This also revealed a lot.
It meant that the KGB and GRU had not disbanded in the post-war chaos. Instead, they had gone underground and continued to collect data, monitor the environment, and organize themselves. This was both impressive and frightening.
I carefully unfolded the map. Radiation levels were marked in different colors by region:
Dark red areas: Lethal levels of radiation. Death within minutes.
Orange areas: High doses. No more than 1 hour without protection.
Yellow areas: Dangerous but manageable for a while with protective clothing.
Green areas: Safe areas with no radiation. Shelters, underground facilities, old military bases, and areas far from cities were included.
The areas marked in green caught my attention:
The vicinity of Yakutsk, the northern slopes of the Ural Mountains, the Altai ridges, the seemingly endless Siberian taiga, Lake Baikal, and the isolated region around it.
Rare lands where radiation was low and life was still possible. Perhaps people still live there... perhaps.
But what really caught my attention were some symbols scattered randomly across the map.
Some areas had a red "X" marked on them.
Some had handwritten notes added beside them:
> "Оперативная зона"
(Operational Zone)
> "КАРАНТИНА!"
(Quarantine!)
> "Связь потеряна"
(Contact Lost)
All of them were unsettling.
This map was no ordinary map;
it was a survival guide, or a post-war command map.
Cold and systematic.
Suddenly, my eye caught a small rectangle at the bottom edge.
I examined it closely—the building I was in, the ruins I was in.
It was circled, and a thin but clear note was written beside it:
> "Object 42: KGB Operational Archive"
(Obyekt 42: KGB Operational Archive)
Not an "archive"…
The ghost of a state.
I carefully folded the map and put it in my bag.
I carefully removed the 1P78 telescopic sight and GP-25 grenade launcher attached to my old AK-74.
Slowly and instinctively, I turned to my new weapon:
I attached the accessories to the "AN-94 ABAKAN," checked the ammunition. The magazine was full. I was ready.
Then I followed the stairs down to the garage in the basement.
There was no light, but the emergency lamps hanging on the walls emitted a dim red glow.
And before me… the remnants of the past.
Soviet cars lined up in a row:
A coal-black GAZ-23 "Volga," a colorful VAZ-21059, a GAZ-21, a VAZ-2103, and a VAZ-2101.
But my eye was drawn to one in particular:
GAZ-2424
Jet black. Its shiny metallic color still looked menacing despite the dust of time.
These cars were equipped with a ZMZ-2424 V8 engine and could operate even in the electromagnetic field created by a nuclear explosion.
A urban legend from the Soviet era came to mind:
> "If a black Volga is parked in front of someone's house one morning… either there will be a death there, or there will be a wedding in that house."
I approached the door, pulled the latch. It opened.
The interior was dusty but undamaged.
I sat in the driver's seat; the key was already in the ignition. I paused for a moment, reached out, and turned it.
"VROOOMMM"
The engine started on the first try. I smiled slightly.
Leaving the door open and the engine running in the garage, I ran upstairs.
As I climbed the stairs, my footsteps echoing with each step, the sounds of the fight still echoed through the corridors.
When I turned the corner, I reached the room I had left. The room was unrecognizable—the walls were riddled with holes, cracked, and the ceiling had partially collapsed.
The furniture was shattered, the table overturned, and the floor was covered in debris and glass shards.
The girl was still alive, leaning against an overturned wardrobe, half-crouching, holding an SVD-NSV hybrid sniper rifle.
She continued to fight stubbornly, defiantly, fearlessly.
Her leg wound was roughly bandaged, and she had tried to stop the bleeding.
Despite her pale face, her eyes were still alive—not with fear, but with anger.
I crouched down and turned toward the window.
My eyes focused on the shadows outside.
I silently removed the pins from two F-1 bombs. I threw the bombs intermittently toward the enemy's position, the trenches next to the building.
Then I turned and rushed toward the girl without wasting any time.
I grabbed her by the waist and below the knees and lifted her into my arms.
Her body was light, but it was difficult to carry her due to the weight of my armor, the battle, and my injuries.
Her reaction was immediate:
"Hey… let me go! What are you doing?!" she screamed in panic.
Her voice was cracked but still strong.
But I didn't have time to explain. The moment our eyes met, I sensed that she understood. To survive, we had no choice but to act together.
I made my way through the rubble in the corridors, ran under the flickering lights, and didn't slow down despite my heavy breathing.
The blood had already soaked through the bandage on her leg; time was against us. When I reached the garage, the GAZ-2424 was still running.
I opened the passenger door and carefully placed the girl in the seat.
She looked at me for a moment—anger and gratitude intertwined.
I sat down in the driver's seat.
I gripped the gearshift, and when my feet pressed the pedals, the car surged forward.
The garage's iron door was ajar; we burst through the opening and began to move away from the building, but the ringing in my head wouldn't subside.
My UAZ was left behind…
Inside were bullets, food, weapons.
But now was not the time to think about those things.
We had survived. At least for now.
We didn't say a single word along the way.
The girl sat silently in the passenger seat, her head pressed against the window, watching the outside world.
I continued driving the car on the muddy road, hands on the steering wheel.
Apart from the monotonous hum of the engine and the sound of the tires crushing the wet leaves on the ground, the surroundings were completely silent.
A few minutes later, my eye caught a path on the side of the road. I turned the steering wheel to the left and drove the car onto the dirt road.
As we drove deeper into the forest, it felt like nighttime, the sky hidden behind the tree branches.
Finally, we reached a wide clearing next to the river. I stopped the car there. For a moment, there was complete silence. I turned off the engine.
We had lost our trail... at least for now.
But that didn't mean we were safe.
I opened the door and got out. I left the bag in the car.
The damp soil crunched under my feet, and the scent of moss, pine resin, and decaying leaves filled my lungs.
I pulled a lighter from my pocket and gathered dry branches from the forest to start a fire.
Sparks flew into the air, then smoke and heat slowly enveloped the area.
The girl was still sitting in the car. She had her head down, silent. Her face was pale, her eyes weary.
I leaned heavily against the car.
I took off my armor and dropped my helmet on the ground.
My whole body was burning. I slowly pulled off my shirt, and my bare skin shivered in the cool night air.
The places where the bullets had hit my chest, ribs, and stomach felt as if they had been hammered.
The armor hadn't been pierced, but the impact had taken its toll on my body.
Bruises, black marks, and broken veins were becoming visible.
I took medical alcohol and sterile gauze from my bag. I soaked the gauze in alcohol and pressed it against the bruised areas. The pain stabbed like a knife. I clenched my teeth and chose to endure it silently.
I took a deep breath and turned my head toward the girl.
She was still in the car. There was a silent resistance on her face, and a bloody bandage on her leg.
I walked over to her. I spoke in a calm but firm voice:
"If you don't get treatment, you'll either bleed to death...
Or the infection will spread, and I'll have to amputate your leg."
We just stared at each other for a moment.
Finally, she slowly opened the door. Holding onto the doorframe with one hand, she carefully stepped outside.
Despite the bandage on her leg, she tried not to put weight on it, but the pain was clearly evident on her face.
I supported her with my shoulder and helped her walk toward the fire by holding her around the waist.
The girl crouched down and slowly removed her L-1 NBC suit.
She was still wearing her military camouflage uniform, and she pulled her pants's leg up to her thighs.
The bandage was no longer a wound; it had become part of the wound itself. It was completely soaked in blood, clotted in places. She tried to unwrap the bandage, but with each pull, the flesh moved along with the part stuck to her skin. She clenched her teeth, closed her eyes, and in one swift motion, ripped off the bandage. Fresh blood gushed out from between the torn flesh.
Without saying a word, I reached into my bag and took out the morphine, medical alcohol, and the flask. I silently handed them over. He silently took them. The girl washed the wound with the flask. The blood from the wound mixed with the water and flowed onto the ground. Then she injected the morphine into the areas around the wound.
The moment the alcohol touched her skin, her body tensed reflexively. Despite the morphine being past its expiration date, it still hurt a little. She tried to look as if nothing had happened. But I saw how her jaw clenched and her eyes filled with tears of pain. The grinding of her teeth pierced the silence like a scream.
I took a sewing kit out of my bag, a needle and strong thread. She took it without looking at me. She brought it close to her wound. But her hands were shaking uncontrollably.
It was as if her body had decided to rebel at that moment.
She took a few deep breaths. But with each breath, her fingers shook more. Resistance and courage also had their limits. And she was at that limit.
Finally, unable to bear it anymore, I took the needle from between her fingers. I fixed my gaze on her eyes with a short, sharp, determined look. She didn't look away, but there was neither anger nor gratitude in her eyes. Just the blank, dull but resilient gaze of someone who wanted to endure without saying a word.
Then I brought the needle close to the wound. As soon as the needle touched her skin, the muscles in her body tensed reflexively. When I made the first stitch, her skin contracted slightly, tightening.
But she didn't make a sound.
He fixed her eyes on the distance, into the darkening forest. Not as if she were searching for something there—just as if she were waiting for the pain to pass.
I finished the stitches quietly. When I was done, I poured alcohol on the wound again. I took out a clean bandage and carefully wrapped the wound. I tied the bandage tightly—but not too tightly, as blood circulation still had to continue.
Then I took an AI-2 first aid kit out of my bag. The box was yellow, like cheese.
I took a 'Chlortetracycline' tablet from inside. Its effect was weak, but under these conditions, it would at least provide some resistance against bacteria.
I handed her the tablet. She swallowed the medicine. Then she took the canteen and drank a few sips.
"Thank you," she said.
Her voice was neither soft nor fragile. Just neutral. Like a tired soldier saying, "Understood." Then she stood up; it was clear she wanted to go to the car.
I took her to the car. She opened the door, moved to the back seat, and stretched out, pulling one knee up to himself.
She was still trying to look strong on the outside, but her breathing had become heavy.
I quietly opened my bag. Fortunately, not all the food was in the UAZ; I took out three cans of meat from my bag.
I stuck a small fork near the fire and heated the cans. When the oil rose to the surface, the tin began to bubble.
Then I turned toward the car and said in a low voice:
"Dinner's ready."
The door creaked open. She got out of the car, exhausted, almost falling over. Holding onto the gun she had taken from the car, she limped over to the fire. She didn't say a word as she sat down. As she stared at the flames with narrowed eyes, a broken yet resilient expression settled on her face.
I handed her a can of food. She glanced at it, then bowed her head and took it silently. She dipped her spoon into the food and took a few bites. After a few minutes, I spoke up:
"It's clear you're not an ordinary person. Who are you? Why is Federov after you?"
She paused for a moment. She set her spoon on the edge of the can, clenched her jaw. There was no sound except the crackling of the fire.
"My name is... Irina Volkova," she finally said. Her voice had a tired yet sharp tone.
When she didn't continue, I fell silent. I didn't ask again. Silence is a weapon; when used at the right time, it speaks louder than words.
Some time passed. Finally, she parted her lips:
"About ten kilometers from here, there was a community. A few survivors..."
"Did Federov attack there?" I asked, my eyes ablaze but my attention on her.
She bowed her head slightly. Her eyes were cloudy, but she didn't cry.
"Yes. They came... they looted. We lost four people."
We were silent for a moment. Then she broke the silence with a sentence:
"I took seven of them. I cut off their heads. That's why they're after me."
There was no fear in her voice. She wasn't boasting, nor was she regretful. She was simply stating the truth—a raw, bloody, and cold truth.
"So, who are you? Where are you from? Why are you helping me?"—I suppose it was her turn to question me; her voice carried both curiosity and suspicion. She remained silent for a few seconds, staring intently into my eyes.
"My name is Aleksey, Aleksey Brusilov. I came here from far away." There was no hesitation in my voice; every word was clear and firm. "The reason I'm helping you is simple; my car is now in their hands. Fighting them alone is pointless, but if we act together, we'll be stronger." There was determination in my eyes and composure on my lips. "After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend," I said with a serious gaze.
When I finished speaking, everything fell silent except for the crackling of the fire. It was as if my words had frozen in the air, suspended in the night.
After finishing my meal, I threw a few more thick logs into the fire. The flames rose again, and the shadows began to dance. I slowly turned my face toward Irina and noticed that her eyes were still fixed on me. A cold, attentive gaze, as if she were still weighing something.
"Go to sleep," I said in a firm yet gentle tone. "I'll take the watch tonight."
She looked into my eyes for a few more seconds. She seemed torn between trusting me and not trusting me. Finally, she bowed her head slightly and limped toward the car. She opened the back door and collapsed into the back seat. She left the door ajar, perhaps wanting to stay alert.
I, on the other hand, sat down in front of the fire, bending my knees. I took the AN-94 in my hands. My fingers instinctively removed the magazine and checked the mechanism. I took out the cleaning kit, carefully disassembled the barrel, and began cleaning it. Then I loaded the magazines; the metallic clinking of the bullets mingled with the night.
I emptied the pockets of my old 6B5 armor. Hand grenades, four spare magazines for the AK-74, and boron carbide and titanium plates... I carefully placed everything in my bag. I no longer needed this armor. I removed the handmade "Altyn" visor from the ZSH-1-2M helmet and put it in my bag. I put on my new 6B4 assault armor and "Altyn-M" helmet, and placed the AN-94 magazines in the four pockets of the armor and the three pockets of the "Poyas-A/B" tactical vest. I was now ready for a possible battle.
I placed the old 6B5 armor in the trunk of the car. At that moment, the SVD-NSV hybrid rifle next to Irina caught my attention. I slowly picked up the weapon and sat down again facing the fire. I needed to keep myself occupied to stay awake. I began disassembling the weapon, cleaning and oiling each part.
It was already five in the morning. I placed the weapon next to the girl. However, I noticed that she was mumbling in her sleep and trembling slightly. I gently placed my hand on her forehead and felt that she had a slight fever.
These were clearly the first signs of an infection: fever, mumbling, trembling... If not treated in time, the infection would spread to her bloodstream. Sepsis, then gangrene... Death.
"Hey... Irina," I said in a slow, firm voice. "Wake up. We need to change your bandage."
She woke up with a start. Her eyes stared into space for a few seconds, then slowly remembered where she was. Her body was still tired and fragile, but she didn't resist. I helped her out of the car and sat her down by the fire. She reached for the bandage on her left leg and slowly began to unwrap it.
The cloth was stuck to the edges of the wound. Her face contorted as she tried to suppress the pain. I quietly reached for a small metal bottle, poured the pure alcohol inside onto the cloth, and moistened the bandage. Once it was wet, I gently pulled the cloth off.
The wound was deep and still sensitive. The edges were reddened, and a transparent, slightly yellowish fluid was oozing from the center. An infection had set in, but it could still be controlled.
I washed my hands with alcohol. Then I cleaned the area around and inside the wound with alcohol, taking care not to damage the tissue.
I took a chlorotetracycline antibiotic tablet from the AI-2 kit. I carefully crushed it with my fingers, turning it into a powder. I sprinkled it over the wound, especially on the stitches.
I took a new, sterile bandage and wrapped it neatly. The warmth seeping through the bandage meant the body was still fighting.
Then I carefully got into her arm and took her back to the car. As I laid her on the back seat, I touched her forehead with my hand. She still had a fever.
I took a small piece of cloth, soaked it in alcohol, wrung it out thoroughly, folded it, and placed it on her forehead. It was only temporary relief, but it bought us time. At that moment, her eyes opened slightly, and ahe looked at me with red eyes. There was something in them... perhaps gratitude, perhaps lingering doubt.
The sky was beginning to lighten. As the sky transitioned from grayish tones to pale blue, the faint light rising from the east gently reflected on the water. The fire had gone out, and there was no smoke left. We only had one can of meat left in our bag, and it wasn't enough for both of us. Hunger is a quieter but more persistent enemy than bullets in war. I made my decision: I had to go hunting.
I headed toward the riverbank—streams are natural meeting points for both animals and hunters in the early morning. Logically, the best option was fish. As I walked parallel to the river, my eyes scanned the surroundings. A reed-filled area... These were the kinds of places where fish swam in shallow waters, chasing small prey.
After about ten minutes of wading through the reeds up to my knees, I finally found what I was looking for. A small cove surrounded by dense reeds, where the water was relatively calm compared to the shore. I found a long stick on the ground, half-rotted but still sturdy. I removed the 6H4 spear from my back and securely tied it to the stick with my leather cord. Now I had a primitive but functional spear in my hand. I would hunt in the wilderness, beyond modern warfare, relying on my primal instincts.
I controlled my breathing and crouched down. I remained motionless, like a stone. In the early hours of the morning, the fish were still roaming the shores—these were the rare moments when waiting would pay off. I fixed my eyes on the surface of the water. As the cold dewdrops trickled down my face, I listened to the silent rhythm of nature. Somewhere inside me, only the cold logic of survival was speaking.
The reeds were silent. Only occasionally did the wind gently sweep through the dry reeds, creating a faint whisper. As the shadows danced on the water, I crouched, my eyes fixed on the surface of the water. Time moved slowly; seconds felt like minutes. But patience had its rewards.
Suddenly, there was movement beneath the water. Near the edge of the reeds, close to the surface, a large shadow began to glide slowly. The ripples caught my attention: the graceful sway of the fins, the trail left by the tail in the water. This was no ordinary fish. It was large and heavy. It approached calmly but cautiously. Exactly what I was looking for...
My body was as still as a rock, and I was only following the fish with my eyes. I slowly tightened my grip on the handle of the primitive spear in my hand. My heart was racing, but the muscles in my hand were under control with an icy discipline. I held my breath. When the fish was directly in front of me, I thrust the spear downward with all my strength.
The water splashed up into the air with a loud splash. A powerful thrashing from the depths tried to pull the spear out of my hand, but I held on tight. Holding the spear with both hands, I resisted the fish's thrashing power. The reeds rustled, and water splashed everywhere. The fish was big, heavy, and fighting to the end. Its body, covered in shimmering scales, swayed from side to side. I planted my knees in the water and leaned back to balance its weight.
Finally, its weakening struggles subsided. I slowly pulled the spear upward. I slowly rose from the water and pulled my catch out. Its body was thick, its belly heavy and full. Approximately five, maybe six pounds of carp. My breath was still rapid. My hands were trembling—not from excitement, but from exhaustion and adrenaline. But I had finally succeeded.
I immediately returned to the campsite. I slit its belly with the spear and removed the internal organs, but I didn't discard them; they're ideal for fish bait.