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In the past, coal was cleaned automatically – it was placed on a conveyor belt with water sprayers along it, which was necessary to prevent methane from condensing: it penetrates the lungs and can explode. Now we used our hands. Everything was long, and there was nothing to breathe, and everyone worked, and eventually everyone died from it.

The commander was somewhere in the middle of the hall when Deputy Rich approached him: "Commander, urgent business."

"What else? Some of the chums are in danger of not fulfilling their plan to stone us – do we need to help?" – Gora looked at his assistant with a look characterized by the phrase "we will help in this – we will help in this, as long as our old men are not touched" (only the old men kept them from "running over" to the Maquis).

"Kolya. The black laborer. I'm told he has something to say…" "Which one of us doesn't?"

Nikolay Zemlyakov (number 52436483C3) is one of only two black workers of 381 Soma, the other was Sergey Chernousov (number 77242388C3).

What could he say – they prepared him a royal "exit" – 20 kilograms. Is it too much for him? Nevertheless, seventeen minutes later Gabriel was standing by the pit, "You called, buddy?"

The six-meter-deep pit seemed like an infinite space, that all the coal mined for a month could be thrown in there, but in fact it reeked of rotten decomposing corpses of former workers: and no matter how many of them died there, the space did not get smaller – it is hard to believe that the bodies of the dead can so easily fold into nothing…, but it is so. Inside, the miners got used to it quite quickly, but those who came out of there alive told me that even after a full day's work the first week it was impossible to fall asleep, and then it was terrible to wake up, in the bones of their comrades and continue working.

In fact, they were "thrown in" ten or fifteen kilograms a day, and then honorably pulled out in front of the plagues, writing down the "plus" in a notebook. But no matter how much they wrote down in a day, they gave us almost no food, so that in case of rescue it was not difficult to get it at all. Skin and bones alone; the ribs were so prominent that the skin covering them was folded between them; the hands were almost immobile for a couple of days afterwards, the disease was called "Life Syndrome", because the patient did not quite realize that he was alive, it was as if he were born again; the face protruded forward with the cheekbones and especially in the chin because of the almost exhausted muscles. But there was always one factor that never faded to death: the eyes. They glittered with a fiery luster, and no one could understand whether it was from joy or from the grief of not being able to die.

Those eyes were glittering now, but with that fire that arises so abruptly and wants so much, and when not getting it quickly fades away, taking with it the one who carried it. This is the Fire of Freedom.

"Commander, you won't believe this…" – Nikolai looked up with his mouth open. Dust flew inward, but it didn't seem to matter.

Gora noticed something he had only seen in those who were not alive now, who had already died, "Since you think so, I won't argue…"

"Commander, this is…" "Uh-huh."

"What I found–"

"Oh, what have you found," Gabriel was already enjoying the drudgery. "Guns."

"What?"

"Weapons. Commander, there are tons of weapons here… It's just, I don't even know how to say it…"

"Okay. Throw something on the hoist, I'll get it up," the commander was ready to see anything; the people in this pit were going crazy by the dozens.

Something rattled below, whereupon Gabriel began to spin the winch.

Half a minute later the rope rose to the right level: an AK-74 was lying on the hoist. Gabriel looked around: there were no plagues.

"And you have a lot of that?" – he asked in a low voice.

"I don't know myself… But it looks like a whole warehouse," came the reply of a somewhat thoughtful man – apparently he really didn't know.

"Hold on, I won't be long," Mountain tossed down and, putting the machine gun aside in the shadows, went to the purification room.

Three minutes later the commander, held by Konstantin, was sinking to the bottom of the pit. Now it seemed to him that it was not so dark and damp, but it stank of decomposition more strongly, and his opinion about food had changed: strange as it may seem, but here in the pit, for some reason he felt hungry.

At the very bottom stood Nikolai, already calmed down but still as eager for "free air", with a pickaxe in his left hand and another AK-74 in his right.

"They're hungry for it, aren't they? – Gabriel thought. – They are tired of being slaves… It's not just one tortured man, it's all of us… We are all in his face now… Everyone here is already dreaming of war… I'm already dreaming about it… For example, today. I dream Manhir comes down to us. He comes up to me. He looks me straight in the eye. And then falls to his knees and says, "Forgive us, my lord. "Save our lives. And everyone, all the plagues do the same… God, we're supposed to be free, aren't we?"

"Commander?" – Nikolai asked, coming up to Gavriil. He immediately came to his senses, recognizing to himself that this had become a habit, and replied, "Well, Kol. Come on, show me what you've got here."

The one waved the machine gun back and stepped aside… A pile, just a pile of weapons was visible from the hole made in the ground.

"Ahem…" said Gora. – Okay, we'll take five of them with us. We'll leave the rest here – the plagues won't come down here anyway…"

"That's it?" – Nikolai was stunned, and had obviously planned a lot of things, so this answer knocked him for a loop.

Now he could be tricked or killed-what he had planned, he couldn't help but do.

Gabriel chose the first: "We need to prepare. I promise we will rise, but it will take time. Will you be patient? For my sake."

The authority is so strong charismatic, no one could argue with him, and if he asked for something, respect will make him do it. Gora, he's like a father.

"Commander," Konstantin heard from above.

"What?" – The voice took on its usual not-so-"charismatic" forms. "A1's here to see us. Himself."

The five minutes during which Hora reached the second sector were filled with deep thoughts: the people really need freedom as much as sunlight, which they are not allowed to see enough of, and the most important thing is that one day they will get it. Gabriel kept tying his son and daughter-in-law to all this: he wanted them to be free, and his grandson to know no slavery at all.

Sector number two was the office. Here everything is counted, everything is reported, and there was a separate room, though entirely empty, for separate meetings, which were very few (A1 really rarely went downstairs – it was difficult to breathe for the unaccustomed).

When Gavriil and his deputy arrived, everyone else was already there, including Pavel Pozharin himself. All but A1 nodded respectfully, Volin even smiling: a nice man after all.

"Well now that everyone's gathered, I can tell you what's the matter…" everyone could see how difficult it was for him to speak, and how he was greedily gulping for air. – I'm ready to take ten of your men upstairs with me. I was wrong about them. The plagues are bastards, they must die. They…"

Dominic was the first to speak: "You'd better explain what's going on today. My men are working like hell, and at night they can't sleep and they're thrown out to work. We need rest. Does this have to be explained in writing?"