Step by step I made my way through the dark and silent corridors of the police station. First I peeked into the cells. The bars were rusted, the doors open. There was no one inside, only rusty handcuffs, skeletons and dried blood stains on the floor. The occupants had either escaped or been left for dead.
The interrogation room was similarly empty. When I went to the cafeteria, my luck changed a little. Among the dust-covered cupboards I found a few cans, a bag of crumpled potatoes and four bottled drinks. In their condition they were consumable. I carefully placed them all in my bag.
Finally I reached the police chief's office, which seemed better preserved than the other rooms. On the table were three packs of Soviet-made cigarettes, half a bottle of cognac, a map and a silver lighter. I was particularly interested in the map; it showed the forest roads and former military zones outside the town. I took it with me, and under the table was a small locked safe. It was not yet time for that.
When I made my way to the armory, I encountered a solid obstacle. Heavy iron bars and a locked steel door. But I had the hacksaw I carried with me. I sat quietly on the floor, took off my mask and began to work patiently. After an hour and a half of work, sweaty but determined, I managed to cut through the bars. I pushed the door open and went inside.
The inside resembled a war museum. The shelves were filled with dozens of PM Makarov pistols. Spare magazines, ammo boxes and maintenance kits hung on the walls. I carefully selected a pistol with an intact mechanism, five loaded magazines and a total of 300 9x18mm rounds of ammunition. I also put on a police uniform that caught my eye. I now looked both protected and like a security force, which could sometimes be an advantage.
After all that, I went back to the chief's office, and it was time for the safe. With the gunpowder from the bullets I made a small but effective explosive. I lit the fuse and stepped back. The sound of the explosion echoed, though it didn't shake the building. The lid of the safe was bent, but it opened.
The contents were remarkable: a small diamond ring, gold bracelets and some files. I wasn't interested in the documents, gold and diamonds - they still meant something in the moneyless world of a new order. I tucked the bottle of cognac into my bag, walked out of the police station and continued on my way.
I had a gun now. This brought back some sense of security. The last building in town was an old fire station. When I stepped inside, a pungent smell of decay filled my nostrils. My eyes soon found the source: the bodies of two dogs lying side by side on the floor. They had apparently been dead for three or four days. The bodies were covered in fly larvae and maggots - a disgusting, sickening sight.
I stopped in front of the inner door, but it was locked. I couldn't waste any more time. I tapped hard twice with my foot just below the doorknob and the door, held by rusty hinges, gave a loud bang and fell in. The sound echoed throughout the building; like it was as if a bomb had been dropped inside.
Just as I was about to go inside, I heard a muffled growl from behind me. I turned reflexively and there stood a wolf. Its fur was partially shed, its back and face were torn with deep wounds. But this didn't make it look pathetic - on the contrary, it looked menacing and ferocious. Its eyes were glowing with rage.
I reached for my gun, but before I could aim, the wolf lunged at me. Its target was my neck. I grabbed its jaws with both hands, and its teeth stopped inches from my face. My breathing constricted, my muscles tensed. Only my arms stood between me and death. With one hand I held its jaw down and with the other I punched it twice hard in the face. Then I quickly drove my knee into its stomach. The wolf staggered but recovered quickly. On its second attack wolf grabbed my arm. The thick police uniform I was wearing stopped the teeth at first, but they tore through the fabric and reached my skin. A sudden wave of pain spread through my body. Hot blood flowed down my elbow.
I blacked out from the pain, but I didn't lose control. I pulled the gun and put the barrel to its chest. I fired one shot. The wolf jerked but didn't descend. The second bullet hit its neck and the third bullet hit its head. Its body trembled and he fell to the ground, wiggled for a moment, then remained motionless.
With trembling hands I opened the first aid kit, made a tourniquet, took antibiotics, dressed the wound, then went inside.
This used to be a fire station. Inside there was still rusted firefighting equipment, faded helmets and worn uniforms. But there wasn't a single thing among them that was useful to me. I had already searched every corner of the town, I shouldn't waste any more time. I checked my map and headed for my next destination, the city of Gatchina.
The city was quite far away. As dusk fell, I set up camp by the roadside. I built a small fire and prepared a simple meal with whatever food I could get my hands on. The sky was covered with clouds. The wind was howling softly. After I had eaten, I took the pistol with me and fell asleep.
I opened my eyes in the early hours of the morning. It was still dim, close to dark. I packed up and started a long walk. After two or three hours of weary walking, I reached the ruins of another village. It was almost completely in ruins. Most of the houses had been leveled to the ground. Only two buildings were still standing-and they looked like they were about to be blown down by the wind.
I entered the first house, covered in dust. Yellowed books on the shelves, overturned chairs, broken table legs. Everything belonged to the past, but it was useless for the present. I couldn't find a single thing of use.
In the second house, luck smiled on me. In the kitchen I found a bottle of vodka, two canned pickled vegetables and two gold bracelets in a drawer. But the real treasure was in the bedroom. An IZH-18 shotgun hanging on the wall caught my attention. It was a single-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun with a simple but sturdy mechanism. Just below it were eight 12-gauge cartridges. This was a significant gain for my long-term survival.
I checked the gun carefully, the mechanism was still in working order. I slung the rifle on my back, put the cartridges in my bag, and now I had a chance to defend myself both at close range and at a distance.
In the backyard of the house, something caught my attention: a rusty bicycle, overturned on the ground. The chain was frozen, the pedals were rusted and the saddle was dislodged. But surprisingly, the frame was still intact. The front and back wheels were spinning. In this world, anything that remains intact is valuable - especially if it's a tool to get you moving.
I did a little work to make it rideable. I stretched the chain with a few drops of oil, moved the pedals, tightened the handlebars. It wasn't exactly comfortable, but it seemed to work.
I spent the night at the house, tidied up, prepared some food - canned vegetables and a few potatoes. I drank a little vodka with it, just to warm me up. Then I curled up on the blanket I had spread over the old sofa and rested. Exhaustion was over my body, but I felt a strange peace of mind that I would be on the road again at dawn.
But no matter how long I waited, the wolves never attacked. I stayed awake all night, fingers on the trigger, eyes piercing the darkness. At first light I took a deep breath, as if a thousand tons of weight had been lifted from my chest. I immediately lay down on the bed, feeling only my fatigue before I lost consciousness; I slept like a stone.
I woke up around noon and resumed my journey. The number of abandoned cars and overturned trucks on the road was increasing. This was a sign that I was getting closer to the city.
The road remained silent for a while. The birdsong coming through the trees, the wind playing with the branches... Everything was in a strange peace. Perhaps this peace was a deceptive harbinger of the impending danger.
As I was riding my bicycle on the stony path, suddenly, an object coming fast from my right side hit my body. I was thrown off balance before I realized what had happened. I flew hard to the ground and my head hit the concrete edge behind me. Buzzing echoed in my head. My vision blurred, a whisper ringing in my ears. It was as if the world was spinning on its axis. But the survival instinct was so deeply ingrained that I recovered without losing consciousness.
When I opened my eyes again, the sight froze my blood. Four wolves... dirty, hungry and watching me with ferocity shining in their eyes. Their fur was matted, some of them with scars. Hunger, pain and anger were intertwined in their bodies. They were probably the owners of last night's distant howls. And today... today luck was not on my side.
I gently reached for the IZH-18 shotgun on my back. Holding my breath, I opened the barrel, inserted a cartridge, closed it. I stood up slowly, keeping my eyes on them as I retreated. The wolves were motionless but silently taking up positions. Instinctively they began to surround me on all four sides.
At that moment time slowed down. Every second felt like a minute. My eyes locked on the nearest wolf. When our eyes met, I saw that he was ready to attack too. Without hesitation, I raised the rifle, aimed it right at his head and squeezed the trigger. The sound of the explosion echoed through the forest. The wolf's head scattered behind it and its body collapsed to the ground.
But the other three, aroused by the smell of blood, attacked without a moment's hesitation. In just a few seconds they were on top of me. My rifle flew out of my hand and I fell to the ground. Teeth sank into my flesh as the cold earth gripped my back. One gnawed at my left leg, another hung on my right arm. A third clawed at my torso, trying to reach my intestines.
My head was protected by the gas mask on my face, but my body was being torn apart. Even my thick fabric uniform couldn't withstand the blows of the teeth. The pain was so intense that I couldn't even scream.
But fear quickly gave way to anger mixed with adrenaline. With my hands shaking, I gripped the Makarov PM pistol at my waist. There was no time to even aim the barrel. Blindly, as fast as I could, I began to squeeze the trigger, each bullet bringing a scream. Blood, fur and flesh splattered everywhere. As the bullets lodged in their bodies, the wolves took turns moaning, writhing and finally collapsing.
The barrel of the gun was hot and smoke was coming out of the barrel as the heat of the empty shells hit my hand. My breathing was ragged. Three motionless wolf corpses covered in blood... Only silence remained. But it was the silence of death, not of victory.
I lay still for a few seconds, then my body began to tremble and move. My wounds were deep. My left leg was covered in blood, there was an open tear in my arm. My whole body ached, but I was alive. That was all I thought at that moment: I am still alive.
My heart felt like it couldn't fit in my chest. My body trembled with every beat. My wounds burned as if they had been branded with a hot iron, and the pain grew deeper with every movement. The earth was stinking of blood and sweat. The corpses of the wolves were still warm, their teeth bared, twisted with hatred. I was the only one left, a wounded, tired but living body.
I quickly built a small fire in the bushes by the side of the road. With shaking hands I took out the bottle of medical alcohol. I had to take off my clothes to clean my wounds. My uniform was in tatters; some areas were sticky with blood. I poured the alcohol over the wounds. My brain exploded as my skin burned. My eyes glazed over, my ears buzzed, but I didn't collapse.
The deepest wound was on my left leg. It was deep and tearing; the skin and meat were almost torn apart. In this state, I couldn't stand the loss of blood for long. I resorted to the most primitive but effective solution. I picked up one of the embers from the fire, pressed it against the wound with my trembling hand, and a hissing sound came out. The smell of burning flesh made me nauseous. My eyes glazed over, cold sweat ran down my forehead, but I didn't scream.
I went to the corpse of one of the wolves, skinned the intact part of its hide and dried it over the fire after removing the skin. After filling my stomach with the food I had cooked, I pulled the wolf skin over me and leaned back against the fire. My eyelids felt heavy. Sleep was the only solace that seeped through the pain. It was a short, dreamless sleep. Maybe three hours... maybe less. But my body felt rested.
When I woke up, it was still dark, but the horizon was beginning to gray. My wounds were throbbing. My leg was stiff in the bandage. But I could still walk, and there was only one condition for survival in this world: To keep going.
I put out the fire, regrouped, checked my pistol, then set off again, dragging my bicycle.
After four hours of walking, I finally reached the city of Gatchina. The city was quiet; it looked small and deserted. The first thing I did was to enter the large firehouse that I had marked on the map.
The building was quite imposing and there were five fire trucks in the garage. I went to the storage room where the equipment was kept and, just as I expected, there were dosimeters. I carefully looked through the devices and noticed a dosimeter in a green metal box with a green body. It was labeled "DP-5V" in big letters and looked almost unused.
DP-5V dosimeters were designed for more precise measurements; they could detect both beta and gamma radiation. Its major advantage over the Soviet-made DP-63A dosimeter was that it did not emit any radiation into the environment. DP-5Vs proved their reliability in the field during the Chernobyl disaster. It weighed about three kilograms. Right next to it, in the wardrobes, there were batteries for this device, as well as L-1 type NBC protective suits.
These suits were widely used in military and civil defense units and offered effective protection against radioactive dust and alpha particles, but only limited resistance to beta and gamma radiation. The L-1 suit is worn over normal clothing and its main function is to prevent contamination of the inner clothing with radioactive and chemical substances. I put the suit on and turned on the DP-5V. According to the indicator, the radiation level was only 2 times above the background. This was actually quite acceptable, probably because two or three years had passed since the war and some short-lived isotopes had naturally decayed. However, dangerous levels of radiation were still likely to be present in areas where nuclear bombs had been dropped or power plant accidents had occurred.
After getting the equipment, I left the building and headed to the police station, one of the biggest buildings in the city. It was quite big and even had a parking lot that went underground. First I went inside; the walls and floor were full of skeletons. A few rooms caught my attention. The first room was the records archive. It was crammed with shelves full of papers. The second room was the mess hall, where I found three bottles of Pepsi, five cans of fish, two cans of meat and five packs of cigarettes. I also bought a small pot, better for cooking or heating water if needed.
The third room was the most private part of the police station: The police commander's office.
When I opened the door, I was hit by a heavy smell of dust, clearly no one had been in there for years. The inside of the room was much tidier than the others. Faded posters of Soviet marshals still hung on the walls, some crumpled by the humidity. The desk was almost spotless, as if the commander had left everything in its place when he left the room. Even his hard leather armchair was still neatly facing the desk.
Slowly I opened the desk drawers, and in the first drawer I found a smooth, green glass bottle of whiskey - the label was in German, clearly an expensive brand. Attached to it were two packs of "Belomorkanal" cigarettes. In the second drawer was a rusty key to open the heavy iron door of the armory.
The stairs were dark, so I turned on my flashlight and slowly made my way down. The door to the armory was made of thick steel, but the key worked without a problem. The sound of the lock turning echoed through the building.
When I opened the door, the sight was breathtaking. The shelves were filled with boxes of Soviet-made ammunition. Everywhere were crates, uniforms, police helmets, body armor and L-1 NBC protective suits wrapped in airtight bags. Propaganda posters still hung on the walls: "Wear a gas mask when working in a radioactive area!" or slogans like "Protecting workers is protecting the Soviet people!". Time seemed to freeze here.
Traveling by bicycle, it was difficult to carry much weight, but the opportunity was there. I took spare cartridges, some spare gas mask filters. I also packed a couple of magazines of PM Makarov bullets. I glanced at the police helmets in the armory, but I knew they were not very bullet or claw resistant, so I left them behind.
I headed downstairs to the garage of the police station, where the key rings on the walls still held keys labeled for different vehicles. On the floor were cracked tires, rusty exhaust parts, disconnected batteries and rusted jacks. Most of the closed cars were totaled, but a VAZ-2102 sitting quietly in the corner caught my attention. The yellow color was faded, the windows were covered in dust, but the body was almost undamaged.
I took the key, opened the door, had no hope, but I turned the ignition anyway. The engine didn't make a single sound. When I opened the hood, the scene was as I expected: the battery was completely dead, the engine oil had thickened, and the gasoline had deteriorated over time and lost its octane rating. I got out to tidy things up and started looking around for a repair shop. After an hour of searching, I found a small, cluttered repair shop on the side of the road. I put the bike aside and went in. There were still a few useful parts on the shelves. I bought a can of motor oil and a relatively good battery.
Just as I was about to leave the repair shop, a shrill whistle pierced the silence. At first it came from far away; with the howling wind, it was hard to distinguish the sound. But after a few seconds it became clear - it was not a melody, but a strange whistle played in a rhythmic tone. My instincts kicked in immediately. All my muscles tensed and goose bumps appeared. Someone whistling was approaching this way, step by step.
I quickly glanced around, silently gripped my Makarov, and the footsteps became clearer. The whistle now rang like a threat, with the sound of hard heels echoing on the concrete floor. I stepped into a corner and disappeared into the darkness. I held my breath, my finger on the trigger.
Soon, a middle-aged man, covered in dirt and rust, approached the side wall of the workshop. He was still whistling... but suddenly he stopped. There was the sound of a zipper. The man had started to urinate there. His jacket sleeve was stiff with blood stains. His face was covered in beard, his eyes dull, his gaze blank. A heavy odor of rotten flesh, sweat, alcohol and dirt wafted from him. To put it bluntly, he did not inspire any confidence.
I approached him with silent steps, put my gun to his head and he flinched as the cold barrel touched the back of his neck. My voice was as harsh and clear as the darkness:
- Who are you? Where do you come from?
The man trembled, almost peeing in his pants. He felt the air with his hand, spoke in a trembling voice:
- I... my name is Boris. I live nearby. As you can see, I was just... just doing my job.
These answers were not enough to convince me. I reflexively brought Makarov's hilt down on his head. He groaned hoarsely, staggered and fell like a sack. One of his teeth popped out as his face hit the concrete. He was unconscious.
I bent down and patted him down. A pack of "Prima" cigarettes, a rusty Makarov pistol and two spare magazines - a total of 16 9x18mm rounds. But what really caught my attention was a strange medallion hanging from a thin chain around his neck: it was made of rusty metal, with a skull symbol in relief in the center. The eye sockets were almost engraved into it. It could have been the insignia of some dark group or gang of bandits.
I took the cigarette and the bullets and threw the gun away so it couldn't be used. It was usually a harbinger of bad things to come when guys like this were armed. I left him there and headed for the door.
But just as I was about to leave the workshop, a silhouette appeared in front of me.
Everything happened in a few seconds. Before I could make out the shadow emerging from the darkness, there was an explosion. A dry, echoing gunshot. Suddenly I felt a sharp burning in my stomach - as if my internal organs were being ripped apart. I staggered backwards, automatically pressing my hand against the wound; my fingers were covered in hot, sticky blood.
I couldn't stand. My knees buckled, I knelt on the concrete floor, then toppled sideways. Everything seemed to slow down. My eyes tried to see a blurred silhouette in the shadows - but my vision was fading. Blood loss was rapidly draining my consciousness.
When I came to, I realized that my body had been dragged across the stone floor, every muscle aching, the pain of the wound in my abdomen cutting into my brain. Struggling to keep my eyelids open, I tried to move - but my arms were weak, my legs numb. The pebbles scratched under my arm, digging into my flesh with each drag.
Two people were pulling me. One was familiar: that asshole Boris. He still had that dirty grin on his face. The other was a man I had never seen before - about six feet tall, big, silent and bald-headed. His expression was stony: no anger, no compassion... just dullness. He was wearing an old summer jacket from the Soviet army. The man had strange tattoos on his hands and neck and his image screamed 'DANGER'.
In the first panic I tried to reach my hand to my waist to look for my gun, but... it was gone. My gun was gone. This was an even more terrifying reality than the bullet in my stomach. I was unarmed, wounded and a prisoner.
When Boris realized I had opened my eyes, he leaned over to my face. He grinned, showing his yellowed, rotten teeth. There was a mockery in his eyes that bordered on madness:
- Good morning, sleeping princess. Hahaha! My head is still throbbing because of you, you fucking asshole...
Before he finished, he kicked me in the head with the toe of his shoe. My head swung violently to the side, the world went black again. My teeth clenched together, the pain spread to my jaw. Dark sparks flashed in my eyes and I fainted again.
---
The second time I opened my eyes, it was even worse. My hands were cuffed behind my back. My coat was peeled off and the T-shirt underneath was sticky with blood. The cold metal stung my back and every part of my body ached. The rusty handcuffs clung tightly to my hands, irritating the skin and drying the blood in some places. The chair I sat in was also rusty and unstable - it creaked when I moved.
The wound on my abdomen was hastily bandaged. The bandage was not clean, but the bleeding seemed to have stopped. This was, ironically, strangely hopeful-they didn't seem to want to kill me. At least for now.
I looked around. This was an old cellar or underground storage room. A kerosene lamp flickered with yellow light, deepening the shadows rather than cutting the dimness. Every shadow looked like a threat. In the corners of the room were dust-covered tables, overturned armchairs, rusty pipes and a broken radio hanging on the wall. A few empty vodka bottles suggested who once drank here - perhaps a gang still alive.
The floor was covered in dust and dirt. The dampness in the air burned my sinuses and the smell of rusty iron reached my nose. Everything was rotting - metal, wood, even people.
I felt the handcuffs, rusty but still intact. Breaking them seemed possible, but it would take strength and time. Time was the thing I had the least of right now.
Just then the door opened with a heavy creak. Its sound cut the muffled silence of the cellar in two. Those who entered were familiar: Boris, with his usual obnoxious grin, in the front, the silent, burly man hovering like a shadow behind him. Boris had my backpack in his hand-his dirty fingers clutching his new trophy.
As he sat down on the sofa, our eyes met, and he held up the bottle of vodka he had taken out of the bag, as if displaying the trophy of victory. His eyes glittered with hatred, but with the bottle he was in a good mood:
- Bingo. I think we have hunted the goose that laid the golden eggs— he said. Then he unscrewed the cap with a snap and raised the bottle to his head. After letting out a grunt that indicated the alcohol was burning his throat, he shattered the disgusting silence with an ox-like belch.
The burly man stared at the vodka as he slumped into the armchair:
- Hey Boris, don't drink it all by yourself— he said. He took the bottle from him and downed half of it in a few gulps. The alcohol had loosened them up. Soon they began an ugly song - their drunken voices, their forked timbre and the way they choked the words in their throats made the air in the room even heavier.
My ears began to throb with the hum. I couldn't take it anymore:
- My ears will bleed! Stop singing!
Boris's face froze. A blurred anger flashed in his eyes for a moment. He could hardly stand, but he staggered over to me. The humiliation on top of the drunkenness had driven him mad.
- Hey kid, you better not piss me off...
I looked him in the eye. I asked him knowingly:
- What if you get angry? Are you going to piss on the wall again?
Those words took all the brakes off his head. His fist landed directly on my chin. I tasted the metal - that ferrous, rusty aroma of blood spread in my mouth. In a rage, I spat the blood in his face. Boris's face twisted in disgust for a moment, then he screamed wildly and kicked me in the stomach.
The wound had reopened. A hot ache radiated from under my bandage, and every movement hurt as I breathed. I squirmed, the chair groaned. A low moan from my throat echoed in the room.
Boris paced nervously back and forth, then leaned down to face me again:
- Normally we don't damage property. But a few beatings won't be a problem.