The canyon was narrow and deep, with steep slopes that seemed to cleave the Toiyabe Range into southern and northern peaks. Where we stood, apparently, a concrete road had passed before the catastrophe: from beneath a thick layer of dust and ash, a water-washed, leveled strip was visible, descending steeply to a mountain lake now covered with a gray film of radioactive sediment. Steep embankments stood out clearly, in places with collapsed rock faces; on the slopes—large boulders torn out by the blast wave. It was hard even to imagine what had happened here during the catastrophe: the earth shook, rocks crumbled, and the air filled with fire and ash.
Suddenly, a downpour began—heavy droplets saturated with soot and radioactive particles drummed on ATLAS's hull. I moved away from the surveillance screen, where the panoramic cameras showed Hunter slowly making his way along the slope.
"So, hungry?" I asked the girls pressed against the porthole, obviously worried about Hunter's fate.
"And where did Hunter go?" Keila asked with fear.
"It seems there are survivors over there," I nodded toward the canyon. "Maybe there will be more of us soon."
"That would be great!" Emily rejoiced. "Let's make breakfast for them. Hunter will be so happy!"
Suddenly, I thought I heard scratching at the entrance from outside. I jumped up, grabbing an M4 rifle with a tactical scope on the go, and approached the cargo hatch, listening. It was quiet there—only rain and wind. I was about to return to calm the girls when I noticed Hunter standing at the entrance on the screen. He was fiddling with the opening mechanism, trying to activate ATLAS's emergency hatch.
"What for?" I asked over the intercom.
"There's a severely wounded person down here," he gestured downward, "and we can lower the cargo ramp at the hatch."
I went to the panel, opened the cargo hatch, lowered the ramp, and looked outside. A woman of slightly above average height in a CBRN specialist uniform—judging by the patches, with the rank of captain—stood next to ATLAS, examining it curiously. What struck me most about her was that, compared to Hunter and me, she was very neatly dressed in clean clothes, which seemed incredible amidst the universal destruction. Military-style ankle boots, neatly fitting her feet, shone as if just taken from a store shelf, and her uniform—clean, with just a few creases. Next to her lay a stretcher covered with a camouflage blanket in a protective color. As soon as the cargo ramp lowered, Hunter first tried to lift the stretcher, but the load was too much for him; he swayed and fell.
I quickly descended and helped him up.
"Hello," I greeted the stranger.
Squinting her eyes, she examined me carefully but didn't respond to my greeting.
From under the blanket, a man with a shock of gray hair looked out. Silently, I took one end of the stretcher, and the stranger, despite her seeming fragility, easily lifted the second. We began carrying it into the cabin. I was already at the top, and she stood below, holding the stretcher aloft, trying to lift it higher to help me manage the heavy load.
"Now that's a woman!" I marveled to myself. "So fragile herself, but apparently considers me a total weakling."
When we finally managed to drag the stretcher inside with difficulty, a thin naval officer with lieutenant patches, leaning on a crutch, hobbled over to us.
"Lieutenant!" the woman addressed him. "You were ordered to wait for us at the entrance and guard the shelter..."
"There's nothing for me to do there," he replied irritably. "I know you just want to get rid of me... now you'll board and fly away! And leave me here to die!"
"We can do that even if you are here," the man lying on the stretcher said sternly. "Carry out the captain's order, Lieutenant!"
"Aye aye!" the lieutenant replied and, turning, hobbled back toward the canyon on his crutch.
We set the stretcher along the seats on the port side.
"You lie down!" the girl in the captain's uniform ordered Hunter. "And he will come with me to the shelter," she pointed in my direction.
"He can't," Hunter objected. "He can't be exposed to danger..."
"Why is that?" she asked, squinting her eyes again. And I couldn't help but smile.
"As I understand it, you're a doctor?"
"Actually, I'm a CBRN officer, 'Chemical, Biological, Radiological, and Nuclear Defense'—she corrected with a slight smile. "But if needed, I'll take on medical duties as well."
"We trust you completely, both as an officer and as a doctor."
"Well, good," the woman said and, sharply, in a military manner, turned around and was the first to exit the cabin.
Leaving, she left her insulated field jacket in the cabin, and now I could see that, despite her already pleasant appearance, she was also well-built. She was about thirty, no more, and exuded calmness and confidence. Apparently, she possessed an unusually strong character.
"Let's introduce ourselves, Captain," I suggested when we were in the canyon. "Colonel Ackerman, or rather, Professor Ork Ackerman."
Completely ignoring the obvious contradiction in my introduction, she only uttered something like "uh-huh" or "ha" and introduced herself:
"As I said, Captain, CBRN forces, currently acting as a doctor—Sarah Volovitz. But I won't be offended if you simply call me Sarah."
"Good, Captain, but it would be much more convenient for me to call you Doctor," I bowed respectfully. "Because we really need a doctor... for Hunter."
"Don't rejoice prematurely; I can't help your friend with anything now."
"Why is that? You're a doctor?!"
"A doctor without medicine... He needs bone marrow, blood, and an operating room..."
"You don't have that in the shelter?"
"None of it!" she sighed heavily. "If I could hold those who designed and built this shelter accountable, I'd execute them myself!"
And without further explanation, simply ordering me to follow, we headed forward through the canyon.
A short time later, we approached a steep cliff in which a wide opening had been cut, capable of passing two vehicles moving in opposite directions. The opening mechanism of the massive hermetic door—made of multi-layered steel with titanium inserts—apparently jammed during the shelter's opening. It had stopped, leaving a small gap through which only a large-framed person could barely squeeze. The entire lower part of the door was distorted, as if the shockwave had crumpled it like a sheet of paper.
At the entrance, leaning on an aluminum crutch with a rubber tip, stood the distrustful lieutenant, who, as it turned out, was named Howard. As soon as we approached, he hobbled ahead of us, illuminating the path with a powerful flashlight with a xenon lamp. The beam snatched from the darkness concrete walls covered with a thin layer of radioactive dust and metal structures warped by thermal impulse. The shelter carried a smell of dampness and algae—rotten, swampy, as if from an abandoned well.
"Why is it so damp here?" I asked Sarah.
The lieutenant heard my question, stopped, and directed the flashlight beam into open metal doors blackening on the side of the wall. Then he picked up a pebble from the floor and threw it. A dull splash of water was heard—somewhere below, in the darkness.
"Everything that was supposed to be our home is flooded," he said as if proud of it. "Food storage, barracks, power station, pharmacy, shops, even the cinema and gym. All underwater."
"How is that possible?" I doubted. "Wasn't possible flooding considered during design?"
"During design, they only thought about radiation and blast force," Sarah said indignantly. "Groundwater is deep here, but no one thought about water from the mountain lake."
The shelter floor was clean, only where ventilation grates stood were traces of washed-away rock—gray streaks, like silt after high tide. Walking a bit further and encountering second blast doors—almost as massive but already open—we turned right and soon found ourselves in a medical station: sterile white walls, steel cabinets, an operating table with a hydraulic lift, still in their places.
"Take everything. In our situation, everything will be useful," Sarah said, opening glass cabinet doors, and began taking bottles, boxes, and tubes from the upper shelves. She packed the medicines into a large zinc case—standard army issue, with a sealed lid—and moved to the next cabinets.
"And the lower shelves?" She took almost nothing from there.
"The lower shelves were flooded. Not for long, but these medicines can't be stored anymore," she said as if someone was about to argue with her.
I immediately understood that Captain Sarah Volovitz belonged to that category of women for whom everything in life is defined once and for all. They have their own opinion about everything, they definitely carry out planned tasks, always know what they want, and possess a high sense of responsibility. Perhaps this influenced her choice of profession—a military officer working with chemical weapons. After all, such people deal with, among other things, chemical warfare agents requiring incredible responsibility. And obviously, this was her calling. Because even now, when the catastrophe turned everything upside down on the planet, Sarah firmly adhered to the instructions given to her long ago.
She handed me two zinc cases with medicines, while she herself took something like an autoclave from a stand—compact, made of stainless steel, with a digital display—placed some object carefully concealed in protective packaging at the bottom, and carried it herself, trusting it to no one. When we reached the entrance, she stopped.
"You stay here; we'll be back soon," she ordered Lieutenant Howard.
Although the cases were made of lightweight zinc and the medicines weighed little, after five or six hundred meters, I was exhausted. Sarah carried her burden as if playing.
"I need to rest," I said, setting down the load.
"Rest," she allowed and removed the autoclave from her shoulder.
"Your comrade said you were heading to some shelter? Care to share information?"
"Yes, we're heading to an anti-nuclear shelter where our developments were supposed to be evacuated in case of a nuclear conflict. But the problem is, for security reasons, no one ever gave us the exact address. We were to be evacuated if a threat arose."
Sarah raised an eyebrow in surprise, and for the umpteenth time, I was struck by her composure.
It turns out, Sarah didn't want to leave her post, and to save her life, Hunter convinced her that I knew exactly where the shelter was located.
"And when were you last there?"
"About four years ago... next to the shelter, they were just building spacious food storage depots..."
"Maybe you should fly there first and then come back for us?" Sarah clearly wanted to stay where she was supposed to be.
But promising we'd return for her was foolish and unrealistic.
"It's better we fly together, and if we don't find the shelter, we'll return and then find a way to drain the water from yours."
The doctor looked at me with distrust.