He said it just like that. I was now a "commodity" to them.
"What, are you going to sell me? What century are we living in? Are we in the age of slavery? Where are you going to sell me?"
The big man interrupted, his laughter echoing in the attic. It was a hoarse, dirty, raspy laugh:
— Times have changed, kid. There are no rules anymore. Whatever the strong say goes. People like you go for good money. Sergey will buy you for a good price.
The name was mentioned for the first time: Sergey. It was strangely unsettling.
— Who is Sergey? Does he think he's an emperor?
Boris clenched his teeth:
— You talk too much!
He shouted and kicked me again. The chair didn't tip over, but I felt everything inside me shift. A cough erupted from my throat, followed by blood. As I gasped for breath, my vision darkened. The weight on my chest had become unbearable.
At that moment, Boris staggered out. As he left, he was whistling that annoying tune again. He was probably going to pee again. That was the only thing he was good at.
That was when the opportunity arose.
The handcuffs were rusty, but one side felt loose. The burning sensation from the metal on my wrist was now a sign of freedom. A chance to escape had arisen, on the thin line between life and death.
I glanced around. The air in the room was heavy; the flickering light of the gas lamp cast dark shadows on the walls. The big man was sprawled on the couch. His mouth was open, saliva dripping from his chin. His chest rose and fell slowly; he had fallen into a deep sleep from the effects of the vodka he had drunk. The smell of drunkenness lingered on him.
Now or never.
I silently turned the chain of the handcuffs between my fingers. The cold, rusty iron hurt my palms. Gritting my teeth, I began to bend my wrists backward with all my strength. With each movement, I felt the rusty metal digging into my skin. My skin tore, blood flowed. But the chain creaked. A little more... a little more...
Snap!
The chain snapped with a sudden creak. Blood was trickling from my left wrist, but I was free. I took a deep, silent breath. I stood up, stumbled. My head spun, but I kept my balance.
I approached the man. In the silence, I could hear the sound of my own heartbeat. I grabbed the empty glass vodka bottle on the table.
I paused for a moment. Another deep breath. Then...
With all my strength, I brought the bottle down on the man's head.
Crack! The bottle shattered. Glass shards flew in every direction. Without thinking, I grabbed the sharp edge of the broken bottle and reflexively plunged it into his neck.
But...
The man opened his eyes. Silently. As if he had been gently awakened from his sleep. Our eyes met. There was no pain in his eyes. Only surprise, then anger. He grabbed me with his huge hands and easily lifted me off the ground and threw me against the wall.
My head hit the stone wall. My vision went dark. My ears started ringing, and the world fell silent for a moment. My knees gave out, and I collapsed to the ground, but the man didn't let go. He pounced on me like a lion.
He wrapped both arms around my throat. His fingers were like steel. My breath suddenly stopped. My lungs begged for air, but it was in vain. I struggled, hit, pushed, but his massive body didn't move. My vision was fading, my body was numbing.
With one last struggle... With his hands still around my throat, I grabbed the piece of bottle stuck in his neck. The edge of the broken glass cut my hand, but I didn't care. With all my strength, I pulled with my whole body.
The piece of glass tore through his throat and came out.
The man's eyes widened. Blood spurted from his throat—hot, dark, and sticky. The blood stained me, my hands, the floor. The man staggered. He took a few steps, a whistling sound coming from his mouth. Then he fell to the ground. His legs trembled, he thrashed... and then he lay still.
He had choked to death in his own blood.
The room fell silent. Only my own labored breathing remained. It was hard to breathe, as if his hands were still around my throat. But I was alive.
I got up, stumbled to my backpack, grabbed my gun with one last burst of energy, and rushed outside with shaky steps. The cold air hit my face; the smell of damp earth and rust filled my nostrils. A familiar whistling sound pierced my ears from among the trees. The source of that disgusting sound was Boris, the middle-aged man—slumped against the tree, still whistling. He acted as if he were at peace. As if he hadn't just tried to take my life.
I didn't hesitate. I aimed and fired three shots in quick succession. When the bullets struck his body, his face froze for a moment; there was more shock than fear in his eyes. He collapsed slowly, falling to the ground at the base of the tree. He fell silent. He was silent forever.
I returned home. I was covered in blood and dirt, but I had no intention of stopping. My time was limited. I stumbled inside, scanned the room, and began gathering anything useful. To survive, it was no longer just about willpower—the right tools were also necessary. Two packs of cigarettes, an undamaged wristwatch, a crumpled map, 13 9mm bullets, and two cans of canned fish—I stuffed these into my backpack.
I looked at the sturdy clock on the table. The date read "1998." A spark flashed in my mind: this was the summer of 1998. Inside the thick red circle on the map was a name—"Sergey." That name was now etched into my brain. But a voice inside me said I shouldn't go there yet. My weapon was inadequate, my body was tired and wounded.
The condition of the wound in my stomach was serious. Using the needle and thread from the first-aid kit, I stitched the wound myself. The pain was so sharp that tears came to my eyes, but I didn't scream. I clenched my teeth. I pulled the thread slowly, feeling a little better with each stitch. The sterilization was inadequate, but I had no other choice. At least I had stopped the bleeding.
Even for a short time, the place I was staying was no longer safe. I left. I returned to where I had left my old, rusty bicycle. It was still there. No one had touched it. I took the battery and the motor oil can and headed to the police station I had spotted the previous day. My goal was to get the VAZ-2102 left there running again.
First, I crawled under the car and drained the old, thickened engine oil. Then I carefully filled it with fresh oil. I installed the new battery and went inside to turn the ignition. The engine was as silent as a ghost. Not a single click. I took a deep breath. I didn't give up. I opened the hood and removed the spark plugs from the other abandoned vehicles that looked intact, then installed them in the VAZ. I tried again—still no response.
As a last resort, I opened the carburetor cover and poured in a bottle cap's worth of gasoline. I held my breath, turned the ignition...
And… the engine suddenly roared to life. It came back to life with a burst of blue smoke. The sooty exhaust fumes echoed in the silence of the night. My eyes immediately darted to the fuel gauge—there was about half a tank left. Without wasting any time, I headed to the other vehicles at the station. I used a hose to siphon gasoline; first, I filled the VAZ's tank to the brim, then transferred the remaining fuel into a rusty but sturdy canister and placed it in the trunk.
The trunk was surprisingly spacious. I carefully placed the ammunition box I had found in the armory inside. It was filled with 9mm bullets—I counted them, exactly 2,560 rounds. This ammunition was as valuable as gold in this new world.
My next destination was clear: the city of Pushkin, part of the former Leningrad Military District. The headquarters of the 2nd Guards Artillery Division, once one of the elite units of the Soviet era, was located here. Perhaps I could still find ammunition, equipment, or a well-preserved underground shelter there.
As the VAZ-2102's engine growled on, I quickly covered the approximately 30-kilometer journey. The wind's howl shook the wires along the roadside. Abandoned vehicles, rusted traffic signs, and fallen trees along the roadside revealed the war's aftermath like ghostly reminders.
The scene that greeted me when I arrived in Pushkin was heartbreaking. The city seemed to have endured a complete apocalypse. Huge craters had swallowed the streets. Apartment buildings were reduced to skeletons; there was no glass left, and the walls were either collapsed or burned. Power poles had been uprooted, and rails had been torn from their tracks.
I slowly took out my DP-5V dosimeter. I looked closely at the needle moving on the device's screen. The radiation level was not as high as I had expected. So this place had not been directly hit by a nuclear attack. The destruction was probably caused by conventional cruise missiles. A cleaner, more targeted massacre. This is a classic tactic in war: first, you destroy the enemy's bases, airfields, and command centers. This prevents reinforcements from arriving from the rear. Pushkin had suffered the same fate.
I carefully drove the car along the narrow, cracked asphalt road leading to the base. This road, winding through the forest, had once been a major artery for military convoys. But now it was silent, abandoned, and haunted. However, the hope within me shattered the moment I reached the base.
The military base had been completely erased from the map.
As I surveyed the surroundings, the devastation of war seeped into my very bones. The old MT-LB armored personnel carriers had been reduced to twisted, intertwined piles of scrap metal. The remains of Grad multiple rocket launcher systems were charred, with 122mm rockets scattered everywhere. The emplacements of 152mm D-20 howitzers were in ruins—barrels bent, wheels embedded in the hulls.
And skeletons… everywhere. Some still wore Soviet army uniforms, their chest pockets rusted with medals. Some had been crushed under vehicles, others lay on their backs on dusty concrete, decomposing—it was unsettling to wonder what they had been looking at in their final moments.
I carefully pulled the VAZ up against a wall and turned off the engine. I walked toward the main headquarters building. I climbed the steps slowly. The doors had already been blown off, and the windows had been torn from their frames. The interior bore the marks of years of abandonment and sudden death.
It didn't take long to find the narrow stairs leading down to the basement. The stone steps were covered in rust and dust. When I reached the bottom, a thick steel door caught my attention—it read "Command Post." The door was ajar. As I stepped inside, a suffocating air greeted me. Old map panels mounted on concrete walls, cracked telephones, and Soviet radios were still in place.
On the floor, two skeletons... One had fallen onto a chair; its skull was still leaning against the backrest. The other was right in front of the door, as if it had tried to get out at the last moment but couldn't. It was wedged behind the door, one arm twisted back in an odd way.
One of them had a thick notebook with a striking red cover in their hand. While everything else was burned, rotted, and collapsed... that notebook was almost completely undamaged. Not a single drop of soot had fallen on it. I carefully picked it up with trembling hands. The cover resembled official archive notebooks from the Soviet era.
I knelt down and picked up the notebook. Its cover was carefully preserved, and the edges were almost untouched. On the cover, written in handwriting, was only this sentence:
> "2nd Guards Artillery Division – Command Logbook"
With dusty fingers, I slowly opened the cover. Despite the weight of time, the pages inside were legible. I began to read:
> June 24, 1993 — Another drill was held today by order of Lieutenant General V. Fyodorovich. Weekly drills have become routine. Food supplies in the base's storage area were replenished; in particular, canned meat, dried bread, medical supplies, and medicine boxes were delivered.
> June 30, 1993 — The number of new recruits is growing rapidly. Discharged officers are being recalled to duty. Armored vehicles — MT-LB, T-72, T-64, BMP — are being removed from maintenance hangars and re-entered into inventory.
> July 11, 1993 — The Middle East is boiling over. Tensions between Israel and Iraq have reached nuclear threat levels. But still, I can't believe anyone would dare to drop that first bomb... Because if that bomb falls, the entire world will be dragged into hell.
> July 17, 1993 — North Korea launched conventional missiles at Japan and South Korea. The world is rapidly heading toward uncontrolled destruction. We have activated radar systems 24/7, and crew shifts have been intensified.
> July 20, 1993 — Negotiations began in Berlin between the Soviets and NATO. The goal is clear: to prevent a global nuclear war. May God be with us… Diplomacy must work this time.
> July 25, 1993 — The nightmare has finally become reality. Iraq launched four nuclear warheads at Israel. Israel responded swiftly and ruthlessly, initiating a full-scale nuclear attack on Iraqi territory. The borders on the map are now nothing more than theoretical lines.
> July 26, 1993 — NATO unanimously authorized a nuclear strike against Iraq. As of today, Iraq is no longer a country, but merely a scorched piece of land. A Red Alert was declared across the Soviet Union. All units have been placed on full combat alert.
> July 29, 1993 — North Korea struck a NATO base in South Korea with nuclear missiles. The response was swift. Air forces from Japan and South Korea erased North Korea's military infrastructure from the map. Asia is now the bloodiest front in the global chess game.
> August 3, 1993 — The Soviets and NATO sat down at the negotiating table for the second time. However, while the talks were ongoing, a nuclear reactor near Pripyat suddenly exploded. The summit ended immediately. The official statement was that it was an "accident." But no one here believes that.
> 05.08.1993 — At secret meetings among officers, the consensus was clear: Pripyat had been sabotaged. This was an attack. Worse still, it was an open insult to Soviet territory. A comprehensive report was sent to the Kremlin. Our hearts were filled with vengeance, and we would make them pay for this.
> 07.08.1993 — A sealed envelope arrived from the Kremlin… It simply read:
"TOP SECRET: Operation VENGEANCE"
The contents were shared only with the highest-ranking commanders. The instructions were encrypted. I cannot disclose them at this time.
> 14.08.1993 — The "Perimeter" system was activated. The Soviets' last resort, humanity's tombstone.
At 03:42, exactly 1,600 intercontinental ballistic missiles, each carrying nuclear warheads, were launched. Target: cities and military bases of NATO countries. The world will burn with us.
The following pages of the notebook were either burned or covered in clotted blood. The writing was illegible. In other words, roughly five years had passed since the war.
As I placed the red-covered notebook in my bag, I felt a void inside me. The true reason for my coming here was still unfulfilled: the armory.
I carefully made my way through the rubble to the rear of the base. But what I saw shattered my morale. The ammunition building had been severely damaged—the ceiling had collapsed, the walls were riddled with holes, and the interior was littered with burnt crates, overturned shelves, and rusty bullet casings. Still, with careful searching, I found some remnants that would help me survive.
First, I headed for the weapon crates. A row of TT-33 pistols, dusty and half-open, caught my eye—these weapons, in use since the 1930s, still looked sturdy. A little further on, I found several AK-74s, and among them, two SVD Dragunov sniper rifles stood out. I examined their mechanisms carefully: though not spotless, they were still functional.
The ammunition section was miraculously still intact.
When I lifted the lids of the wooden boxes, I found ammunition neatly stacked inside:
7.62×25 mm TT pistol rounds, 7.62×39 mm AK-47 cartridges, 5.45×39 mm AK-74 ammunition, and 7.62×54 mmR sniper cartridges... Everything was in its place. They were heavy, yes—but this ammunition could keep me alive for weeks, even months. The weight of each box gave me a little more time to live.
In another box, I came across the Soviets' classic death machines: F-1 and RGN hand grenades.
With their curved bodies, they were old but effective; when used correctly, they had the capacity to eliminate multiple enemies at once.
The real gold mine, however, was in the protective gear section.
On a rusty shelf in the corner sat a 6B2 steel vest, still in good condition. Covered in titanium plates and aramid fabric, this vest provided Level 2 protection—particularly effective against pistol rounds like the TT-33 and PPSH.
Next to it was the legendary SSH-68 steel helmet. A staple of the Soviet army... It protected against shrapnel and debris, but didn't offer much protection against direct bullets.
And perhaps the most valuable: NBC (nuclear, biological, chemical) protection equipment.
In one corner, I found a neatly folded OZK-F NBC suit. Unlike the classic L-1 model, it had a camouflage pattern and was designed to reduce sweating—perfect for prolonged use.
Next to it was a PMG-type gas mask. Its wide field of view and compatibility with scoped weapons provided a critical advantage in combat. The mask's filter was still sealed; it had never been used.