UNDERGROUND

195

The clothes turned into an ice suit. The dry and cold air was unaccustomed to intoxication, the body shook with a large shiver, but the hands gripped the rifle tightly, while large unblinking eyes scanned the dark corners and the numerous transitional bridges overhead.

Convinced that there was no threat, Pustovalov trotted like a wolf along the wall, hiding behind earthen hills, swept from the side of the faults by yellowish snow. He carefully looked out of the end opening and saw a cleared area surrounded by abandoned buildings, which for the most part were bare boxes of external walls with a pile of collapsed stairs and ceilings inside. On the opposite side, by the dangling strands of the cable bridge, a snowplow tractor gleamed like a brand new cab, behind which rose a freshly painted hangar with a large padlock on the gate. In everything else, there was total desertion and desolation. Neither sharp eyesight, nor the same sharp hearing, nor Pustovalov's inner wolf instinct caught d