One step into Tomorrow: Reflection
Synopsis
Kostya is the only guest in the world of «Tomorrow.» For everyone else, this ruined land is home, no matter how cruel it has become. To complete his mission and preserve even a single chance to return home, Kostya must go through what no one can be prepared for: brutal battles, betrayal, mutants, bandits, military schemers, and his own doubts.
Every step forward is a trial. Every person he meets is an unknown. Every day is a new struggle where he cannot stop as long as there is even one chance to return to where he is so desperately waited for… And the further he goes, the clearer it becomes: in this world, nothing is given freely, and the price of every decision made is sometimes too high.
Chapter 1. Vysokovsk. Preparing for Battle
«Valentin Ivanovich… Wake up…»
Sergey carefully shook the professor by the shoulder when movement began outside the dusty window. Diffuse dawn light, mixed with the blue smoke from the night fire, seeped through the cracks in the old gates. The streets were still empty, but dull footsteps and sharp shouts already echoed across the factory grounds.
A month had passed since they were brought here, to Vysokovsk—a small town southwest of Klin. Once, it had been a quiet, almost forgotten place with pre-revolutionary architecture and the red brick walls of an old textile factory. After restoration, it was planned to become a cultural center, but everything turned out differently. When the catastrophe struck, the building was quickly taken over by militants.
The prisoners were thrown into one of the concrete boxes—a former factory garage. It stank of oil, old fabric, and dampness. There was a narrow, high window and gaps under the ceiling, and in the evenings, the only light came from a kerosene lamp lit for the night outside the small window. Metal shelves, once cluttered with tools, now served as beds. The walls were adorned with rusty hooks, remnants of Soviet-era posters, and the shadows of patrols passing by the gates.
When the catastrophe began, the factory quickly fell under the control of this passing gang. They operated in an organized manner, splitting into teams and combing the surrounding area. They searched for anything that could be useful in the new world: provisions, weapons, medicine… women.
At first, the militants wanted to get rid of the professor. Dealing with an elderly, sick man was pointless for them. But Sergey persuaded them to spare him. He promised to take care of him, work for two, and follow any orders. It worked. They let him live. For a while.
The professor took a long time to recover. His body was emaciated, his mind wandered. But with each day, he grew stronger, clearer. And for a month now, they had shared this concrete shelter. A kind of cell, but without bars: instead, an old padlock was welded onto the door, and there was a constant guard always lurking nearby.
The gang numbered about a hundred people. Despite the shortage of weapons, their discipline was almost military. It was said their leader was a former mercenary. He had subjugated everyone willing to listen and unquestioningly follow his orders. The rest either disappeared or became goods, slaves.
They even had a flag—a white cloth with a circle divided in half. Inside were some scribbles, resembling both a knife blade and a butcher's hook.
«Yesterday, Vlad, the guard, said they're taking us to Klin in the morning,» Sergey whispered, turning to the professor.
At that moment, someone pounded on the gate.
«Time to pay for your 'hospitality,'» a heavy, dumb voice growled from behind the door. One of the guards—a tall brute with a face like a pig—laughed, pleased with himself.
The professor opened his eyes and slowly sat up on the bunk:
«That's it, Sergey… I'm awake,» his voice was hoarse, but determination rang in it.
Sergey approached the narrow window and looked out. A group of no less than twenty people had already gathered near the old warehouse. Nearby stood a bus, battered, covered in rust. Behind it, a long gazelle van with bars instead of windows.
«I don't like any of this…» he said quietly. «Where are they taking us this time?»
The professor said nothing. He just sat up, leaned against the wall, and looked at Sergey. In his gaze was fatigue and a strange, deep concentration.
Sergey had spent the last month productively. First of all, he had a goal. And that was half the battle. He was no longer wandering in emptiness—now he had a route, a purpose, a bearing. He had to get the professor to Kolomna. Only there could he make contact, report that the mission had failed: the journey across the ocean had become impossible. At least, under these conditions.
Sergey harbored no illusions: they were being kept here for a reason. And the further it went, the more clearly an alarming pattern emerged. Too much attention was being paid to their fates. Before—abandoned, almost forgotten; now—under constant surveillance. And this attention alarmed him more than anything.
Especially after one incident.
Two weeks ago, a black Mercedes had driven onto the factory grounds to the roar of a diesel engine. A man got out. Heavily made up, wearing gloves even in the heat, with eyes that never blinked. He didn't introduce himself, just gestured for the leader and discussed something with him at length, taking him aside. Then Sergey and the professor were brought out. They were pushed out of the garage and placed in the morning light. The man silently examined them both, for a long time, intently, especially the professor. After that, he nodded and left.
Everything had changed since then.
They started feeding them better. Not just scraps, but real food: canned goods, bread, not to mention stew. There was more water. They even lit the lamp earlier. But this was precisely what troubled Sergey most. He didn't believe in gifts from executioners. And such changes almost always meant one thing: they were being prepared for something. Perhaps for a move. Perhaps for sale.
«I really don't like this…» he repeated for the third time that morning.
This time, the whisper came out too loud, and the professor, turning his head, opened his eyes.
«I heard,» he rasped. «And I agree.»
He sat up slowly, calmly, trying not to make noise. Though it hardly mattered to anyone. A cell without bars, without microphones. But with ears behind the door.
Sergey clenched his fingers into a fist.
«We need to get out before they take us to the place,» Sergey said, barely audible, just moving his lips, leaning towards the professor.
«Of course, Seryozha. Whatever you say. I'm ready, I'll do everything you taught me,» the professor replied with unexpected calm. And, as if to confirm his words, he straightened his tattered shirt, trying to look at least somewhat dignified.
Sergey silently nodded. Slowly lowered himself into a crouch by the far wall. The soles of his boots scraped against the concrete. He moved aside the dusty crossbar of the bed with his palm and felt the familiar edge—a dislodged brick, carefully put back in place. At the bottom of the wall, almost at floor level, was his hiding place.
Sometime before, he had pulled an old piece of rebar from the wall—rusty, jagged, but sharp enough. Grinding it into something resembling an awl had been an infernal task, but Sergey managed it. He sharpened it at night on the concrete corners, and now he had at least something. Some kind of weapon.
He placed the fragment inside his boot—slowly, carefully. No one had ever taken his shoes: too rare a size, forty-seven. None of the bandits coveted his boots. The professor, on the other hand, wore ordinary, tattered house slippers on his feet.
«Good luck…» the professor hoarsely whispered as a clang sounded behind the door.
Serge stood up. Slowly. Took a deep breath.
«,» he repeated aloud. And at that same moment, the bolts scraped. The screech of metal against metal. Then a kick to the door with a boot. And the gates swung open.
In the doorway stood Vlad—tall, square-jawed, with bloodshot eyes. In his hands—a rubber baton. Behind him, two more. One with a rifle, the other with ropes.
«Outside, wise guys,» Vlad grinned. «Time to hit the road.»
Sergey took the first step.
Chapter 2. A Warehouse in Kolomna
We drove out of Kolomna towards Zaraysk.
«We'll make a small detour, check something out along the way,» I told the guys.
Nastya, after the cognac she'd had, relaxed and fell asleep almost immediately. The guys, on the other hand, were full of energy and eager for details about our excursion. But they quickly realized they wouldn't get much out of me, so they focused on the road, occasionally breaking the silence with comments and discussions about which way to go.
Finally, the suburbs were behind us, and the car rolled briskly along the highway in complete silence.
About thirty kilometers later, I handed the tablet with my double's marked location to Vasya, who was sitting in the passenger seat acting as navigator. About ten minutes later, we were already pushing our way through thickets of weeds and burdocks. The warehouse was overgrown with grass, neglected, as if forgotten by the whole world.
«Grab the angle grinder, crowbar, hatchet, and let's go. Sanya provides cover. Vasya, with me. Nastya, stay behind the wheel, keep the radio on. Everyone got it?» I looked over our team and, making sure everyone was ready, opened the car door.
The warehouse was neglected, and we had to work on it quite a bit. Finally, after about forty minutes, one of the gate leaves gave way and opened.
In the semi-darkness of the warehouse, with flashlights on, we spotted boxes under a tarpaulin and some other containers. There was also a small partitioned-off room—either an administrative office or a supply closet. Metal cabinets lined the wall. Once upon a time, all this had been lit by large lamps under the ceiling, which were now switched off.
«What is this?» Vasya whispered.
«An inheritance, damn it…» I whispered back.
At that moment, Sanya appeared in the gateway, followed by Nastya.
«And what are you doing here?» she asked, hiding her curiosity behind a smile, but her eyes carefully scanned the sizeable warehouse space.
«Wow… And what's in the boxes?» Sanya was about to dash towards the tarpaulin-covered, clearly military treasure, but I harshly stopped his impulse.
«Hey, stand down! Have you completely lost your senses? What did I say to do? Stand where you are. Follow orders. Nastya, flashlight in your teeth and check the paperwork in the admin office,» I nodded towards the room.
«Sanya—take up defense at the entrance. Vasya—camouflage the car. And help Sanya cover the gate. Understood? Get to it. No one takes, opens, or touches anything without my order, or I'll tear your ears off. Move it, soldiers.»
The team snapped to attention while I gave out orders. And as soon as I finished, they immediately sprang into action to carry them out.
I started by checking the cabinets along the wall. Mostly papers, plans, folders, folders, folders… Most of it was junk, long since meaningless.
In one of the cabinets, I found tools. Simple things, needed in any household: screwdrivers, pliers, a rusty hammer. Also boxes with light bulbs, connections for plastic pipes, staples, coils of wire. In short, the kind of stuff every supply manager accumulates over the years. Or just forgotten junk.
But among this junk, I found what I really needed: locks (heavy-duty padlocks) and hinges for the gates.
Everything else in the cabinets wasn't worth attention.
«Kostya, come here, look at this,» Nastya called. She was standing in the doorway of the admin office with an armful of papers.
Just then, Sanya returned.
«Guys, we'll have to search the whole place. Barricade the entrance. And get lunch ready. A dry meal, we'll make do with canned food.»
Even though they kept casting predatory glances at the pile of boxes in the center of the warehouse, they obeyed. They got on with the task without asking unnecessary questions.
«Look, there's nothing here about what's in those boxes. Just waybills from Izhevsk. Quantities, and that's it. Cargo markings… I don't know what they mean,» Nastya frowned, shuffling through the papers. «But here's what else I found.»
She walked over to the cabinet standing next to the desk and opened the door.
I silently looked at the contents, then shifted my gaze to Nastya.
«Now that's interesting,» I said quietly. «Very interesting.»
In the cabinet stood four MRO-A and three RPG-26 «Aglen» launchers. At least, they looked very similar. In our world, we have the Kalashnikov—take a Romanian, Yugoslav, or Russian one, there are differences, but anyone would recognize it. It was the same here: I saw a light version of our «Shmel»—the MRO-A. Maybe it's called something different here, but it looks almost identical. And the «Aglen» is almost a copy.
«With these, it'll be easier for us to get to Klin. We're taking them,» I told Nastya.
«Guys, let's have lunch and then see what else is there,» I nodded towards the boxes, approaching them.
Oh, how they suffered. Poor Sanya, always fond of a good snack, wolfed down the contents of a can of stew, gulped a couple of biscuits, and jumped up clearly ready to open the «treasures.» Vasya wasn't far behind him, and Nastya carefully set aside her unfinished can and stood up with feigned nonchalance.
«Guys, grab the crowbar and hatchet, and let's go.» I wasn't about to part with my food and watched the box opening from the side, continuing to eat.
«Assault rifles… Kalashnikovs. Cool. Brand new, in grease…» Sanya peered inside the box with delight.
He was about to open the next one, but I stopped him again:
«There are more rifles in there too. Don't open it. Check that square one over there.»
Vasya opened the box and lifted a green casing. I looked inside.
«Grenades. Offensive. No fuzes. There should be another compartment nearby.»
And so it was: a box wrapped in wax paper lay to the side. Inside were metal tubes with threads, each one labeled.
«Just don't assemble them yet,» I said. «We'll do everything before we leave. There are twenty of them, one box is enough for us.»
Nastya was already rummaging through an oblong box on the other side.
«Sniper rifles here. SVD-M,» she reported.
She came over to me, carrying one of them. The rifle was better than ours in several ways.
A different type of polymer stock, clearly moisture-resistant. Carbon fiber, probably. Integrated bipod, folds into the bottom of the stock (like on the FN SCAR-H PR or DMR). Side-folding stock with an adjustable cheek piece. The mechanism is reliable, with a toothed lock. Comfortable for shooting from different positions, especially in tight spaces.
Picatinny rail along the full length of the receiver and handguard. Allows mounting any sights: optics, thermal, red dot. There's a backup iron sight that folds down like on an AR-15.
Ventilated handguard with the ability to attach modules. Reminds me of modernized M-Lok systems. You can mount an IR laser, flashlight, foregrip, stabilizer.
Extended capacity magazines, twenty rounds, with transparent windows on the sides—you can see how many are left while shooting.
The barrel is slightly thicker than ours, heavier, which should give improved accuracy. A combined flash hider-compensator on the muzzle, adapted for mounting a sound suppressor module.
The optics were different too. Not a PSO-1, but something closer to a digital sight with illumination and a rangefinder. The sight is easily detachable, powered by a replaceable battery pack or battery. The color is matte dark gray. The caliber remained the same as ours, 7.62x54. In short, the rifle pleased me.
«Alright, guys. We're looking for rifle ammunition. We're taking one box of grenades and the fuzes. We don't need anything else.»
«Kostya, look…» Sanya emerged from behind the boxes, holding a long case. «Is that a bow, or what?»
I walked over. The case was sturdy, with water-resistant fabric, zippers with plastic sliders. On the side panel was a stylized wolf in a crosshair and the inscription: Predator-X / Tactical Series.
«I've never heard of that brand,» I muttered, unzipping the case.
Inside lay a compound bow, cleaned, in perfect condition. Matte carbon-reinforced body, stabilizers with anti-vibration inserts, a drop-away sight with fiber optics, a side-mounted magnetic quiver bracket. Everything inside was laid out clearly: a wrist release, spare string, repair kit, and even oil in a capsule.
«This isn't a hunting bow. It's tactical.» I ran my finger along the bow's limb, feeling a familiar weight. Draw weight around 70 pounds, a crisp let-off. Practically a copy of what I'd trained with, but made not for sport, but for survival.
Sanya had meanwhile found a box of arrows. Four tubes, sealed in plastic. We opened one—inside were carbon arrows, 29 inches long, clearly marked.
«Three types of tips here,» Vasya said, peeking into the packing material. «Razor, armor-piercing, and some blunt ones…»
«Razor tips are cut-on-contact broadheads,» I explained. «For penetration. Armor-piercing ones have a chisel tip, they break bone and armor. The blunt ones are practice tips. Impact, but not as lethal.»
Each arrow weighed about 400 grains, with a shifted center of gravity. The caliber was right. The steel on the tips was nitride-coated, like on armor-piercing knives. Hit with one of these, and even an elk wouldn't stand a chance.
I slowly closed the case and slung it over my shoulder.
«I'm taking this thing. Ammo will run out. But with this, you can kill quietly. More than once. Sanya, Vasya, bring everything we've set aside over here, right by the exit. As soon as I pull the car up, Nastya provides cover, and the three of us load up. Then we put on new locks, cover our tracks, and head out,» I looked at each of them in turn.
Everyone nodded in agreement without another word. The guys immediately went for the gear.
We started dragging the selected items towards the exit: a couple of ammunition boxes for the assault rifles, boxes of SVD ammunition, a box of twenty grenades with fuzes, the bow case and arrow tube, various small items that might come in handy on the road, a coil of paracord, a couple of sleeping bags, water canisters… It added up to a lot, but everything fit.
Chapter 3. The Settlement in Ozyory
Soon we were rolling along a dirt road heading west. We left the key to our cache in a small hiding place under a slab, behind the drainpipe. If something went wrong and one of the four of us managed to get here, they could access everything we hadn't taken.
Nastya drove confidently, squinting slightly at the sun. Sanya was silent, turning a folding knife in his hands. Vasya glanced at the tablet.
«So, where to next?» he asked, turning to me.
«We head for the A-108. The Big Ring. Then towards Klin. But there's another question. These names… Are they the same here?»
Nastya nodded and, without taking her eyes off the road, said:
«So far, everything you've named matches.»
I continued:
«A lot of them match, I've noticed. Ozyory, Kashira, Kolomna—all sound familiar. Only sometimes things are different. A settlement exists here, but we didn't have it. Sometimes it's the opposite, it's missing. But the roads seem to be the same as ours.»
«Got it. So we navigate by the map, but check everything.»
«Maybe we can get hold of a local map somewhere?» Sanya smirked.
«Should we stop in Ozyory?» Vasya clarified.
«To refuel. We'll play it by ear. Need to take a look. If we see something's wrong, we'll drive straight through. I need to check one more address there, but we won't take unnecessary risks.»
We reached Ozyory without incident. The road, though broken in places, held up. Potholes, cracks, of course, were present, but there were no traffic jams. In one place, just before the turn-off, we had to push aside a Chinese hatchback blocking the way. Empty, sunk into the ground, as if abandoned in a hurry. Everything was quiet and seemed absolutely empty. Until we reached the entrance to Ozyory.
As soon as the first houses appeared, about a hundred meters from us, a motorcyclist shot out from behind a shabby kiosk standing by the road. In an instant, he was racing towards the center, gunning it to the limit.
«Went to warn someone,» Vasya muttered. «We'll probably be met now. Maybe we should go around somehow?»
I hesitated. My eyes darted between the road, the shoulders, and the gray sky over the rooftops. Then I finally decided:
«Turn the car around. Park over there by the kiosk. If they start shooting, they won't hit us right away. And we'll be able to get away.»
Nastya silently nodded and turned the wheel, pulling off the road. The car softly crunched over the gravel and stopped almost right against the concrete wall of the kiosk.
«Nastya, Vasya—into that house,» I pointed to a two-story building on our side of the road, about twenty meters away. «Position yourselves so you can cover us. But if shooting starts, head straight for the car, and we leave in the opposite direction. We'll wait here for about thirty minutes. Then we leave.»
Didn't have to tell them twice.
Five minutes later, we were in position. Sanya and I by the car. Nastya and Vasya on the second floor, with windows overlooking the road. Two barrels stared out from behind the tattered curtains, and I knew they'd cover us.
The first ten minutes, we just stood in silence. Listening. There was almost nothing to see: the street ahead was empty, the air still, as if the city was holding its breath. Occasionally, a gate creaked in the distance, a shutter banged somewhere, but it all sounded like the sounds of a deserted city, not a threat.
Sanya crouched by the hood, fiddling with his rifle. His fingers moved automatically, checking the bolt, adjusting the sling. I stood leaning against the cab, watching the road. My eyes stung from the strain—the gray sky, the blinding dusty light, the glare off the glass.
Fifteen minutes. Nothing.
Twenty. A lone raven appeared on the horizon, landed on a roof. No cars. No people. No motorcade we'd been expecting.
After another five minutes, Sanya relaxed. Leaned back against the wheel and stretched.
«Maybe he just took off because of us?» he muttered.
«Maybe,» I replied. But I didn't believe it.
Half an hour. A shadow flickered in the house—Nastya moved to the other window. Vasya stayed in his original spot. From there, he had a good view of the turn, and if anyone moved from that side, they'd know first.
The city was still silent.
No shots, no voices, no engine sounds. Only the wind carried the smell of dampness and dust.
I looked at Sanya, then signaled to the window opposite. Nastya nodded.
«That's it,» I said, «let's go.»
Even though it was quiet and there were no signs of life, I still couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching. From the dark eye sockets of broken windows, from the alleyways. Too quiet.
There was no point in just standing here any longer, and I had no desire to drive forward and risk the squad.
Footsteps sounded from the house—Nastya and Vasya were moving from their positions. Sanya stayed by the car to cover us to the last.
I turned and started towards the driver's door of the jeep when a voice came from a dark alleyway:
«Just going to leave like that? Without a word? Without tea?»
The voice caught me off guard. It sounded calm, but with a weary smirk. Sanya immediately aimed at the opening, and Nastya and Vasya retook their positions at the windows.
«I'm coming out now. Slowly. Don't be nervous,» the same voice continued. «Just no sudden moves, good people. We're coming out.»
A man appeared first. Military uniform, rifle combat-ready on his chest, load-bearing vest—all familiar.
But behind him came… a mutant.
«Don't shoot!» I yelled, almost losing my voice.
Everyone's reaction was instantaneous. Instinct screamed: mutant means danger. But I'd already seen something like this in recon while «flying» over Kolomna. Some mutants… they negotiate. Live with people.
«Come out calmly. Don't worry. We won't shoot,» I said, addressing the mutant directly.
He was taller than all of us. A massive body, altered, but not hideous. He wore camouflage stretched over his broad shoulders. In his hands—a familiar machine gun, the same kind we'd left in Kolomna.
«Who might you be, good people?» the man asked, approaching. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with strong, calloused hands, and straw-colored hair. Around fifty years old, probably.
«Just passing through. Heading to Moscow. Decided to stop in, refuel, get a feel for the situation,» I replied, trying to keep my voice calm. Even though the mutant nearby sent a slight shiver under my ribs.
«Are you with anyone, or on your own?» As he said this, the man glanced at our jeep, coming almost right up to it. His rifle hung on his chest, and he was already pulling out cigarettes.
«On our own. But if it makes it easier for you, consider us military.» I looked him straight in the eye.
He glanced at Sanya, as if assessing.
«Army, huh… Might not even exist anymore, but better the army than the rabble roaming around these days.»
He paused for a moment, lighting his cigarette.
«My name's Arkhip. We live here. And we won't let anyone mess with the town,» he nodded and made a circular gesture above his head.
Somewhere behind the houses, an engine immediately started. Three more people emerged from the alleyway, holding their weapons casually, without threat. A UAZ followed, and the familiar motorcycle. The same one that had left the kiosk. The guy, the motorcyclist, parked with a skid, clearly showing off for us.
The mutant, without looking at us, climbed into the back seat of the UAZ, barely fitting. Arkhip, tossing his rifle into the vehicle, turned back to me:
«What's your decision? Staying or moving on?»
«We'll spend the night with you, if you'll have us.»
«Then follow me,» he said curtly and slammed the UAZ door shut.
«Seriously? They've got a mutant on a leash… How did I manage not to shoot him?» Sanya patted his rifle, as if calming both it and himself.
«You think it's safe?» Vasya asked.
«I think so,» Nastya answered for me. «If they wanted to kill us, they'd have done it before the conversation. But it's too early to relax. We leave in the morning.»
They put us up in a house by the road, about two hundred meters from their base. That it was a base was beyond doubt: barbed wire, fences, machine gun nests. All correct, no need to let strangers into the main house, especially temporary passers-by like us.
«Alright, make yourselves at home, get some rest. Put the car in the yard—no need to show it off. It's a good house, you'll find somewhere to settle. It's quiet here. Gangs pass through sometimes, but they're just passing through. All the locals are on good terms with us,» Arkhip told this casually, already standing by the car.
«Kostya,» I introduced myself, extending my hand.
«Nice to meet you. Rare to meet decent people these days,» he shook my hand firmly, like a man.
«Arkhip, you mentioned fuel…» I reminded him. «And also. I need to meet someone. Here's the address.» I showed him the photo and coordinates on the tablet. He snapped a photo with his smartphone.
«I'll let my people know. We'll check it out. As for fuel—come to those gates in an hour,» he nodded towards the base.
The house was cozy, clean, clearly renovated before the epidemic. Smooth ceilings, walls without cracks, smelled of wood and old furniture. Not rot, as was often the case.
«There's water in the bathroom, guys!..» Nastya burst out of the shower room with a happy face, as if she'd won a million. «And there's hot water too. Do what you want, but I'm first in the shower!»
She disappeared behind the door, then flickered outside—dashed to the car for her backpack—and disappeared into the house again.
«Well, looks like we're moving in,» I said, looking around. «Anyway, guys, you two are in that room. I'm in the living room. Nastya—here.» I opened the bedroom door opposite and, turning around, added: «And… be careful. Leave everything the way we found it.»
Having spread a cloth on the table in the living room, I started cleaning the ORSIS. Then I took out the bow and began mounting the accessories: sight, stabilizers, attachments. Sanya and Vaska immediately sat down next to me, looking on with interest, not interrupting. This was new to them.
When I was finishing attaching the tips to the arrows, there was a knock at the door.
«I just popped in, neighborly,» Arkhip entered with another man. The man carried a deep basket. «For getting acquainted, Konstantin?» Arkhip produced a sweaty bottle without a label.
«There's a seventy-liter water heater there,» said the accompanying man, nodding towards the shower room. «Wait an hour, and there'll be hot water again. And also, over there in the corner, there's a live electrical outlet.»
He extended his hand to me:
«My name is Vasily Stepanovich. I'm in charge of everything here.»
«Kostya,» I replied, shaking his hand.
«Let your guys set the table,» Arkhip continued, «and you and I will have a quiet word, if you don't mind.» He glanced briefly at the laid-out rifle and bow, and in that glance was everything: respect, caution, and interest.
We went outside. Evening was falling. It was calm, even strangely calm—just to walk without weapons, talk, while they prepared snacks in the house. Warm, quiet, smelling of wood smoke.
On a bench by the wall, lounging relaxed, sat the mutant, the same one. Silently. Just present. Arkhip nodded to him, after which the mutant stood up and slowly walked towards the gate.
«Kostya, you seem like a normal guy. And your team seems like good people. I'll tell you straight: no matter what you answer now, you'll get fuel. You're our guests until morning. But after that… we'll see.»
Silence hung for a couple of minutes. The men lit up, and they looked hesitant: they were preparing for a conversation and figuring out how to start.
«Rumors reached us about shooting in Kolomna. I'll ask you straight: did you take out Kashtan?» Arkhip didn't exactly shock me with his question: his glance, when we met at the kiosk, had lingered on our captured jeep. I'd noticed.
«For what purpose are you asking?» I replied calmly, not looking away.
«Kashtan killed my brother. And did a lot of other things,» he said directly, simply, without threat, without pity. Just as it was.
«He wanted to bring us under his thumb,» Vasily Stepanovich interjected. «Arkhip Semyonych told him where to go back then. And then… then things started. When we saw your car, we immediately recognized it as his lackeys' ride. We were going to waste all of you. But then Semyonych talked it over with Fedka,» he nodded towards the gate where the mutant still stood silently, «and we watched you for a while. Saw your boys, your girl. Figured…» he spoke hurriedly, as if afraid of being interrupted and the truth slipping away.
I shifted my gaze back to Arkhip:
«You won't get a direct answer from me. But what happened to Kashtan… It was inevitable. That's how it had to be.»
Arkhip was silent. Just extended his hand to me.
«We're getting you new transport. This one's too conspicuous,» he nodded with clear distaste at the jeep. «Well, shall we go, as they say, sit down for a drink to get acquainted?»
Arkhip and the supply manager and I sat until it was completely dark outside. In the house, everything had long since quieted down: the guys had gone to sleep, Nastya was also nodding off, sitting by the wall, and quietly disappeared into her room. Arkhip and I had gotten into a conversation, but at some point he nodded and got up too.
«See you in the morning, get some rest, Kostya,» was all he said in parting.
I went back into the house. The soft light of candles gently filled the living room, shadows dancing on the walls. The air was warm, smelling of wood and something homely.
«Never did get to take a shower,» flashed through my mind.
And immediately I plunged into the darkness of sleep.
Chapter 4. Ozyory. The Sniper
Explosions and gunfire woke me just as dawn was beginning to break outside. It was still dark, but the sky was already lightening. That hour when silence is especially fragile.
They were shooting from the opposite side. It wasn't just banging at cans—a real firefight. Grenade blasts, the sound of heavy weapons, automatic fire. All serious.
I pulled on my boots, fastened my belt, and within moments was standing on the porch in full gear.
Vasya flew out onto the porch: barefoot, in just his pants, rifle in hand, hair disheveled.
«Are we leaving, Commander?» he asked, looking around.
«Where to?» I shot him a glance. «These people invited you, fed you, gave you drink… And you'd abandon them? Get everything together. Pack up. Combat ready. Wait for me. If I'm not back, fall back to the warehouse, hold up there. Got it?»
Vasya was about to object, but at that moment a car tore into the yard. A guy jumped out, out of breath, with a radio in his hand. He handed it to me.
«Arkhip, this is the Guest. Over.»
«Kostya, help us out. Help us fight them off. We need a sniper, without one we're screwed.»
«Wait. On my way. Over.»
«Vasya! The rifle, ammo, grenades. Move it!»
The guy disappeared into the house, and together with the messenger we loaded my backpack into the car's trunk. Half a minute later, Vasya ran out again—fully equipped, just as barefoot.
«We'll hold the fort, Commander!» he shouted, handing me the rifle.
The car roared and tore off.
While the car raced towards the main base, I quickly geared up: checked magazines, stuffed grenades into pouches, adjusted my vest. Everything had to be at hand.
By the time we pulled up to the building where Arkhip was waiting for me, accompanied by Fedka the mutant, I was fully ready.
«We don't have any long-range stuff,» Arkhip said immediately. «Kostya, help us out. Take out at least the ones with the heavy guns. They're laying down fire so we can't lift our heads.»
I didn't ask any unnecessary questions. Instead, I quickly looked around, and my gaze fell on a five-story building standing at the edge of the fenced-off zone.
«Anyone living in that building?» I asked, nodding towards it.
«A few families, but we've already sent everyone to shelter,» Arkhip replied.
«Excellent.»
I turned to the messenger:
«Fighter, follow me. If I tell you to jump, you jump. If I tell you to freeze, you freeze. Got it?»
He nodded confidently. In his eyes—determination and a readiness to go through hell.
«Take this case. And this backpack. Let's go. Don't forget the radio.»
We ran towards the building. The battle was already raging: roar, people running, screams, explosions.
The stairwells were protected from direct hits, but heavy clouds of dust still hung in the air. Explosions sounded muffled here. The apartment doors on the fifth floor were wide open.
«Wait here for me,» I said, leaving the messenger on the landing. Took the rifle and backpack from him, handing him my rifle and vest in return.
«Give me the radio, brother.»
He hastily pulled it out and handed it to me.
«Maybe I should go with you?..» he began.
«Wait. Only if I call. And watch that no one comes up from behind,» I cut him off.
I entered the apartment and immediately closed the door behind me. Semi-darkness. Dust hung in a pillar in the hallway. A mortar round had hit the living room—the attackers clearly had mortars. I muttered quietly:
«Mortars… So it's serious.»
The next moment, several more explosions shook the building. And they also had a heavy machine gun: the dull thuds spoke for themselves.
Without approaching the window, I carefully surveyed the battlefield. From the river side, a unit was approaching the base. They worked professionally: precisely eliminating pockets of resistance, looking for weak points in the defense, then planning to break through. With such support—mortars and heavy guns—they'd be hard to stop.
I raised my binoculars and froze. My heart first stopped, then started pounding wildly. Above a jeep with a heavy machine gun fluttered a white banner. On it—a circle divided in half, with a symbol inside.
The symbol of Abu Faiz.
Well, we meet…
I was already raising the ORSIS.
Flashback. River area near Ozyory
The squad had been scouring the area for a week, looking for something really worthwhile. Abu Faiz had given the order: prepare goods for trade. Weapons, drugs, slaves—everything went into circulation. The order was clear: winter is coming, and everything they got now would keep them warm during the cold. So they were trying hard to distinguish themselves.
Grishka the Red—Abu Faiz's favorite. He literally bent over backwards just to please. He didn't spare his men, took on the most dangerous missions. Recently, he'd tried to take control of a small military unit. Soldiers with families had holed up there, and it seemed like easy pickings. But he got his teeth kicked in, retreated, and was about to return to Vysokovsk empty-handed when luck suddenly struck.
A guy, covered in bruises and abrasions, fleeing from Kolomna, was like a gift from fate. Said he was Kashtan's deputy, the leader of the Ryazan gang, and had barely escaped pursuit. He said the gang controlled the area, but there was one place left—Ozyory. No one went there, and the loot should be fabulous. Viktor—that was his name—swore the settlement only had small arms and nothing else.
Grishka got excited. Sent out scouts—everything was confirmed. A settlement, lots of women, children, almost no guards. Confident in his strength, Grishka decided to approach along the river, from the side where defenses were minimal. He set up mortars—four 75mm guns—and a couple of heavy machine guns. After softening up the walls and houses, he began the assault.
Viktor became Grishka's favorite: for such an intel, the senior was ready to carry him in his arms, included him in one of the squads, and promised him a command if he proved himself.
The assault began at dawn. The mortars started talking, panic began in the settlement. The defenders tried to fight back, but weakly. Behind the Ural trucks, equipped with push bumpers, four groups lined up. All they had to do was cover about three hundred meters, under the cover of mortars and heavy guns. The chances of anyone being able to pop up and fire accurately were minimal. This tactic had been tested more than once. Everything was going according to plan, until suddenly one of the mortars fell silent. Then the second. The machine guns also stopped.
«There's a sniper there,» reported an out-of-breath artilleryman. «First he worked from the five-story, then he moved. The last shots came from the flank. He took out the far mortar crew first, then the jeep with the machine gunner. One after another. Twenty minutes passed, and half of our guys are 'two-hundredth.' No spotters left. Machine guns damaged. We need to retreat, Grishka. They've recovered. We're sitting ducks. They'll kill us all here.»
Grishka went berserk. He pulled out his pistol and emptied it into the artillery senior.
«Forward, you bastards! I'll kill you all!» he raged, urging his men on.
After half an hour of fighting, over sixty bodies lay on the field. The hit Ural trucks were burning. No one ever reached the wall.
Only then did Grishka give the order to retreat.
The senior had no plan to surrender. He intended to pull out those who were left—out of a hundred and twenty fighters, barely forty-five were in formation—regroup and repeat the attack later. Ozyory didn't seem impregnable, just unlucky. A too-successful shooter was a temporary obstacle.
He was about to give the order when a sharp blow to his shoulder knocked him off his feet. The sniper had gotten him after all. Grishka's body was grabbed and dragged behind a hit Ural. Blood flowed fast. The bullet had gone through his right shoulder, nicked a rib, and lodged somewhere in his lung. Foam came from his mouth, pink and sticky.
«The commander's hit!» a cry rang out.
The surviving fighters glanced at each other, gathered near the vehicles. Silently, without hysterics, only once did someone curse softly. It became clear to everyone: that was enough. With the remaining forces, without mortars, you couldn't take an enemy like that. Grishka, though alive, was barely breathing.
«We're going back,» said one of the seniors. And the rest just nodded.
Gathering the remnants of the squad, they moved towards Klin. Home. To the base.
By the river, the vehicles and over fifty corpses and wounded were left to burn.
Chapter 5. Ozyory. A Well-Deserved Respite
I was waiting for Arkhip to pick me up. He had personally promised to take me back after the battle. Nearby, at the entrance to the local administration, the messenger, proud beyond belief, was surrounded by a crowd of Ozyory residents.
«Then we went from the five-story to another entrance, then to the water tower, from the tower to a merchant's house on the roof, from there back to the five-story. I must have run ten kilometers today, but it was worth it,» he was enthusiastically telling them about his morning exploits, how he had participated in the defense alongside the sniper and personally saved several people.
Everyone knew that it was thanks to the passing army sniper that they had managed to fight off the mega-gang. Ozyory had lost sixteen men and two women, many were wounded, but that was nothing compared to what could have happened if the settlement had fallen. Everyone knew exactly how the bandits treated the captured.
Upon my return, however, a storm awaited me.
«Why did you go alone again?» Nastya's voice cut like a knife. «Why do you have a squad if you ignore it? If you leave your people like that?»
«Nastya, dear, don't be like that. I just had to react quickly…» Arkhip tried to intervene.
«Arkhip Semyonych, don't interfere. We have our own business here,» Nastya cut him off sharply.
In general, she was right. But I desperately didn't want to get into an argument right now; I knew that later, when things calmed down, I'd explain everything properly. But for now, I just mechanically cleaned the rifle that had served me so well. Vasya and Sanya were helping me, diligently avoiding looking at either me or Nastya—just like children when their parents argue because of them.
«Konstantin… we'll… go. Later, please come to us. We'll remember the fallen, and figure out what to do next together,» Vasily Stepanovich was backing towards the door, pulling Arkhip along with him.
«Indeed, Kostya. We've got a ton of things to do. I'll send a car for you when we're ready,» said the head of the settlement, cautiously eyeing Nastya as he went out the door.
«Nastya, check the binoculars and put them on charge. They fell out on me once,» I continued cleaning my weapon. «They promised to arrange laundry for us in the settlement. So get your things ready: who knows when we'll have another chance.»
When the meaning of what I'd said finally dawned on Nastya, she suddenly remembered something and hurried into the room.
«She almost shot us all,» Sanya whispered. «Commander, after you left, she started getting ready to follow you. Vasyan told her the order was to pack up and wait. But she wouldn't listen. We barely convinced her. Although… I think she's right. We are a team, after all,» he added more quietly.
«I'm not going to undress before bed anymore,» Vasya put in.
«Anyway, guys, you have half an hour to gather your laundry. And enough about today. We did everything right. Debriefing over. Go get ready. Be armed and looking like a million bucks.»
The guys left. But after about ten minutes, Vasya returned.
«Kostya, I said something stupid this morning when I was half asleep, without thinking. I wouldn't have left them. Don't get the wrong idea.»
«I didn't. It's okay, Vasya. I sometimes say stupid stuff too. Just look at our Nastya… she says all sorts of things. The main thing is actions, brother. Go get ready.»
At that moment, Nastya was pulling a bag of laundry out of the room, listened a bit, then waved her hand and lost all interest in our conversation.
The car came for us an hour and a half later, when the sun was already beginning to set. The morning messenger was at the wheel. He introduced himself:
«Hello, my name is Slava.»
The guys greeted him with handshakes. And Nastya, as if she'd known him for a hundred years, immediately asked him to help with the duffel bag containing our laundry.
«Kostya, here are the trophies. Two mortars turned out to be intact, the other two are wrecked. We'll keep them for spare parts,» Arkhip showed me a pile of weapons. Nearby stood three vehicles. Behind the gates were Ural trucks. «The equipment is damaged, of course, but repairs are our thing. We'll fix what we can and put it back in service. About forty assault rifles, we can assemble one machine gun from two. We have a gunsmith, a former warrant officer, oh, he's good at it. Lots of ammo, grenades, under-barrel launchers, pistols… We took two rifles. In short, we'll be able to rearm a lot of people. And most importantly—the settlement survived. It didn't fall.»
He carefully draped a tarpaulin over the weapons and continued:
«Take whatever you want from this. It's all yours by right. Just don't take the mortars and heavy guns. Don't be offended, we'll really need them for defense.»
«Arkhip, I'm full to bursting. I don't need anything. We'll stay with you tonight, and leave tomorrow.»
«Where to? No, you can't go tomorrow. The laundry won't be dry, and we're not ready. Rest. The day after tomorrow, you set off in the morning. And don't argue,» he stopped my ready objection. «The people have decided. And while you're here, we'll finish your business. We'll check the address.»
Later, we sat at a communal table, remembering the dead. Many came up, greeted us, talked, simply thanked us. Ordinary people who had found shelter in this terrible and complex world. They knew how to enjoy small things, knew how to be grateful, and were ready to die for their own. And I looked at all this and was happy. Happy that I had been able to help. That my training, experience, and luck hadn't failed me this time either. And most importantly—that no one from the team had been hurt. They had already become family.
The farewell dragged on. Then, already in the dark, Slava drove everyone home. And there, a surprise awaited us. They had hastily wired the house for electricity—before, it had only been in the shower. They'd installed a refrigerator and a coffee maker, connected a gas cylinder to the kitchen stove, and the refrigerator was stocked so full that a large family could live for a week without leaving the house.
«Rest. No one will disturb you tomorrow. Security is everywhere. You can sleep in peacefully,» Slava said, wished us goodnight, and left.
We lived like royalty for a day. We all went together to shoot the bow. Watched movies, ate local delicacies, drank coffee, and simply enjoyed the silence. It was a rare gift, a respite on the road.
Chapter 6. Ozyory. Fedka
Arkhip arrived first thing in the morning. As always, Fedka accompanied him. The latter hadn't uttered a single word during all this time. Only once did Kostya notice any emotion from him: during the assault, when one of the enemy groups got too close. Then Fedka, machine gun at the ready, stepped forward and literally swept them away at the approaches to the wall.
In general, Fedka had become something of a mascot for Ozyory. The locals said that thanks to him, other mutants didn't come into this area. Today, as usual, he settled on a bench near the house and stared blankly into space with an impassive look.
«So, are you ready?» Arkhip looked agitated, as if on pins and needles. «My guys will be here soon. Let's sit for a bit.»
About twenty minutes later, a vehicle reminiscent of a «Lynx» from my world pulled up. It had armored arches and bulldozer blades welded onto it, with fuel canisters strapped on top.
«Here, take it!» Arkhip announced proudly. «We dug it out of an FSB garage. It'll suit you just fine. This is from everyone, a gift.»
The gift was conspicuous, too conspicuous, but it was impossible to refuse such a vehicle.
«Thanks, Arkhip. You really surprised me!» I walked around the vehicle, checked the controls, looked in the trunk—I was satisfied. More than that, even.
«Tires are bulletproof, has a tire inflation system. A good combat vehicle,» Arkhip was literally beaming with pride.
And when Nastya came over, hugged him and kissed him on the cheek, a deep blush immediately covered his face.
We started loading things into the «Lynx»—that's what this vehicle was called here. We packed them by priority: ammunition, food, water supplies, medicine. Well-wishers also arrived: men with weapons, women, children. Almost everyone living in the settlement.
«We checked your address. No one's been there for a long time. The door's kicked in, the house is deserted,» reported the head hunter, as Arkhip had introduced him.
And then something strange happened.
«A Creature is looking for you. Be careful.»
The phrase popped into my head. The feeling was like hearing an announcement at the airport—distinct, clear. I flinched and involuntarily looked at Fedka. He, as usual, sat on his bench, staring into the distance. Impassive, motionless. None of those present reacted. «So it's only me who hears this?» I asked myself the obvious question.
Not knowing how, I decided to mentally send him a question: I just clearly thought it, formulated the text, and mentally spoke it: «Who is this Creature?»
The answer came instantly, again silently, but clearly: «Very strong. And very cruel. Be careful.»
«Thanks, Fedka,» I thought back.
Fedka didn't even stir. Not a gesture, not a glance. Only the wind lightly ruffled the folds of his camouflage.
The feeling from such mental contact was like an MRI. I had an examination after being wounded. You lie there thinking about your own things, and suddenly a voice comes from nowhere: «Hold your breath.»
I took a nervous breath and returned my thoughts to the people seeing us off.
«Well, time to go. Mount up,» I commanded, and we started loading up.
The car slowly moved towards the exit. We honked for a long time, saying goodbye to these people who had left a mark on the soul of every member of the squad.
Chapter 7. Vysokovsk. Another Failure
Abu Faiz was angry. Nothing like this had happened to him since he had organized his squad here, in this infected and rotting world. Before, of course, things had happened. His squad had been destroyed in Syria, then he gathered new men—and again luck turned away. When the epidemic started, he returned to Russia. He did it for one simple reason: in ruined Syria, it was hard to survive even before the epidemic, and now there was no one left at all. Maybe there were people in some villages, but very few. And Abu Faiz was used to living comfortably.
As soon as he arrived in Russia, he immediately began gathering a squad. After about six months, he already had about a hundred men. The ideology had to be adjusted: it was impossible to find radicals in the required numbers here. But he kept the flag—it was his pride, his personal banner. After a year, Abu Faiz had become the commander of one of the most serious gangs in this part of Russia. Of course, there were remnants of the army, there were other groups from which one could expect strong resistance. But for some settlers to smash one of the best squads, killing almost everyone and destroying the equipment, he hadn't expected.
Grishka the Red was, of course, too hot-headed and pushed straight ahead, but he did it to please Abu Faiz, and that had to be encouraged. Loyal people needed to be kept close—Abu had learned that back in Syria, after repeated betrayals.
He was listening to Grishka's deputy's report for the third time. Grishka himself had only regained consciousness this morning, and Abu wanted to talk to him separately. Along with the squad, a local had also come—Viktor. He had led the squad to that settlement. At first, he was confident, but after the personal executioner had worked him over, Viktor had turned into a rag, ready to lick the floor of Abu Faiz's office on his knees. He was babbling something about other worlds. Abu wanted to shoot him, but decided to wait until Grishka recovered.
«Abu, we're ready to leave. Loading the devils and heading to the mutants. Then we'll stop by the market, everything according to plan,» reported the base chief, entering the office.
«Good. Take them, and as soon as they pay, leave immediately. Quicker with those mutants,» Abu Faiz grimaced. He hated dealing with them, but they paid well. For some reason, they needed people—not all, but only those they chose themselves. They chose a half-dead old man. And when they found out he had been nursed back to health and literally pulled from the grave by a big guy captured somewhere near Moscow, the mutant demanded him too. That was good: the ammunition received would be enough for a whole group's raid.
«What about Grishka? Is he conscious? Can he talk?» Abu stopped the already departing commandant with a question.
«Yeah, he's conscious. Silent, angry, can talk, though with difficulty.»
«I'll go see him in ten minutes. And tell them to bring that idiot… what's his name… Viktor. I'll deal with him after Grishka.»
The infirmary was located in a lower room. It used to be a workshop, then it was converted and even equipped with supplies from the local hospital. Abu Faiz was not a frequent guest here, and his appearance was unexpected. All the doctors and nurses dropped everything and stood in respectful bow.
At that moment, the door to one of the wards opened, and a pretty woman in a white coat came out.
«Who are you?» Abu asked, stopping her with a gesture.
«Doctor, Maria Sergeeva. Surgeon. I was sent to help from Livino.»
Livino paid tribute to Abu Faiz, and so far there had been no problems with them.
«You'll come to me in an hour,» he said in a tone that brooked no argument, and threw a glance at his bodyguard: «Check her out.»
The latter nodded almost imperceptibly. No longer paying attention to the pale woman, Abu entered Grishka's ward.
«So, screwed up again? Seventy men in Ozyory, twenty before that at the military's… Are you completely out of your mind?» Abu scolded him, lounging on the next cot and picking at the fruit on a plate. «Keep quiet. I've already been told everything. Why did you drag that idiot Viktor here? Why didn't you kill him right away?»
«He was with the Ryazan guys. And there were rumors they'd found some kind of channel. I didn't put pressure on him, and then I was unconscious. He came with a pistol. All his other weapons were standard, but the pistol… I'd never seen anything like it. So I wanted to find out where it came from…»
«Alright, when you're better, we'll put pressure on him together. For now, let them patch him up. Our executioner broke some things on him.»
With that, Abu left the infirmary. He was already anticipating his meeting with the woman doctor. And when, in the corridor in front of his office, he saw the bodyguard and Viktor standing nearby, he grimaced with disgust.
«Alright, live for now,» he threw contemptuously at Viktor. «You'll be moved to a better room. We'll see later.»
«You can't…» Viktor whispered through his broken lips and knocked-out teeth.
«What can't I, idiot?» the leader was beginning to lose his composure.
«You can't let the man go. I met him in the yard. Him and the old man with him. They were being taken somewhere. He's a liaison from that other world. You can't kill him…» from the strain, Viktor's blood began to flow. Fragments of teeth cut his broken and swollen lips. But he uttered this phrase to the end, despite the pain.
Then Abu Faiz remembered Grishka's words.
«Where are his things?» he growled at the bodyguard.
The pistol, delivered about five minutes later, was unmistakable. The serial number clearly showed it had been manufactured in Izhevsk, in 2012, in a large batch.
«Where did you get this?»
«Through the channel. I told you…»
At that moment, the woman doctor entered the office, pushed in by the bodyguard.
«Everyone out!» Abu Faiz yelled, grabbing his radio. «Get out!»
The radio didn't answer. The group transporting the prisoners to the mutants wasn't responding.
Later, a squad sent in pursuit would find an old bus crashed into a pole about twenty kilometers from the base. Three guards had been killed with an ordinary piece of rebar, which was still sticking out of the driver's throat.
**Chapter 8. Ozyory. The Start of the Route**
Vasya was driving the "Lynx," while Sanyok took the navigator's seat. Nastya and I settled into the wide back seat. The route had been agreed upon yesterday, and nothing foreshadowed any problems right up to the boundary beyond which Arkhip's groups hadn't ventured. Soft music was playing in the cabin, which I had started from my terminal.
I was surprised by how such things could coincide: for example, Bluetooth, automatic systems, cars. How is it possible to have such similar technologies in two completely different worlds? Sometimes entire towns here simply don't exist, and sometimes even house numbers match. It all seemed strange. I had a hypothesis, of course, but to confirm it, I needed knowledge and a foundation. For now, I put off thinking about it until a better time.
"Kostya, please don't be angry…" Nastya finally ventured. I had noticed for a while that she was ill at ease.
"You see, it hasn't even been a week since I watched guys get shot right in front of me at the sports complex in Shchurovo. Then you showed me how he died… well, you know who." She paused briefly, meeting my gaze. "Then suddenly I became an instructor, a sniper's assistant. We broke into the warehouse together. I… I became needed by someone again. You understand? Guys?"
Vasya and Sanya in the front seats grew quiet, afraid to even move.
"And suddenly you disappear. Just disappear. And all around there's shooting, explosions. War. No idea if you're coming back or not. What are we supposed to do? We're dependent on you and your decisions now. Us and our future."
She skillfully steered the conversation towards the collective, subtly involving the guys.
"I understand," I nodded. "You're right, I'm used to making quick decisions. But how about this: we'll develop an algorithm for such situations. So there won't be any more situations where the three of you are just waiting for me to come back."
"Kostya, we can't manage without you. You started this, you have to see it through," Nastya finished with a strained but warm smile.
We drove a bit further in silence.
"You're right, Nastya. We need a clear action plan for different situations. I'll say one thing. And I'm warning you right away: no objections. Not as a commander, but as a friend. You're not ready. Clearing a building – yes. Patrolling – also yes. Escorting transport – maybe, although even that needs practice. But for combat operations – no."
I looked at each of them. No one argued.
"Nastya, you shoot excellently, but that's not the main thing. You don't even know the basics. I'll do everything to teach you. I promise. And you promise me that you will only act on my command. As long as I'm in a state to command. If something happens to me, command passes to Vasily."
Everyone exchanged glances. Even Vasya's eyes widened.
I raised my hand, stopping potential questions: "Vasya is sensible, level-headed, and has experience with urban clashes. Anyone have questions?"
Silence.
"You're right, Kostya," Nastya was the first to respond. "I haven't even killed a mutant even once. I don't know how I'll behave if it comes to that."
"I'm glad you understand. I have no one closer, dearer, or more precious than the three of you. Not in this world, nor in that one. Except for Nastya," I said, pointing behind me towards Kolomna as I spoke these words.
"Stop here," I pointed to an area in front of the lake. "Ten-minute break. The view is excellent, we'll keep watch in turns, on the lookout point. That's it, disperse if you need to. I'll provide cover first."
While we were driving, I had sketched out the route of advance and now looked at it again on the tablet:
**Ozyory → Kashira → Stupino → Chekhov → Naro-Fominsk → Kubinka → Klin.**
I saved everything.
From the hill where we stopped, you could see the town starting about three kilometers away. No movement anywhere.
In about five minutes, we gathered together again. Before continuing, I showed everyone my movement plan. No one objected.
Climbing back into our "Lynx," we moved on. This time Nastya was behind the wheel, and I settled in next to her – as the navigator.
**Chapter 9. Kashira. Full Throttle**
While the road was still smooth and calm, I gave a quick briefing:
"There's nothing for us in Kashira. We fly through it at speed, without stopping. The Ozyory people said there are no mutants there, and no one controls the town itself. Various drifters poke around looking for what they need."
Next is Stupino. According to my calculations, if any organized military remain anywhere, it's there, where the reserve depots are. They don't leave facilities like that unguarded. And considering that further along the route are Chekhov, Naro-Fominsk, and Kubinka—all military hubs—that means they must have a supply chain. Chances are high everything is under their control.
As I was giving the briefing, the car had already crested another hill. The panorama of Kashira opened up before us. There were still about five to seven kilometers to the city; we hadn't entered it yet, but its outskirts were already visible. To the right stretched fields and plantings; ahead, old dachas and, possibly, abandoned farms could be made out.
Somewhere on the northern outskirts, smoke was rising, but we needed to go the other way. Scanning with binoculars revealed nothing, so we drove on. Almost until the very exit, we encountered no one, and we were starting to relax when suddenly a "loaf" van came flying around a corner. I mean *flying*, leaning dangerously to one side. It turned in the same direction we were headed and, flooring it, sped away.
"There's some kind of local action going on here," Sanya voiced.
"Turn around," I calmly told Nastya.
The girl began turning on the narrow street, trying to maneuver in the tight space. And then, from around the corner, came a sound I wouldn't mistake for anything else. That piercing howl, almost metallic, as if cutting through the air—that's the whine of an accelerating BTR's turbine.
"Gas, Nastya. Gas!" I said calmly but firmly, already scanning the surroundings for cover.
The "Lynx" began to accelerate, and at that very moment, the BTR appeared. Four people sat on the armor—mismatched clothing, armed. Although they were chasing the loaf van and weren't looking our way, they spotted us instantly. Without warning, those on top opened fire.
The only thing that saved us was that the heavy BTR had already begun its turn and, moving by inertia, couldn't stop immediately. That was enough time: we got out of their line of sight and, without slowing down, turned at the first intersection.
"Go a kilometer, then right. We'll try to lose them on a parallel street," I told Nastya, checking the navigation.
I turned on the radio and started calling:
"BTR-80… BTR-80, come in."
There was no response. Only static. I repeated a couple more times—silence. We had almost reached the turn I'd chosen as a possible escape route when the airwaves came alive:
"Hey, you drifters!"—a sharp, hoarse voice.—"Kolya Samarsky is making you a very generous offer. You stop, hand over your ride, and you can fuck off, just this once. There won't be any other options. Plenty of free lampposts around. And we'll block the roads, just so you know."
A second of silence. I exchanged glances with Nastya, Vasya, and Sanya. Everything was clear without words.
"Well, guys, they're not going to be reasonable," I said calmly.
"They're not military. So no mercy."
"Sanya, get the 'Aglen' and the 'Bumblebee' ready. Nastya, don't turn here, go to the end of the street. There'll be an intersection with the main road, turn there. Another kilometer."
"Guys, four grenades each. Rifles at the ready. If that BTR spotted us, we won't get away easily. The exit is all open ground: no cover, no weaving—we'll be sitting ducks. Can't risk it."
I quickly glanced at the situation outside the window and added more calmly:
"We'll try to go dark. If that doesn't work, we'll introduce Kolya-the-deer to the 'Aglen'."
But they didn't let us go dark.
Almost simultaneously with our turn, a drone passed parallel to us. It flashed by, seemingly by chance, but a second later it changed course. Sanyok spotted it first.
"That's it, Nastya. Full throttle after the turn! Don't stop until I say so!"
We pressed into our seats, the "Lynx" tearing down the narrow street, bouncing over potholes. The drone disappeared. Most likely, it went higher.
I grabbed the "Aglen," took it off safe, and armed it. Behind me, Vasya silently prepared a spare tube—just in case.
As we flew through a T-junction, I already knew what was coming. And sure enough, on the adjoining street, a bit further up the slope, the BTR was heading our way. About two hundred meters away. Straight for us.
It opened fire a fraction of a second late—bullets slammed into the corner of the house at the intersection, shattering brick and kicking up dust. Nastya swerved and floored the gas to get out of the line of fire.
"Stop!" I yelled.
The car jerked to a halt. I leaped out, dashed to the corner, raised the "Aglen." The frontal profile of the BTR already filled the sight. The drone bobbed out from behind the house again.
I didn't wait. I fired.
A roar, a flash—the jet stream struck exactly on the armor. The BTR lurched sideways, lost control, and skidded into a house, crashing into it. It caught fire right there. The explosion shook the street. Windows in the neighboring building shattered.
The drone, thrown off balance by the shockwave, shot up into the sky and disappeared.
I tossed the tube aside. Sprinting back to the car. The door wasn't even shut before Nastya floored it. The "Lynx" roared away.
Behind us, in smoke and flames, the story of one BTR was ending. Some of those on the armor might have survived, but sticking around to check wasn't in our plans.
A second of silence, and then an explosion of emotion in the car. Sanya screamed on adrenaline, Vasya laughed, slapping Nastya on the shoulder, who could barely contain her mix of laughter and shock.
"We took him out!" Sanya yelled. "That's like… that's like in a movie, holy shit!"
"Caught up, did he, bastard? Caught up? Their roads are blocked, huh… Here, wipe your face…" Vasya was unrestrained, I'd never seen him like this.
"Commander, you owe us a lesson! I want to do that too!" said Sanyok, leaning between the seats.
Nastya just exhaled and shook out her hands, not letting go of the wheel:
"Commander, will you teach us? That was incredible!" Vasya chimed in, his tone calmer now. "Took down a BTR like a cardboard box!"
I just nodded, checking the sight and rearming.
"The 'Aglen' and the 'Bumblebee' are practically the same, except the 'Aglen' is newer and a bit more precise. Same principle: disposable, effective range up to six hundred meters. Main thing—don't stand behind the shooter: the backblast will burn you. Need at least ten meters of clear space behind. Aim, arm it, target—and fire. Just don't hesitate; after the shot, ditch the tube and get out. The shot gives you away like fireworks. And yeah, when firing from buildings, only shoot from the window, not from inside. You'll only make it worse for yourself."
"You aimed right at the front?" Vasya asked, stroking the "Aglen" tube.
"The 'Aglen' isn't a rocket launcher, it's a flamethrower," I explained, not taking my eye off the sight. "It doesn't pierce armor like a shaped charge. It burns everything inside. Thermobaric mixture—the pressure and temperature get so high that no living thing survives inside an armored vehicle. Even if the hull stays intact, the crew is done for."
"Got it…" Vasya muttered, looking respectfully at the tube between the seats.
At that moment, the radio crackled to life again. A different voice this time, raspy, strained, barely holding back emotion, spoke up:
"We'll find you… Not today, so tomorrow. You'll answer for our guys, fucker."
The reception wasn't as clear as the first time.
I silently turned off the radio, first clicking to change the channel.
"They're far away. Seems like there were two groups. Anyway, let's get out of here before they regroup."
Nastya didn't need to be told twice. She immediately floored it, and the "Lynx" surged forward. The echo bounced hollowly off the facades of deserted houses.
We drove for about an hour when we noticed a smoking loaf van by the side of the road.
"Don't stop," I told Nastya.
There were no passengers in sight: most likely, hearing the engine, they had taken cover nearby.
"What's with them?" Nastya asked, eyes on the road.
"Fled at full throttle, and the old girl boiled over. When they heard us, they hid. Their road is their own, ours is ours."
I smirked slightly and, mimicking a subway announcer's voice, added:
"Be careful, the next station is Stupino."
**Chapter 10. Stupino. The Military**
The hill saved us this time too. We had just started ascending when it appeared ahead—not high, but just enough to overlook the valley all the way to the city. I asked Nastya to slow down before reaching the top, and to pull onto the slope only halfway.
"One second," I said, grabbed the binoculars, and got out.
A light wind was blowing. Ahead, less than a kilometer away, the outskirts of Stupino sprawled out. The city seemed quiet, but at the street intersection closer to the center, I noticed barricades and a couple of embedded concrete blocks. That was something.
"Checkpoint," I called over my shoulder. "And, by the looks of it, someone from the former military. Too well-organized."
I looked more carefully. People in camouflage. One with night vision goggles on his helmet. Nearby, a covered BMP with a camouflage net. Clearly guarding the approaches, but they weren't bothering us yet. Although…
"They see us," I stated. "A lens glinted on the roof."
I turned to my people: "Stay in the car. No sudden moves. Wait for a signal."
I took the radio from the dashboard, turned it on, checked the battery and antenna. Took a step forward and raised the radio above my head. With my other hand, I clearly showed five fingers.
For a few seconds, no one moved. Then, at the checkpoint, one of the fighters also raised his hand and showed five.
Contact established.
I pressed the transmit button: "Stupino checkpoint, this is a group from the north. Four people, no injuries, civilians with experience. Request permission to approach and identify. Over."
The radio crackled, and a voice with a slight accent responded: "Received. Visually identified. Approach the control point via the central road, no sudden movements. You will be instructed on the procedure. Stay on channel five."
I turned around: "Alright, let's go. Nice and easy."
When about fifty meters remained, a soldier stepped forward and stopped us.
The instructions came with a slight delay, but the voice was clear: "One person exits. The rest stay in the vehicle. Weapons on safe, no sudden movements."
"Understood. Complying."
I turned to the guys. Nastya was already looking at me. I nodded at her. All calm.
"I'm getting out. Watch the perimeter. If anything, the signal is the same: two short—we come out, one long—we leave."
I got out alone. Hands visible. Moved forward slowly. Radio ready. At ten meters, they stopped me.
"Who are you?" asked one of the greeters.
"Konstantin. Former security and protection specialist. Kolomna."
"What's your purpose?"
"Heading to Kubinka. Want to check on our people. Reason to believe some might still be there."
The man in camouflage with a patch on his chest turned to his comrade; they exchanged glances.
"Alright. Drive your vehicle to sector two. Standard inspection," he pointed the direction.
"Received. Thank you."
I returned to the "Lynx."
"We're moving. They're going to check us now."
Nastya nodded. Her hands on the wheel were white from tension. She didn't ask anything, just started moving, and we drove to a small bay about twenty meters away.
The bay, like the entire checkpoint, was equipped by the book. Any vehicle entering was instantly in crossfire: directly opposite, partially dug in and covered with sandbags, stood a tank. Only the turret protruded, the barrel aimed precisely at those passing through.
To the left and right—embrasures, behind them heavy machine guns. Under the asphalt, a passage was built: a concrete tunnel allowing fighters to move underground. Above the checkpoint towered antennas, protected by makeshift shields against shrapnel and hits. Everywhere, discipline was palpable: fighters in body armor, with communication headsets, each armed to the teeth.
A soldier with a German shepherd patrolled the perimeter slowly. Most likely, the dog was trained to find explosives.
All together, it made a strong impression. This wasn't just a group of survivors. This was an army, organized and ready for serious war.
A man in a helmet and tactical vest, with a rifle slung, stepped forward. He carried himself confidently, like he was in charge. He gestured where to stop, then, waving his hand, invited me over.
"Captain Filatov, Roman," he introduced himself with a wide smile and extended his hand, having first removed his glove.
"Hello. Konstantin, Lieutenant," I replied, shaking his hand. "This is Anastasia, Alexander, and Vasily," I added, introducing the others.
Nastya smiled too, calmly, warmly.
"Hello, Anastasia," the captain said with slight irony but in a friendly way, and then, unable to contain himself, stepped towards her, hugged her tightly, and, laughing, spun her around, lifting her off the ground.
"This is my teacher, guys!" he exclaimed. "I learned to shoot from her!"
His emotions showed he was genuinely delighted. Nastya smiled sheepishly and took it all without much fuss.
"Come have some tea," Roman invited Nastya towards a nearby building. "The men can handle things themselves."
"No way, not until the inspection is over," Nastya refused softly but firmly. "But afterwards, if you invite us, we won't say no," she emphasized the last word.
"Of course, of course," the captain chuckled, as if remembering he was still on duty, and turned to me.
"Open the trunk and doors. If there's any explosives, say so now, otherwise Mukha will sniff them out, and then you won't calm her down," he nodded towards the German shepherd sitting nearby, watching us intently. He bent down and affectionately scratched behind her ears.
"No explosives as such. There are grenades, weapons, of course… Anyway, see for yourself. We have nothing to hide," I said, opening the trunk.
Roman swung the trunk doors wide and began the inspection. He moved confidently, businesslike, but without unnecessary fuss. And he kept catching Nastya's eye.
He was assisted by a silent younger guy in a black uniform and tactical vest, without insignia. His movements showed he knew what he was doing.
At some point, the guy froze, as if he had seen or suspected something dangerous. Without a word, he stepped back a couple of paces, pressed a button on his radio, and reported briefly: "Comrade Major, please come to the CP. There's something here worth looking at."
His voice was calm, but it had that particular tone after which no one asks unnecessary questions.
Roman also looked at the special officer—the one in black could be no one else—with confusion, but didn't ask questions. It was clear he felt awkward, worried about the delay.
"Wait a couple of minutes, we'll sort it out…" he said uncertainly, with a strained smile.
The guy in black continued the inspection with the same stone face, ignoring everyone around.
About twenty minutes later, a dusty Niva pulled up to the checkpoint. A tall, fit man with short hair got out; he wore the same black uniform, light body armor, and tactical vest. The grip of a pistol peeked from a tactical holster. He silently greeted everyone with a slight nod and walked straight to the one conducting the inspection.
"What do you have, David?"
"Here," David nodded towards the ORSIS rifle, carefully secured in its case. "They also have assault rifles. And not only that…" He threw a brief glance our way.
David gestured for the newly arrived major to step aside and explained something to him at length. Then, after the major asked a few questions, they headed towards us.
This major's gait, and his whole demeanor, were very familiar.