Buch lesen: "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.
