Part One: Izvestia publishes a fragment of Podshibyakin's new book

Andrei Podshibyakin is often called Rostov's Stephen King, for his ability to weave chilling nightmares into everyday novels, which — if not one, then another — are sure to catch the reader and hold him to the last page. Two years ago, the novel "The Last Day of Summer" transformed Podshibyakin from a successful journalist and writer into one of the most fashionable Russian writers. On March 18, the Elena Shubina Editorial Office publishes a collection of novels, The Hungry World, continuing the line of The Last Day of Summer. Izvestia publishes an exclusive fragment of the book, in which there is enough suspense for several stories. The book will appear in Yandex Books in electronic and audio versions, and we are also publishing this fragment with sound: you can read and you can listen.

Andrey Podshibyakin "The Hungry World" (fragment)

— How?.. Inna?.. You see, I'm a bit hard of hearing, so to speak — all my life in production, the noise, the noise! And I don't like the hearing aid, you see, I can't get used to it, and I don't really need it here, who am I listening to — hares, or what?

— Ira, — Ira put in, raising her voice a little.

My grandfather waved me off: what difference does it make? Irina prepared to go berserk internally, but suddenly realized that she unexpectedly liked this not even simplicity, but the absence of urban hypocrisy.

— Grandpa, come on, let's get inside, it's cold,— Oleg defiantly hugged himself and shifted from one foot to the other.

— Don't teach me! Look, I've found it! — my grandfather obviously really liked talking. "Irishka, you know, he's been nasty since he was a kid, uh-oh! You give him your word, he gives you ten! Yes, with such audacity, you see, as everyone owes him. But also like this, you know, as they say, with a pussy. You shush him a little bit, you see, you back off!

The guest giggled in spite of herself, forgetting to pay attention to the infuriating "Toffee": her grandfather described her boyfriend with amazing accuracy.

"That's enough," Oleja pouted, which he clearly did not realize, and squeezed past his grandfather into the warmth of the cottage.

Grandfather exaggeratedly, like a cartoon character, winked at Ira and launched her after him.

Fyodor Feoktistovich was so sincerely pleased with the guests that Ira's irritation and Oleg's nervousness quickly thinned out and retreated to the periphery.

It was hot, bright, and somehow fabulously cozy in the cabin. It was already strange to think that Ira was so stubborn — it would be stupid to trade this New Year's adventure for a standard New Year's Eve drinking party with her friends, or, even worse, with her boring college IT buddies who stared at her jeans-clad ass all the time.

Oleg quickly forgot that he had managed to sulk at Fyodor Feoktistovich.: He grabbed a pickle from a modestly but well-served table, crunched it, and began unpacking his backpack.

— I bought all the medicines on the list that you asked for, look: stomach pills, painkillers, eye drops, then this, what's his name, saline solution for your teeth...

— My teeth, Irishka, have been inserted for a long time! — Grandfather declared with some pride. — Production, you see, was harmful, and it wasn't up to doctors all my life, you know. So you young people, keep it in mind, don't start this business. Otherwise, you see, we'll be old ruins!

To tell the truth, Fyodor Feoktistovich didn't look like any kind of wreck: he was a brisk, wiry, and cheerful old man.

— Did you bring the adrenaline? — grandfather rummaged through the ampoules and boxes that Oleja put on the table. "That's our first need, you see! Grandma can't do without him!

— Sleeping, right? Oleg pointed with his eyes at the closed door of the adjoining room and belatedly lowered his voice, as if he hadn't just been yelling at maximum volume.

Grandpa found the right ampoules, clicked his tongue contentedly, and replied:

— She sleeps on a regular basis now, Olejik...

Ira made a sad face. She forgot to ask what exactly her grandmother was sick of in the rush of packing; Oleg forbade her to take a suitcase and said he would buy her everything she needed upon arrival in Bali; she had to stuff clothes and cosmetics at random into a gym bag. To tell the truth, she wasn't particularly interested in the ailments of an old woman she didn't know.

Now I suddenly felt ashamed, but it was already inconvenient to ask.

— Come and say hello, — Oleg's grandfather said. — Well, you see, she feels everything, even if, well...

He broke off.

Oleg cautiously, on tiptoe, approached the door, opened it a crack and poked inside.

Ira craned her neck, trying to look over his shoulder.

— Oh, hello! He brought the bride! Oleg paused, trying to think of something else to say. — Happy New Year!

There was no response. There was something light and shapeless in the darkness of the room: the silhouette of a very plump woman lying on a bed, covered up to her neck with a blanket.

"That's it, that's it," Fyodor Feoktistovich fussed. — Come on, close it. She'll call you when she wakes up. Do not disturb! Let's have a snack and talk. Fly into the cold, and I'll fry the meat now. If I knew when you would, I would have done it sooner, otherwise, you see, you only need fresh, hot meat! Cold meat is, as the priests say, a sin!

Ira suddenly realized that she was terribly hungry, and sat down at the table. Oleg plopped down next to him and began to play with the jelly, trembling in an aluminum bowl. Meanwhile, my grandfather was pulling jars of pickles out of a huge, state—of-the-art refrigerator - it stood out here, it seemed like an alien artifact.

— Cold — cannon! No one does that! Come on, I'll put it on. Mustard is also mandatory, but no, horseradish! Horseradish is generally bombastic! — Oleja fussed.

— Do you have a drink? — Ira suddenly asked herself.

It wasn't even that she hated jelly for purely aesthetic reasons—and she couldn't have done it without alcohol; it was just that… Well, it's New Year's Eve.

— We don't have much shampoo, you see, — said Fyodor Feoktistovich, who had moved to the gas stove, — bananyev too. But! There is a delicious moonshine! You know, I've always been a sucker for this business. Of course, in moderation! Back when, if you'll excuse the expression, the bald—headed scum ruined the country, well, Mikhail Sergeich Gorbachev, I started doing home work just to spite him. Let him stick his anti-alcohol campaign in a goat's crack! Take it out! Go, Olezhka, take it there.… But wait, I'll get it myself. And I'll have a drink with you, you see, so that all the good things come and all the bad things go to the pigs!

Grandfather pulled the handle of another door, behind which there was, apparently, a cellar. He hung there in surprise for a couple of seconds. He remembered something and ridiculously slapped his forehead with his palm. He took a key out of his pocket. He unlocked the door.

Stomped up the wooden steps, rattled something, fiddled. He returned with a one—and-a-half-liter bottle. For some reason, Ira expected it to be plugged, like in an old movie, with a paper stopper, but no: the lid was ordinary, swirling, like on a mineral water bottle.

— Come on, young people, pour! Let's remember... no, how is it? — We're having a good old year!

The smell of fried onions and heated butter filled the room — the most cozy, delicious and homely smell in the world.

—Come on, you see, before the meat, under the salads...— the grandfather urged from the stove, who clearly couldn't wait to bang.

Oleja clumsily poured the liquid into three glasses. They drank it.

— Sam is a cannon bomb! Oleg squeezed his eyes shut like a cat.

These guns with bombs seemed like a monstrous cringe to Ira, but it was impossible to disagree: moonshine smelled of forest herbs and was screwed into the body gently, without pressure, as it was there.

I wanted more.

— Fyodor Fekl… Foek...

Grandfather chuckled.

— I'm Grandfather Fedya, grandfather Fedya! Otherwise you'll break your tongue! I remember that the party manager at our company could never pronounce it the first time, you see, he hissed and spat like a kettle on the stove. Well, it's okay, it's okay, oh, oh, over time, I got annoyed: Fyodor Feoktistovich always demanded respect for himself. As they say, I've been standing on it all my life. You young people don't even know anything about respect anymore, but I...

- Grandfather Fedya, — these words turned out to be strained out of habit, — do you want another drink?

— And I am, and I am!

Even before finishing the second shot, Ira realized that she had to slow down. On an empty stomach, Sam drove at a terrifying speed.

—I'm going to go outside and breathe," she said in Olezha's ear.

He started to follow, but Ira shook her head. I wanted to be alone.

She got back into her timbs and a down jacket, wrapped a scarf like a scarf — she hated hats and never wore them.

It was so beautiful outside that Ira squeezed her eyes shut for a second. The snow covered their footprints, covered all the surrounding ruins, spread out on the spruce paws, and fell and fell in the yellow light of the street lamp. She lifted her head to the sky, raised her arms and spun around, grabbing snowflakes in her mouth. It was calm and joyful; in such cases, they say "as in childhood," but Ira could not remember anything like this from her childhood. I wish I could capture it now, stop it, remember it...

Stop.

She reached into the pocket of her down jacket and fished out her phone. I didn't think about it — you never know what Oleja forbade there.… The prohibitionist has not grown.

I chose the angle, turned the virtual wheel on the screen, adjusting the focal length. I caught in the frame an unreal, like from "Harry Potter", a cone of lantern light with a snowfall trapped inside. I took about fifteen photos, just to be sure. I opened Instagram, selected one, and fiddled with the filters. She came up with the caption: "If you are open to the world, then a miracle awaits at every step." I thought about it. Corrected "miracle" to "Miracle". I touched the geolocation button. I wanted to put "Planet Earth", "Where you are not" or something else equally profound. She grimaced — no, now she wanted sincerity, some kind of... authenticity. I found a dissonant but honest "Zekzulino" in the location options.

For some reason, I whispered it out loud, stumbling over the "k".

I clicked the "Publish" button.

* It belongs to the Meta Corporation, which is recognized as extremist and banned in the Russian Federation