“And there’s a pie there too!” Vasilii Petrovich called.
Artiom climbed to the bunk, got back inside his overcoat, tucked up his feet so that they wouldn’t stick out, screwed up his eyes so that even his eyes would conserve heat… but the porridge? Where’s the porridge?
“Brigade, up!” the Chechen yelled aggressively; hardly a moment had passed since he had yelled it the first time.
“Brigade, get up!” he called a third time.
“What are you, a f*****g rooster? What’s with the three times?” Artiom had woken up already and recognized Passport’s voice, though with one hand he still blindly patted the bunk under him and next to him to make sure he hadn’t lain down on the porridge or dropped it.
“Who said rooster?” the Chechen asked loudly. He pronounced “rooster” with a long “oo.”
Oh, how I
