I carefully scraped off the fish scales, then washed my hands with water. The river water was cold, but I was used to it. I washed the scaled fish again, then turned on the DP-5V dosimeter standing on the side. The green light flickered for a moment, then settled into a steady silence. It was not radioactive. The reason was obvious: five years had passed since the war, and since rivers are flowing waters, they renew themselves, so there are fewer radioactive substances in rivers. However, creatures that attach themselves to rocks, such as mussels, can still be contaminated with radioactive substances. Removing and washing the internal organs of fish is the most reliable method.
I cut the fish into pieces with my sharp knife. As I scraped the meat off the bones, I set the internal organs aside. I placed the pieces of meat in a small pot of boiling water and put it on the stove. The fire below began to cook the fish patiently. The smell of smoke slowly spread around.
While waiting for the fish to cook, I made a simple fish trap using the branches, pieces of string, and broken sticks lying around. I put the liver and intestines of the fish inside as bait. I walked back to the reeds with heavy steps and placed the trap in the shade, at a spot where the water was still. Maybe we would have a second meal by noon. Perhaps we would postpone our hunger until the next day. Perhaps.
When I returned, the sun was beginning to shyly peek over the horizon. The air was still cool. I walked over to the car. The silence inside was heavy; I wanted to sense the presence of a living body inside. I slowly opened the door.
Irina was lying curled up in the back seat. The pallor of her skin was slightly less than it had been during the night. I reached out and touched her forehead. Her fever had subsided—for now.
"Irina."
My voice was firm but gentle.
"It's morning. You have to get up."
She didn't move for a moment. Then her eyebrows furrowed slightly, her eyelids fluttered. She slowly opened her eyes and looked around with a foreign blankness mixed with sleep. It took her a few seconds to realize where she was. Then her face cleared, and she quietly got up and walked toward me. She was still limping, but she carefully stepped where she placed her feet and slowly made her way to the fire, where she sat down.
Without saying a word, I placed some of the boiled fish into the tin can and silently set it before her. She said a short "Thank you," then kept her eyes on the fish. She examined it carefully—sniffed it, turned it over with her fingertips. She seemed nervous, as if she were eating for the first time. Then she glanced at me briefly. Then she took a small bite. She chewed. She waited. And took another bite.
Sitting facing the fire, I chewed the last piece of meat in silence. The smoke rose slowly, and every now and then sparks pierced the darkness. Silence was now a natural noise in these lands. The sounds of conflict were far away today. For now.
After finishing my meal, I stood up and approached Irina with heavy steps. She was still silent. I came to her side; her eyes were fixed on the fire with a dull attention.
"Let's change your bandage," I said, my voice low but firm. "The fire may have died down for now, but wound care requires continuity. Otherwise, things will get worse."
She nodded slightly. Silently, she pulled up her pants and began to unwrap the bandage. Her fingers were still trembling. She carefully removed the bandage. The wound was better than the previous night. The redness had subsided, and there were no signs of infection. Still, I didn't leave anything to chance. I heated the alcohol in the small metal container I carried with me, then carefully cleaned the edges of the wound and the stitch line with cotton.
I sprinkled crushed "Chlorotetracycline" tablets in powder form onto the wound. As the powder settled on the wound, Irina looked away. With a look of accustomed pain, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I wrapped the wound with a new sterile bandage.
"The wound looks okay for now," I said, finishing my work. "But let me be clear... You won't be able to do anything for about a month. Running, jumping, even walking properly... it's risky."
Irina didn't speak for a long time. She just looked at the ground. Then she slowly reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and opened her hand. Inside, two small glass vials glowed—'ZELYONKA.' This small green liquid was a miracle for those standing on the gray line between life and death.
"I actually didn't want to use this," she said softly. "But... it seems I have no choice. I only have two left."
I looked at the vials. I shook my head slowly. "If you're going to use ZELYONKA, it's recommended that you do so under a doctor's supervision. Your body is weak and not resistant right now. ZELYONKA not only accelerates cell regeneration but also speeds up the entire metabolism. You'll need calories, protein, vitamins... so many things. The conditions here aren't suitable for that right now."
Irina turned her head and looked into my eyes. There was more than just uncertainty in that gaze; there was suppressed anger, broken pride, and pride struggling to resist helplessness. But it wasn't directed at me... it was directed at herself. It was as if her body had betrayed her, her willpower had been pulled from beneath her knees.
I thought for a moment. Then an idea came to me. Without taking my eyes off hers, I spoke:
"Let's go to the city of Tver. It's about seventy kilometers northeast of here. The old VDV airborne base near there has now become a small settlement for the survivors. I know someone there… Nikolai Margelov. A former major. Now he's the chairman of the local council. He knows me. We can arrange for you to stay at the hospital there. That way, you can use ZELYONKA under medical supervision in a safe environment."
I paused for a moment, then looked into her eyes again. Irina said nothing. She simply lowered her head, then looked at the ZELYONKA ampoules in her hand. Her fingers clenched them tightly, but it was more a physical expression of a decision than an act of possession. She then glanced at her injured leg, clenched her teeth, and raised her head to look at me.
"This idea… seems much more reasonable," she said, her voice firm but still hiding a hint of fatigue.
I nodded. "Then we're moving."
In the remaining silence, we gathered our belongings. We loaded our bag, the medicine, the remaining canned food, and our weapons into the car. I carefully seated Irina in the front passenger seat; the sunlight streaming through the window made her face look pale. After making final checks, I sat in the driver's seat and started the engine. The powerful V8 engine roared to life after a few grunts. I placed my hands on the steering wheel and drove the car toward Tver.
We were silent throughout the journey. Both of us were lost in thought. The road was pitted with holes, the asphalt cracked, and in some places completely covered in dirt. Occasionally, we passed overturned traffic signs or rusted vehicle frames along the roadside. The sound of stones beneath the wheels was monotonous yet strangely soothing.
I checked the dosimeter intermittently along the way. The radiation level had increased slightly compared to previous areas, but it was still safe. We had our gas masks on and our NBC suits. We were still safe.
About an hour later, we arrived at an old checkpoint. Between the barbed wire and collapsed concrete barriers along the roadside, a rusted sign still stood:
"ВДВ УЧАСТОК №9 - РАЗРЕШЕНИЕ ОБЯЗАТЕЛЬНО"
(VDV Zone No. 9 - Permission required for entry.)
I drove the vehicle forward. At the point where the broken asphalt ended and heavy iron rails were buried in the ground, a large red steel gate came into view. The sun glinted coldly off the metal surface. In front of the gate, right in the center, stood a broad-shouldered, tall, wrestler-like guard with a stern expression. The bulletproof vest he had strapped over his uniform was worn, but it still exuded authority.
He took a few steps toward the car. I opened the window slightly.
"Hello, comrade," he said in a deep voice. "What is the purpose of your visit here?"
I looked into his eyes. His face was familiar.
"I've come to see President Nikolai Margelov," I said. My voice was firm and weary.
When the soldier heard Margelov's name, the tension on his face gave way to respect. He immediately gave a military salute, then whispered something into his radio. The door's internal mechanism began to work with a heavy metallic creak. The steel door slowly opened to the side.
"Have a safe journey, comrade," he said. His eyes briefly glanced at Irina, but he didn't ask any questions.
I started the vehicle again. As I passed through the gate and entered between the massive concrete walls, I felt temporarily safe.
The interior of the settlement was familiar. Rusted street lamps, buildings, houses, and tents set up between them... Everything was the same. But there was one difference:
Previously, the civilian and military zones were separate, but now they were together.
When I arrived at the presidential building, I parked my vehicle in front of the familiar gray stairs. I opened the door and went to Irina's side. I gently supported her leg and helped her to her feet. She grimaced but didn't make a sound. We entered the building slowly, step by step.
The young soldier on duty at the reception desk looked up at us. He was serious and stern. I approached him and bowed slightly.
"I want to see President Margelov. Tell him Aleksey Brusilov is here."
The soldier nodded, opened the door to the back room, and disappeared inside. A few seconds later, he returned.
"The chairman is waiting for you, comrade."
Irina and I opened the heavy door and entered. The room was large, its walls still intact. A table covered with old maps, a worn leather chair, and a samovar in the corner... All of it represented Margelov's stubborn resistance to the world.
Nikolai Margelov was sitting in his chair. His face was clean-shaven with VDV discipline, but his eyes still shone with the resolve of an old general. When he saw me, a slow smile appeared on his face. He stood up, approached with heavy steps, and embraced me firmly.
"It's good to see you again, son," Margelov said. His tone was both warm and authoritative as always. "It's been a few days since we last met. How are you? Did you find the map?"
I approached him and nodded slightly, reflecting the respect I had felt for him for years.
"Let's just say I'm still alive," I said. "How are you, Commander? Yes, I found the map… but things have gotten a bit complicated. I need your help."
Margelov's expression immediately grew serious. He turned his head slowly toward Irina. His eyes studied her for a moment—as if trying to figure out who she was. Then he turned back to me.
"Come in, sit down. I'll do my best to help," he said. His tone was firm but hospitable. "So... who is this lovely lady?"
Irina was silent. There was no fear in her eyes, but there was caution. I answered Margelov's question.
"Her name is Irina," I said. My voice was flat, but my tone was respectful. "She's a trained warrior. Her past is complicated, but her skills are undeniable. She's currently in a blood feud with the leader of a band of outlaws called Federov. We found ourselves on the same side for a common goal, even though we were almost killing each other."
Margelov frowned. "So his name is Federov. I've never heard of him before, or perhaps he deliberately keeps out of the limelight."
Margelov crossed his arms over his chest and bowed his head thoughtfully. I made my offer:
"If you provide me with military support and cover Irina's medical expenses, I'll take you to that base. You can take whatever you need—weapons, medicine, whatever. All we need is a little time and resources to recover and prepare to fight Federov."
Margelov returned to his chair and sat down heavily. He clasped his fingers together and rested them on his chin. His eyes turned first to Irina, then to me.
"Your offer is interesting, Aleksey," he said. "But the base in Torzhok—it was once our black box, and I want you to tell me more about Federov."
A silence fell. The old clock in the corner of the room continued to tick. Margelov narrowed his eyes and shook his head. It was as if he were redrawing the entire map in his mind.
"Very well," Margelov finally said, choosing his words carefully. "Irina, you can receive treatment at the infirmary today. They'll do their best there." He then opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a blue document covered in stiff cardboard. It had stamped seals and a relief of a double-headed eagle resembling the old Soviet coat of arms in the upper corner.
"This is a medical facility access pass," he said, handing me the passport. "Show this to the doctor. Everything necessary for your recovery will be done. We'll meet at the '1' hangar in the military zone this evening, Aleksey. We'll discuss the details then. But for now... our agreement stands."
I took the document with both hands, and he bowed his head slightly as he looked into my eyes. I shook his hand firmly and decisively: "Thank you, Comrade Margelov. I'll relay all the details tonight."
I took Irina's arm; she was still limping but had her chin up, refusing to give in. We left the building together. Outside, a dry, slightly smoky wind was blowing. I drove her to the hospital complex. The infirmary was one of several large blocks within the military camp; its concrete walls still bore Soviet-era red plus symbols and faded propaganda posters: "Health is the foundation of the army!"
I showed the car to the security at the entrance, holding up the blue document: "We're here for the infirmary. We have special care instructions."
The gate opened immediately, and the soldier nodded, saying, "You may proceed, comrade."
As we entered the hospital building, we were greeted by a faint medicinal odor—a mix of ethanol, iodine, and bedsheets. I handed the document to the duty nurse at the reception desk. She adjusted her glasses, examined the document, then spoke into the radio: "The special treatment room is ready. The patient should be brought in on a stretcher."
An iron wheelchair was brought for Irina. I helped her sit down by holding her elbow. They led us through the corridors to the infirmary. We entered a high-ceilinged, sterilized room. The room had no windows, but it was lit by yellow fluorescent lights from above. Inside, two doctors were waiting—one a surgeon, the other an assistant technician. They laid Irina on a hospital bed with steel legs.
One of the doctors put on his glasses as he carefully unwrapped the bandage on her leg. He examined the edges of the wound and the stitches with great care.
"There are no signs of infection, and the redness is minimal. That's good news. But the healing process has slowed down," he said. Then his colleague began preparations. Various medical supplies were arranged on a stainless steel tray: sterile gauze pads, alcohol solutions, syringes, and needles.
The clinic's chief physician took a light green, slightly glowing ampoule filled with liquid. The assistant nurse carefully filled the syringe, expelled the air, and then the doctor identified four different injection sites: beneath the muscle tissue around the thigh, near the stitches but at points that would not damage the nerves. The needles were inserted professionally and swiftly. Irina's body trembled slightly at the first injection. She clenched her teeth but made no sound.
"ZELYONKA is connected. Now we will open the vein. Body temperature will rise, metabolism will accelerate. We are starting nutritional supplementation immediately."
The technician set up the vein. Then three separate bags were attached to a portable infusion device:
Amino acid-based protein solution
High-density vitamin-mineral mixture
Liquid electrolyte balancing solution
All the bags were administered one after another, slowly into her arm. The only sounds in the room were the faint beeps of the machines and the rhythmic dripping of the serum.
The doctor turned to me; there was a medical seriousness in his eyes, but beneath it, a faint glimmer of empathy.
"ZELYONKA will be tough on the body," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. "The fever may rise, muscle spasms may occur, and even temporary confusion may be observed. But the recovery process will be dramatically faster than for a normal patient. During this process, high-calorie nutrition, quality sleep, and as calm an environment as possible are essential."
I nodded. My voice was soft but firm:
"Thank you for everything, doctor. So… how long will it take for the wound to heal? When will she be able to walk again?"
The doctor thought for a few seconds. His eyes lingered for a moment on the infusion bags attached to Irina's arm, then shifted to the sterile bandage on her leg. After calculating based on his medical experience, he adjusted his glasses and replied:
"Returning to daily life... will take about 10 days. So, regaining basic mobility, being able to walk, and performing simple tasks may be possible within that timeframe. But full recovery—the tissues fully repairing themselves, the nerve endings healing, and the muscle fibers regaining their former strength—will likely take about 14 days."
He paused for a moment, his tone becoming clearer:
"It's best for him to stay in the hospital for seven days. We don't want to take any risks. ZELYONKA, yes, it could be miraculous, but the dosages and metabolic reactions are still not clearly measurable. That's why we need to keep her here under observation."
My gaze shifted to Irina. She was sleeping; at least, it seemed that way. There was a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead, but her expression was peaceful. Her sleep was deep, and her body seemed lighter.
"Alright," I said. "She'll stay here. I'll provide whatever is needed."
The doctor nodded. "The first 48 hours are critical. If she gets through this period without complications, the rest will follow. If ZELYONKA works—and judging by the woman's condition, she's already used this medication many times—she'll recover quickly."
"Thank you, doctor," I said quietly. Then I left the room. I walked slowly under the dim lights of the corridor. When I passed through the hospital's exit door and stepped outside into the ash-gray sky, a light breeze brushed my face. I squinted and glanced around; it was quiet, with only the faint sound of a car's faulty exhaust in the distance. I walked toward my car. I opened the door, got inside, closed the door, took a deep breath, and started the engine. The engine coughed to life. I slowly shifted the gear lever and drove toward the city center.
When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I noticed: my hair had grown out in a messy way, and my beard was completely disheveled, spreading across my face like a tired shadow. Most of the buildings I saw before reaching the city center were half-ruined, but there were still a few businesses struggling to survive among them. On the ground floor of a two-story stone building next to an old market, I saw a small, simple sign: "Barber – Shaving & Cleaning."
I parked the car in front of the building and got out. The air was cold; I put my hands in my pockets and opened the barber's door. When I entered, I found an old but clean shop. The floor was covered with cracked tiles. Faded propaganda posters and a couple of military calendars hung on the walls.
Behind the counter stood a middle-aged, short but well-built man. He wore a dark blue apron covered in white stains, and his face bore a calm expression that had become second nature. He was cleaning the stainless steel scissors in his hand with a cloth. He glanced at me, then nodded toward the leather-covered chair in front of the mirror:
"Hello, comrade. If you're here for a shave, come on in and take a seat. We do clean work."
I nodded slightly and entered, sitting down in the chair. I glanced briefly at myself in the mirror and noticed how tired I looked. Then I turned to the barber and began to speak:
"Cut the sides and back of my hair short. Don't make the top too long. Shave my beard clean so my face is smooth."
The man nodded in agreement, then took an old-fashioned metal comb and scissors and got to work. He carefully combed through every strand of my hair, the metallic sound of the scissors echoing through the room. Every movement was disciplined, patient, and familiar; it was clear he had been doing this job since before the war. During the shave, the scent of cologne from the glass bottles on the shelves occasionally reached my nose.
After the haircut, he lathered soap in a small brass basin. He skillfully applied it to my face, then took his sharp razor. Every movement was controlled; no scratches, no unnecessary pressure. As he shaved the foam, the razor touching the cold skin beneath my face seemed to silently proclaim its sharpness.
When the shave was complete, I washed my face with warm water. I dried my hair and face with an old but clean towel. I looked in the mirror again: it was as if some of the fatigue on my face had been erased. I bowed my head briefly in thanks. I took four pistol bullets from my pocket and placed them on the table. Then I left and got into my car. I drove the car toward the "1" numbered hangar in the military zone.