Having spit his sour spittle under his feet, Artiom returned to the refectory and climbed back on his bunk. He felt sick, feverish, nauseous.
His clothes hadn’t dried. It seemed his body couldn’t give the needed heat during the night. On the contrary, it was his overcoat that had gotten wet and for some strange reason the inner lining had gotten somehow slimy.
Burtsev came up.
“The command to lie down wasn’t given,” he said.
Artiom opened his eyes, looked at him, wanted to smile pleadingly, but he had no strength. Instead, he thought sleepily: “White Army trash…” and closed his eyes. Maybe he’d go away.
And he fell asleep.
Wakeup call was in a quarter of an hour anyway, but that quarter of an hour at peace meant a great deal. Another seven-ten hours and everything would be really goo
