is it not their job to have fun anymore? All they have to do is work. And they have to work for the dead, not the living. If they come from a burial cult, no wonder why they destroy everything. Their work is the opposite. It’s not a work for good, but for destruction.

“It is enough!” A clear, ringing voice came from somewhere above and overrode the hissing of the Ushebti. “This is my territory! Look for work elsewhere!”

Strangely enough, the Ushchebti obeyed. And Ruslan passed out in full confidence that he had just heard the voice of a deity.

When he woke up, it was night. A column resembling an obelisk had been erected at the construction site. It was probably just some block that had been dragged here and dumped wherever it was.

On top of it sat a beautiful girl who looked like a model with golden wings attached to her back. Ruslan saw her for only a moment, and then there was only a flash of sunlight. The model disappeared somewhere, as if it had never existed. Could he have imagined it? No, he could clearly see the arrogant expression with which she was watching the construction site, as if all the construction workers were her slaves. That was the arrogance with which the pharaohs watched the building of the pyramids.

Shadows at the construction site

Couriers delivered food once a week: just pizza and mineral water. No luxury was expected by the architects. Dima managed to reacquaint himself with all the couriers.

“They don’t like coming here, but they have to,” he reported. “Their employers send them. It takes a long time to get here, there are no settlements around.”

“Not one! Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“It’s strange, why build a hospital where there are no settlements,” Ruslan couldn’t get the facade of the gloomy hospital out of his head. It seemed as if some voice was calling him to go back there.”

“Maybe it was to treat some rare disease that couldn’t be allowed to spread.”

Dima looked longingly after the couriers.

“Now they’ll bring a new batch of food in a week,” he sighed. “We’ll have to stretch our food supplies for seven days.”

“You like to eat.”

“And I like to drink. And I don’t like to mess around in the mud. This construction site is filthy, like a swamp under the ground. One night I even thought I saw clawed hands coming out of the ground. Can you imagine?”

“You must have been drinking.”

“I was just daydreaming about how good it would be to work as a courier instead of sitting on this construction site.”

Ruslan noticed how heavy the couriers’ backpacks were and didn’t envy them. Couriers always reminded him of modern-day peddlers. They, too, went door-to-door and carried their goods with them.

The pizza with slices of sausage was not tasty at all. Ruslan didn’t like mineral water. We should have brought tea bags and a thermos.

“Our oligarch is in no hurry to make sure that we have a decent meal.”

“Well, it’s not an expensive restaurant here,” Dima said philosophically.

“This pizza is making me sick.”

“If you need it, I brought some Allochol for intestinal distress.

Ruslan only grinned wryly. You can’t help bad food with pills. The pizza was definitely not fresh. The slices, wrapped in foil, were covered with mold that he hadn’t noticed a second ago.

“They say everything rots fast in these places. It’s a bad atmosphere.”

“You should not build a mansion in a place like this!”

Did the oligarch not realize that all the works of art he had collected would perish in a bad climate? Or did he buy some perfect equipment to keep the building at the right temperature for storing antiquities. How much money does it take to create the same atmosphere in a private building as in a museum! It seems that Vereskovsky is fabulously rich, but he does everything with a twist. Ruslan could say with certainty that there was no other construction site like this one. Everything is done not as it should be done, but as it is more convenient for the customer.

In general, there was nothing to complain about. Ruslan adored his work. Architecture was not only a job for him, but also a hobby. His favorite occupation helped him to survive. Unloved work often makes people depressed. But with favorite work you feel useful and happy.

But just because someone is building a private Hermitage, you feel an acute sense of injustice. Ruslan himself didn’t even have enough money for a micro-apartment. And living on the corner with elderly relatives is the most difficult ordeal faced by many young adults. Renting a house is also an unacceptable luxury for most young people. Often people work hard, and their wages are barely enough for food and a bus pass.

“When I was a kid,” Ruslan recalled, “my grandparents opened a bank account in my name. They knew how hard it was to live in a dormitory, and they were saving money so that their grandson would have his own apartment when he grew up. And one day, all the savings simply disappeared from the accounts, it was promised to be reimbursed, but there was no compensation. My grandmother liked to repeat that all our money went into the deep pockets of some new Russians. In those days, many people lost all their savings, but out of nowhere, fabulously rich people suddenly appeared.”

“Are you implying that our employer made his money dishonestly?”

“How can you get that kind of wealth honestly? He’s copying Midas. He even commissioned a statue made of solid gold!”

“Maybe he’ll end up like Midas. All dishonest people get screwed in the end, but we have to please him for now if we want to get paychecks and bonuses.”

“Don’t even count on bonuses! He’s got everything on the books for his employees, but the furniture here is probably inlaid with gems.”

“If only someone would want the furniture here. I have the impression that Vereskovsky is building a temple, not a palace.”

“Do you have that impression too?” Ruslan was surprised. He thought he was the only one who looked at a drawing of a palace under construction and compared it to the Parthenon or the Taj Mahal. It looks like a temple and a tomb at the same time.

“I also have a feeling that everything here might collapse like the Tower of Babel or tilt like the Leaning Tower of Pisa,” Dima confessed.

“Why is that?”

“It is because you work sluggishly. I constantly have to correct your drawings.”

“The atmosphere of this place has a bad effect on me, as if there were some evil here,” Ruslan looked around. There were only Tajiks doing various jobs, and he was expecting ghosts.

“It’s all because of the abandoned hospital and the stories they spread about it. They say that in the old days the hospital was the estate of some nobleman with a bad reputation.”

“Why do you call it abandoned?” Ruslan was indignant. “I’ve seen people going in there myself.”