Two days of rest in the hospital had brought some relief to my body, but I still felt a slight ache with every step I took. Time was never generous in this part of the world. And after all the wars, ambushes, deaths, and dark decisions I had experienced here, I now had to move on to another place, another mission, or perhaps just into the unknown.
I left the rusting iron gate of the hospital behind me and walked along the cobblestones to the UAZ. I started the engine and headed for the police station.
Along the way, the city showed me its face once more. Ruined buildings, bustling streets, half-finished slogans scrawled on walls. It was as if everything had stopped at five o'clock years ago and never moved again.
When I arrived at the police station, I pulled up in front of the building and got out. I opened the wooden door of the police station and stepped inside. There was no sound except for the echoing footsteps in the corridor. I glanced at the reception desk—but Anton wasn't there.
When I reached the colonel's office door, I felt an odd heaviness in my chest. After all the fighting, all the death, saying goodbye somehow felt harder. I raised my hand to the door and knocked twice, firmly. A deep, authoritative but familiar voice came from inside:
"Come in!"
I opened the door slowly. Colonel Valeriy Sidorov was sitting in the leather chair behind his desk. He was wearing his usual military uniform, and the medals on his shoulders glinted in the dim light. When he saw me, his eyes narrowed beneath his eyebrows, and a sly smile appeared at the corners of his lips:
"You look as sturdy as ever. You're like a cockroach, comrade… No matter what we do, we can't get rid of you."
I smiled and took a few steps forward, coming to stand before his desk. There was resolve in my heart, but a hint of sadness accompanied the words as they left my lips:
"The time I've spent in this city has come to an end, Colonel. The time has come… I came to say goodbye before I leave."
For a moment, our eyes met. His sharp gaze scanned my face, as if he wanted to look into my pupils. Then his face suddenly grew serious. As he gently turned the penholder on the desk with his fingers, he spoke slowly:
"I know. People like you can't stay in places like this for too long. They're always on the move because their souls are accustomed to being on the road, not staying in one place. There's no point in trying to stop you."
I smiled. It was as if the old soldier inside him understood me, not opposed to me. I extended my hand:
"I suppose you know me now, Colonel Sidorov."
He raised his hand and shook mine firmly. It was hard, calloused, and shook with an inner strength. Finally, with a smile on his face:
"May your path be clear, comrade. And if you ever return to this ruined outpost… remember, my door will always be open to you."
I bowed my head in greeting. I was aware that this was the true bond I was leaving behind. I turned one last time and headed toward the door.
I got into my car and started the engine; its loud roar echoed through the empty streets. I took a deep breath at the wheel. I gave it one last push to get to the "Free Russia" tavern. I parked my car and got out. I pushed open the creaking door and went inside. There were a few familiar faces inside, but no one spoke. In the midst of the silence, I headed toward the stairs leading to my room. I climbed the stairs slowly. Upon entering the room, my first task was to take iodine and cystamine tablets for radiation protection. Then I put on my OZK (General Protective Kit) nuclear-biological-chemical protection suit. I then put on my 6B5 body armor, securing each strap tightly.
Finally, I put on my helmet. I looked at my reflection in the mirror for a moment: I resembled a KGB Alpha special forces soldier. Then I gathered all my belongings from my room. I looked at my room one last time and slowly walked away. I got into my car and drove slowly toward the city gate. The buildings and abandoned trucks along the roadside reminded me of my first arrival. The same road, the same gate, but I was no longer the same man. I arrived at the guardhouse. Guards with automatic rifles blocked my path. They didn't recognize me—the vehicle was new, and so was the equipment I was wearing. Their leader stepped forward, his face cold and questioning. I handed him my green Soviet passport. He examined the document carefully, stamped it, and as he returned it, our eyes met:
"Have a safe journey, comrade."
I nodded and placed the passport inside the vehicle. Then the massive steel door creaked open.
I drove through the gate and onto the broken asphalt road. My next destination was Moscow. It was probably flattened by nuclear bombs, but they say curiosity killed the cat. But this cat's claws were made of steel. I placed the DP-5V dosimeter on the dashboard and activated it. It was emitting a low-dose radiation signal—for now, I was within acceptable limits. But it could change at any moment. During my journey, I passed through several areas where the dosimeter suddenly started beeping loudly. I moved quickly through those areas; stopping would have been suicide.
As I approached Moscow, the needle of the DP-5V dosimeter slowly shifted to the right. It wasn't sounding any alarms, but the needle's dance whispered to me that something unusual was in the environment. The radiation was approximately five times the natural background level. This level wasn't immediately lethal, but prolonged exposure could trigger symptoms such as headaches, fatigue, and nausea. Fortunately, the gamma levels remained low; the dosimeter clearly indicated this. The increase I encountered was likely alpha and beta radiation—probably radioactive dust particles carried by the wind.
I put on my gas mask and carefully checked the filter. Then I tightly sealed the cuffs and seams of my OZK suit. Though Soviet-made, this equipment had been built to last. It was designed for such conditions. Still, to prevent internal exposure, I took out the small metal box from my pocket and took a "Sistamin" tablet. As it slowly slid down my throat, the radiation scenarios from years of training began to play in my mind. War had taught us to recognize both the enemy and the invisible threat.
About fifty kilometers from Tver, the road began to change dramatically. The asphalt had first cracked, then disappeared entirely in places. Finally, the area around Tver resembled a scene from the apocalypse. Wide craters, overturned and rusting vehicle skeletons, burned tire tracks… The surface did not tell the story of something that had once lived here, but of something that had died. The road was now only a road in name; there was nothing but rocks, dirt, and shattered metal in sight.
I turned the car to the right, toward a wooded slope. The UAZ-469, as reliable as ever, clung to the ground with a rumbling engine. Thanks to its 4×4 system, the car handled even the worst roads well; I pushed the gearshift firmly. The vehicle moved forward almost hopping over the root-filled ground but never got stuck. This Soviet classic was still fighting, just like me.
The forest was silent, but this silence was not peaceful, more like cautious. There was no bird song, only the faint rustling of leaves as the wind swept through them. It was as if nature itself had held its breath here.
I had been walking along the narrow path in the forest for a few more minutes when suddenly a massive shadow appeared in the middle of the road. The UAZ's headlights illuminated a dim silhouette—and that silhouette moved. I hit the brakes, but the tires skidded on the mud and loose stones. The vehicle couldn't slow down and crashed into the shadow. The impact was so strong that my head hit the steering wheel and bounced back. My head started throbbing, and my vision began to blur. As light danced through the broken glass, I almost fainted for a moment.
I pulled myself together, quickly opened the door, and was thrown out. I fell face-first onto the ground; the visor of my gas mask was cracked—there was a spiderweb-like fracture in the center. My vision blurred for a few seconds. The taste of blood spread in my mouth.
When I lifted my head, I saw it.
It was a bear. But God be my witness, this creature was not a product of nature. It was nearly two meters tall, with an overly developed musculature. Parts of its skin had completely peeled off, swollen, replaced by bare, scabbed-over wounds. Its teeth... its teeth nearly hung out of its jaw. Yellowish, curved, twisted bone fragments. Its eyes were white, almost blind. But its nose twitched, sniffing me out.
It didn't move. As if it too was in shock from the collision. Or... it was seeing something else. I had a strange feeling; this creature was not just a bear. As if the radiation had not only distorted its body but also its mind.
I slowly opened the UAZ's door, pulled out my AK-74 from under the seat. My hands were trembling with excitement, but I tried to slow my breathing. I aimed the barrel at the ground and began to back away.
Then it happened.
My right foot crushed a dry branch.
"Crack!!!"
The forest fell silent. The bear's head suddenly turned toward me. It roared with a hoarse, deep, gut-wrenching growl. Its voice echoed through the trees, and it growled again, as if frightened by its own echo. When its eyes locked onto mine, there was no animal hesitation—only primal rage.
And it charged.
I felt the ground shake. Its charge sounded less like footsteps than a small landslide. I raised the barrel. In panic, I pulled the trigger. It was set to automatic fire.
TAKTAKTAKTAKTAK—
As the bullets struck its body, blood and flesh flew into the air. But it didn't slow down. I fired at its chest, its stomach, its throat... wherever I could hit it. The bullet casings fell to the ground, emitting hot steam. The adrenaline inside me made me feel as though the gun were an extension of my body. Despite all the bullets I fired at the bear, it seemed unaffected, as if only a few bees had landed on it. Its body was riddled with holes, its blood was blackish, and it was dripping onto the ground. But the creature didn't stop. It only grew more enraged.
It let out a deep roar. A sound that made my eardrums vibrate and echoed in my chest. It kept running, swiping its claw at me. Though the steel vest protected me, the force of the blow sent me flying into a tree. My back hit the tree and was crushed. In panic, I threw the AK-74 aside. I grabbed the TT-33 from my waist and pulled it out. I held my breath and pulled the trigger.
The bullets flew toward its face and head. One hit its eye.
The bear suddenly stopped. It reared up, its massive body rising into the air. It let out a scream that pierced my ears and lodged itself in my brain. It was a hoarse, distorted, inhuman growl. We both froze for a few seconds.
I didn't miss the opportunity.
I quickly grabbed the AK-74 that had fallen to the ground. My fingers were trembling, but I changed the magazine and pulled the trigger.
This time, I didn't aim. I started firing directly at its face, skull, and jaw.
The bullets exploded on his face. Flesh spurted from his eye socket. His nose was shattered. His jaw split in two, hanging down. But he still didn't fall. He took a few steps, drool and black blood dripping from his mouth. He let out another horrific moan... and finally collapsed to his knees.
When it hit the ground, the earth trembled.
I stood there for a moment. My trigger finger was still on the gun, my heart pounding so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest.
I approached it slowly, cautiously.
The monster was motionless. It was no longer breathing. One of its eyes had popped completely out, the other was just a red void. Its jaw had turned into a piece of flesh hanging from rotting skin. Its face... its face was no longer a face. It was a hellish tableau of flesh, bone, broken teeth, and blood...
I wiped the sweat from my shoulder. I was soaked in sweat. The steam from my breath inside my gas mask was severely limiting my vision.
I looked at the bear once more.
This was not just a mutated bear. This was... nature's response to humans. The embodiment of radioactive rage. I felt that I would never again be indifferent to the rustling of a leaf in the forest.
At that moment, a group of four armed men emerged from among the trees and appeared a few meters away from me. My hand reflexively reached for the TT-33, but they stopped before my finger could touch the trigger.
They were about ten meters in front of me.
They were all huge. At least 1.90 meters tall, broad-shouldered, muscular men. They were wearing the familiar blue-striped undershirts and camouflage uniforms of Soviet paratroopers. On their heads were those iconic light blue berets. With their gas masks covering their faces, they looked like monsters. The AKs in their hands were pointed directly at me, but their gaze wasn't hostile—it was alert, but not threatening.
There was a moment of silence.
Their eyes scanned me. They examined my armor, my gas mask, my 6B5 vest. They seemed to realize I belonged to the Soviet army. Then a man who appeared to be their leader stepped forward. A faded paratrooper's badge on his shoulder and the old USSR emblem on his left chest still shone.
He slung his weapon over his shoulder, took a step toward me, and spoke in a firm yet friendly tone:
"Hello, comrade. Did you bring that big thing down all by yourself?"
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. My head was still spinning slightly, but I tried to stand straight. I just nodded. The man glanced at the monster bear lying on the ground. He approached carefully and looked at its rotting face, shattered jaw, and head with its eyes popping out.
He whistled, and one of the men behind him stepped forward, using the large knife he carried to probe the bear's back. The leader turned to me:
"May Great Stalin bless you, comrade," he said, half-serious, half-mocking. "We are the remnants of Tver. This cursed thing has been lurking around us for weeks. It attacked our night patrols, wounding two of our men. Today… you saved us from a great danger."
The man's gaze shifted from the bear's lifeless body to me. He spread his arms wide, then took a step forward and extended his hand. At that moment, I noticed how large and calloused his hand was. The veins were prominent, and it was rough—a hand that had held a weapon for years in battle, constantly used to survive. My own hand seemed almost delicate in comparison. We shook hands. His fingers were as tight as iron. It felt less like a casual greeting and more like a bond of camaraderie being formed in that moment.
A faint smile appeared on his face. Then he tilted his head slightly and looked at the UAZ behind me. Steam was still rising from the vehicle; the front was crushed from the impact, one headlight was hanging loose, and most of the windows were cracked. It had paid a heavy price for hitting the bear.
"And this big guy here... needs serious treatment," he said with a wink. Then he grew serious. "My name is Major Nikolai Margelov. I used to be in the Soviet Airborne Forces. Now... I'm one of the few survivors in this cursed place."
Still holding his hand, I introduced myself:
"Nice to meet you, Comrade Margelov. My name is Aleksey Brusilov. If there's a mechanic in your town—and something to drink—I'd be happy to be your guest."
He smiled. It was the kind of smile you see on people who've been through war, sincere but always with a shadow behind it. A sparkle appeared in his eyes. It was not just respect, but also acceptance. At that moment, I understood: to them, I was no longer just a stranger, but someone who had single-handedly killed that massive mutant bear. This was one of the rare things that commanded respect in these lands.
There was one thing I had learned in my old life: VDV soldiers—Soviet paratroopers—were proud men. They stood by everything they said and remained loyal until death. Margelov was one of them, and I could tell that from everything about him.
I walked toward the vehicle, opened the door, and got behind the wheel. I tried to start the engine—it didn't work on the first try. I cursed, then tried again. The UAZ coughed stubbornly, growled, and finally the engine started. Black smoke poured out of the exhaust, but at least it could move.
Nikolai sat in the passenger seat; the cabin was too narrow for him; his shoulders almost touched the windows. The other three men quietly settled into the back seat. The vehicle began to move slowly. We made our way through the mud and debris along the roadside, heading toward the ruined city of Tver.
No one spoke on the road. Only the rumbling of the UAZ's engine, the howling of the wind seeping through the broken windows, and the heavy breathing coming from the back seat could be heard. It was getting dark now.
After a few kilometers of silent travel, we finally reached the outskirts of Tver. But the city I once knew was now nothing but a pile of ash, concrete, and rust. Once a city where life flowed through its streets and people bustled about, Tver now resembled nothing more than the shell of a ghost. Collapsed apartment buildings, burst water pipes, toppled power lines, and vehicles rotting where they had been left years ago… Only the wind's howl and the occasional distant clang of metal echoed through the place. But no one suggested stopping, and I didn't touch the brake pedal. This dead city was now just a backdrop for us, a decoration; a faded memory of the past.
After driving another ten kilometers or so, a massive concrete complex began to rise before us. It must have been a military base, but from the outside it still looked active, still disciplined and intimidatingly solid. As we got closer, the details became clearer: thick, gray walls; two rows of rusty but sturdy barbed wire stretched across them; soldiers patrolling the watchtowers; and a large, blood-red steel main gate.
I slowed the car down a bit. A man was standing in front of the gate—like the others, a burly soldier with a stony face. He was carrying an old but still gleaming AK on his shoulder, frowning as he eyed the car. Just as he was about to ask us for identification or permission papers, Nikolai, sitting in the passenger seat, raised his hand slightly and said cheerfully:
"Relax, Grisha, we're one of them," he said.
The tension on the man's face vanished instantly, and he gave a stiff Soviet salute. Then the heavy steel door creaked but slid open obediently.
When I entered, my mouth opened involuntarily. I hadn't expected such an orderly and systematic place. The interior was like another world—a castle that had survived the apocalypse but hadn't been destroyed. Children were laughing and playing, women were hanging laundry, and the elderly were sitting on wooden benches, quietly chatting in the sun. There were posters on the walls; some were Soviet-era propaganda posters, while others were newly made, bearing slogans like "Unity, Discipline, Life." Everything was clean and carefully organized. People weren't just surviving; they were striving to live.
But we passed that part, and I slowly drove the car further into the inner regions. After the civilian areas, the military section began: this place had a completely different atmosphere. Instead of children, there were armed patrols on the streets; instead of laundry on the balconies, there were sniper rifles with telescopic sights; and instead of houses, there were airplane hangars, fuel tanks, and ammunition depots.
Finally, we stopped in front of the hangars. These hangars were enormous, made of thick steel and concrete armor. As we stood in front of their massive metal doors, the peeling layers of paint and large red numbers instilled a sense of pride. Nikolai and his companions got out of the car. After giving a few brief orders, they opened the heavy iron doors of the hangar together. Inside, it was quiet, cool, and filled with shadows; but it was orderly. Old jet engines, a few scrap helicopters, and vehicle parts arranged in rows at the back caught the eye. This was not a museum, but a living workshop.
I slowly drove the UAZ inside, turned off the engine as it hummed, took a deep breath, then opened the door and got out. The air inside was filled with the smell of gasoline, metal, and oil, but it gave me an odd sense of reassurance