Before the heavy iron doors of the hangar closed completely, Nikolai spread his arms wide and said in a loud voice:
"Welcome to the Eagle's Nest!"
The pride and sense of belonging in his voice was so great that it echoed off the metal walls of the hangar, seeming to imbue the space with a spirit of its own. He then reached for his radio and muttered something short but clear. His voice was firm, and he gave orders without hesitation.
Just a few minutes later, the echoing footsteps of boots began to approach from outside the hangar. Then the large doors opened again, and a full battalion of soldiers entered. There were about four hundred of them. Each one was as big as a rock, with broad shoulders and stern faces. Their military discipline was unbroken—they lined up in four rows with perfect synchronization. Their camouflage-patterned uniforms, the plates on their chests as hard as stone, the blue berets of the Soviet VDV on their heads… These men were the ghosts of an empire still at war.
Suddenly, they all stamped their feet in unison, saluted, and shouted in a loud, unified voice:
"Никто, кроме нас!"
(No one but us!)
These words filled the hangar. My hair stood on end. As the echo of the voice still rang in my ears, Nikolai approached me. He placed his large hand on my shoulder—it was firm but friendly. His eyes sparkled, and his face showed both admiration and trust:
"We have a new guest today. Aleksey Brusilov!
The man who took down the big bear single-handedly.
Put everything we have on the table!"
These words broke the chain of tension among the soldiers waiting on edge. In an instant, the hangar turned into an anthill. Everyone rushed to their tasks. Some began dragging and arranging the steel tables, while others carried boxes of canned goods, freshly cooked meat, and bread from the outdoor storage areas. Another group brought armfuls of vodka bottles sparkling in transparent glass. Everything was orderly, swift, and silent. These men were trained to fight, but they also knew how to celebrate.
In less than ten minutes, a massive table was set up. It was overflowing with steaming meat, canned vegetables, loaves of bread, pickles, boiled potatoes, and transparent vodka bottles. The soldiers lined up on either side of the table, their hands behind their backs, ready and waiting.
Nikolai seated me at the head of the table, right next to him. As soon as I sat down, I felt a warmth rising within me.
Nikolai grabbed a piece of meat from the tray next to him with his large hands, as big as a shield. He placed the piece of meat, still steaming, with a crispy exterior and juicy interior, onto my plate. The meat was so large that it began to hang over the edge of the plate. Then, with his deep, cracked voice, he laughed and said:
"You need to eat more, comrade! Look at you, you're as thin as a toothpick! You're nothing but skin and bones!"
I smiled and shook my head, but I still reflexively looked down at my body. My shoulders were broad, and the muscles built up over the years were evident in my arms. But the men here were on another level—they were like walls carved out of stone quarries. Shoulders like pine trees, arms like logs... Suddenly, I felt like a medium-sized soldier.
The other soldiers also sprang into action. Every plate on the table was piled high with meat, potatoes, and pickles. Canned goods were opened with a rustle. Then it was time for the drinks. Each of them took a frosty vodka bottle made of transparent glass into their hands. Instead of small shot glasses, they began pouring directly into glass drinking glasses. The transparent liquid shimmered like glass inside the glass. Nikolai took the glass in front of me and, with great skill, raised the bottle in his hand and filled the glass halfway.
"LONG LIVE THE EAGLES!
LONG LIVE THE SOVIET UNION!"
"URAA!"
All the soldiers shouted in unison. Each soldier raised his glass and downed the vodka in one gulp. The empty glasses clattered on the table. I stood up to join them. The cold vodka burned my throat, and my eyes watered briefly, but I made an effort not to show it. I emptied the glass and placed it back on the table.
Everyone sat down again, and the cutlery began to attack the plates. Soon, the table was filled with the noisy atmosphere of a feast. Laughter, stories, and songs echoed amid the sounds of spoons, forks, and bones being broken. The warmth of the vodka had temporarily made me forget the heaviness of the gloomy post-apocalyptic world.
I, however, focused on the massive piece of meat in front of me. I plunged my knife into it, and the hot steam that escaped hit my face. The meat almost melted in my mouth. And in that moment, I realized that I hadn't participated in a real celebration in a long time.
As time went on, the vodka was poured into glasses again and again. Each time, the same ritual: raising the glass, drinking it in one gulp, and then slamming the empty glass on the table with a hearty laugh. The atmosphere was joyful yet disciplined; they were having fun in a military-like order.
For me, things were different. The burning effect of the vodka was slowly beginning to make my head spin. The sounds around me echoed slightly, and my vision was a little blurry. But these men... as if they were drinking only water, they sat upright, laughed, but never lost control. They were all like mountains—if they moved, the ground would shake; if they fell silent, a shadow would fall.
After a few glasses, they stopped drinking. There were still a few full bottles on the table, but no one reached for them anymore. Discipline was in their blood; they knew how to have fun, but they never forgot the limits.
With the courage of my drunkenness, and a bit of curiosity, I turned to Nikolai sitting next to me. I could no longer suppress the question that had been swirling in my head for so long. I blurted out what was on the tip of my tongue:
"Comrade Margelov... why do you live apart from the people in the city? Why do you live here, in this isolated area, as if in another world? I haven't seen any civilians here."
After this question, a silence fell over the room. The sounds of eating grew quieter, the laughter slowed. The cheerful expression on Nikolai's face faded slowly. His eyes focused on a single point, then his brows furrowed. His strong jawline became more pronounced. That powerful, determined face had suddenly transformed into that of a battle-weary general.
"The reason for all this," he said slowly, his voice now deeper and darker,
"is that damned Dmitriyev. That soft-hearted, pitiful so-called president."
A few soldiers at the table grumbled. One of them slammed his fist on the table in anger but said nothing.
Nikolai continued, his attention no longer on me, but on an old wound that had been reopened:
"The reason..." Nikolai said, clearing his throat but not hiding the anger in his voice.
"The reason is that he doesn't value us. He's distributing most of the ZELYONKA in his hands to the civilian population. What are those people doing? They're all parasites! They do nothing but fatten their own asses."
Some of the soldiers at the table shook their heads; one of them clenched his teeth and slammed his fist on his knee. Nikolai's voice grew louder, as if the anger he had been suppressing could no longer find a wall to contain it:
"We do everything! We hunt. We go out, fight mutants, loot supply convoys. We defend the base. And while doing all this—listen carefully—we are often exposed to lethal levels of radiation!"
He fell silent. There was a brief pause. Then he bowed his head and clenched his teeth.
"And what do we get in return? Every two months, maybe three... a single ZELYONKA bulb. Is that justice? Is that loyalty?"
The veins on his forehead were prominent, his blood pressure seemed to have risen. His cheeks were ashen, his eyes bloodshot. He gripped the glass in his hand, but this time he didn't drink. He just squeezed it, as if he were crushing not the glass but all his hatred inside it. The glass shattered in his large hands, but nothing happened to the man's hand.
"That man—Dmitriyev—is no longer a leader for us. He is a traitor in our eyes. Walking where he walks is an insult to us, comrade Brusilov."
There was a moment of silence. The soldiers around us bowed their heads, listening only to Nikolai. No one objected. It wasn't a shout, but a vow.
Then Nikolai turned to me. The anger on his face slowly gave way to strategic seriousness. He placed his hand on the table and leaned toward me slightly. His voice was calmer this time, but much sharper:
"We will stage a coup against the president. We have no other choice. This cannot continue. And let me be clear..."
He pointed at me with his finger.
"...we need brave men like you. You killed the bear alone. That's not something an ordinary man would do."
He looked me straight in the eye.
"If you help us, you won't go unrewarded. We'll give you three…"
He paused. He smiled, but this time it wasn't mocking; it was a serious offer.
"…no. We'll give you four ZELYONKA bulbs. That's… that's a pretty good payment under our circumstances, isn't it?"
With those words, the room fell silent again. There was no vodka or food on the table anymore. The war had begun—but this war wasn't outside, it was inside.
Nikolai's eyes held that familiar Soviet officer's resolve. He was waiting for an order, a pledge of comradeship, a choice of sides. All the soldiers at the table were looking at me.
"I still can't understand how this guy could trust me so easily," I said to myself, my eyes locked on Nikolai.
The doubt inside me was gnawing at me. "He only met me a few hours ago. He knows nothing about me. What if I had betrayed them? What if I were bringing Dmitriyev's men to the door of this hangar right now?"
For a moment, I looked around. Nearly 400 soldiers. All of them huge, their armor old but sturdy. Modernized AKs in their hands, knives at their hips, flags on their shoulders.
"No…" I muttered to myself.
"Maybe they don't trust me. Maybe they just think they're strong enough to trust themselves. With those guys' builds… If I had a body like that, I probably wouldn't give a damn about anyone either."
My eyes drifted to Nikolai's rock-hard fist. Even his veins seemed ready for battle.
"""Or..."""
I paused for a moment.
"""...or idiots."""
This thought made me smile slightly, but my lips quickly straightened again. The seriousness of the situation didn't allow for it.
Finally, I brought up the topic of ZELYONKA.
""""Four bulbs, huh?""""
Thinking about it, I remembered the nine bulbs of ZELYONKA I had wrapped in my old gas mask and kept in my bag. Compared to those, this offer... was cheap. Almost an insult.
In Yakovgrad—yes, it might be the bottom of hell, but—with some effort, it was possible to obtain more than this.
It was risky, yes. But not like getting involved in a military uprising here.
But there was another reality.
This world was now a barren wasteland. Radiation was at a level that would kill not over time, but instantly. ZELYONKA wasn't just a medicine; it was the key to survival.
And here, in these men's hands... could there be more?
"Four is too few. But there must be more," I thought to myself.
And if I helped these men... maybe I could get more.
Fixing my eyes on Nikolai's face, I tried to keep my voice as firm and calm as possible. Backing down in a negotiation was a sign of weakness. You had to appear strong against men like this—otherwise, they would devour you whole.
"Comrade Margelov..." I said slowly, weighing my words. "Four ZELYONKA bulbs are not enough for me. I'm putting my life on the line. What's more, I need a good gas mask. And that wreck of a UAZ needs serious maintenance. Otherwise, it will end up in the junkyard instead of on the operation."
Margelov stared at me silently for a few seconds. A glint appeared in his eyes—as if he enjoyed this bargaining. Then he laughed with a deep chuckle and extended his large, calloused hand toward me.
"You're a real Soviet soldier, Brusilov. Brave, smart, and a negotiator..." he said. Then his voice grew serious. "We have a deal. Gas mask, vehicle repairs, and four ZELYONKA bulbs. The operation starts in two days at 08:00. You have two days. Rest, prepare. My word is my bond."
I shook his hand—his palm was as hard as stone. That hand belonged to a soldier who had carried a machine gun for years, swung an axe, and hiked through the mountains with heavy packs. I responded firmly and clearly. We were sizing each other up. At that moment, an alliance had been formed.
A short while later, a young soldier entered. He carefully removed two ZELYONKA bulbs from a small metal box he was holding and silently placed them on the table. The glass bulbs shimmered with the faint vibration of that emerald-green liquid. I examined them closely, then took one in my hand and held it up to the light. This was the liquid form of survival. The difference between life and death…
Nikolai spoke again:
"This is half the payment for now. The other two—the mask and the vehicle repair—will be given after the operation. Do your job, don't worry about the rest. I'm Margelov—my word is my bond."
I nodded and placed the vials in the inner pocket of my jacket. They felt like a sense of security.
When the meeting ended, the soldiers rose from the table one by one. Some quietly retired to their rooms, others prepared for the shift change outside. There was a tired yet orderly discipline in the air.
Nikolai ordered a bed to be prepared for me in a container inside the hangar. A military bunk bed with a thin mattress laid over it... I wasn't expecting anything more. It was a blessing compared to the hard floor.
I removed my helmet and heavy armor and set them aside. My back sank into the bed, finally relieved of its burden. I loosened my boots and let them fall to the ground; the sharp burn of vodka still lingered in my throat. As my eyelids grew heavy, the sweat-soaked smell of the hangar filled my lungs. In the distance, the shrill sound of an alarm echoed, followed by the rhythmic footsteps of a sentry. The sharp thud of his boots hitting the ground was the last sound I heard before drifting off to sleep.
My mind was quickly drawn into the darkness.
By morning, the hangar was back to its mechanical routine. Alarms began to sound—it was time for morning training. Loud commands, military instructions, and the clatter of boots on the iron floor filled the air. But I didn't emerge from under the blanket. My eyelids were heavy. I wasn't a soldier, nor did I intend to submit to their rules. At least not today.
I slept for a few more hours. I got up around 10 o'clock. My body was still numb, but my mind was somewhat clear. I went outside and activated the DP-5V dosimeter, but the radiation levels here were quite low. I suppose the high, thick walls were blocking the radioactive dust. I put my boots back on, fastened my belt, and took my backpack, then slowly walked out of the hangar. My destination was clear: the civilian area.
When I left the dark, gray, cold atmosphere of the military base, I suddenly felt like I had stepped into a completely different world. The civilian area was colorful. Faded posters on the walls, laughter spilling out of open windows here and there, children running around in the streets... This world still held something of life in the middle of hell.
After a short walk, I arrived at the market area. Stalls lined the narrow streets, each filled with different products. The voices of the merchants, the shouts of women haggling, the smoke rising from charcoal grills... As I walked among these scenes, a fruit stall caught my eye.
I approached the stall. My eye was drawn to one of the large, shiny apples. It looked fresh and juicy. I nodded to the seller, took an apple in my hand, and pulled two 9mm bullets from my pocket, placing them on the stall. It seemed quite expensive here, but I wasn't using these bullets, so I could use them for shopping.
I bit into the apple. The hard skin cracked, and then that tart, sweet juice spread across my mouth. It was a fresh, real, life-affirming taste.
I kept walking. A little further on, there was a food stall. When the smell of bread from the stone ovens filled my nose, my stomach reminded me of its hunger. I headed toward the stall. Fresh bread steaming with smoke, sandwiches straight from the oven… I chose the one with cheese and lamb.
"Two," I said briefly.
The man nodded and brought the steaming sandwiches a few minutes later. I sat down at an empty table, put my backpack on the ground, and took a bite.
The bread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Salty white cheese, thinly sliced tomatoes, and plenty of lamb meat… Each bite brought a momentary pleasure, a brief respite from the war, the scarcity, and the death.
When I finished the sandwiches, there was a warmth inside me—not just from the food, but perhaps an instinctive feeling that something was still worth living for.
I left a few 9mm bullets on the table. The seller quickly gathered them up with his hands and nodded gratefully. I, on the other hand, slung my bag back over my shoulder—its weight growing heavier each day—and blended into the crowd.
As I walked through the streets of the civilian zone, I briefly thought this place might actually be livable. Colorful stalls wrapped in vibrant fabrics, children laughing at street games, hot steam rising from bakeries… From the outside, it almost seemed like the last remnant of the old world—but one must not be deceived.
The architect behind this order was clear: Dmitriyev. He distributed his resources, especially ZELYONKA, more to the civilian population than to the soldiers. This decision seemed like a blessing for the people. They trusted their leader with blind devotion; they believed that these thick walls, disciplined soldiers, and organized system would protect them forever.
But I saw more than that. This hope was a deception woven from cotton. And every deception comes at a price.
Even God, when promising paradise, demanded not only love but also worship, loyalty, and complete submission from His followers. What about here? In this city? What was being given in exchange for the soldiers' rotting lungs, hair falling out in radioactive storms, and burns covering their flesh? A dose or two of medicine a month, a bowl of hot soup, and the people's cold thanks?
There is a price to pay for ignoring the sweat of others. And I was certain that price would be paid soon. Very soon.
By noon, I had completed my tour. As the chaos of the marketplace faded behind me, I returned to the military zone. The guard at the entrance saluted, and I returned the salute. Everything here was planned. Everyone had a task, a reason.
Some soldiers were disassembling their weapons, cleaning the mechanisms with oiled rags. Others, dressed in camouflage, were preparing for hunting in small groups. Two people were peeling potatoes in the kitchen, while another group had lined up at the oven for bread. Everyone was working like an ant colony. The system seemed flawless, but it was rotting from the inside.
Major Nikolai Margelov was pacing the edge of the training area with his hands behind his back, taking heavy steps. Dressed in a slightly worn but still dignified uniform, he stood as still as a stone statue. His eyes bore an odd mix of the cool composure a commander must carry and the pride a father might feel as he watched his soldiers. He scrutinized every movement, every formation, not missing a single detail.
The smoke from the cigarette in his hand curled upward in the cold air. Every now and then he would take a deep breath, then squint his eyes and gaze into the distance. It was as if he were reliving the years of this union before his eyes—the wars, the losses, the betrayals, and the victories.
I approached him with heavy steps. The dull sound of my boot soles on the concrete floor startled him. When he noticed me, the lines on his face softened slightly. A tired but sincere smile appeared at the corners of his lips. He silently took the cigarette pack out of his pocket and offered it to me.
But I shook my head, then began to speak with a short sigh:
"I'd rather drink vodka until I die than smoke cigarettes, Comrade Margelov. Cigarettes aren't for me. I can't stand the smell, nor the disgusting taste. They're bad for the lungs and bad for your health."