For a moment, everyone fell silent. The government building was gone. There were no surrendered soldiers, no resistance fighters left. Only sparks rising from the rubble and the sound of cracking stones...
Nikolai bowed his head, lowered the radio, and came over to us. His eyes were hard, but there was a weight behind them. Destroying a building, demolishing a fortress was easy—but this was the end of an era.
"Our work is done," he said in a low voice. "But we didn't start the war. We just ended it."
After the government building was destroyed, not a single living soul emerged from the rubble. As silence reigned amid the smoke and debris, not a word was spoken over the radio lines. Finally, Major Nikolai's voice rose:
"It's over. The resistance is gone."
A few soldiers stood motionless, staring at the burned-out skeleton of the building. No one rejoiced. Because the price of victory was heavy—especially for those who knew it was the belated price of justice.
A few hours later, we made our way toward the city square. The people had poured into the streets, but they were silent. Most did not know exactly what had happened, while others waited in fear for instructions. Some elderly women, clutching their ZELYONKA boxes tightly, approached the soldiers and bowed their heads in gratitude, but no one spoke a word.
Nikolai responded to this silence with a harsh and truthful speech:
"Today, we have eliminated the last remnants of the government here. That government that gave you your medications, but did not give those medications to the soldiers who protected you, brought you supplies, and fought for you—instead, it surrendered them to radiation. While you sat in your warm homes, we lost our loved ones. Because we only received 'ZELYONKA' once every two or three months. Now a new order will be established."
These words spread like a wave across the square. Some civilians bowed their heads. Others wept silently. A few young people shouted in protest. However, most of the crowd stood frozen in guilt. Because deep down, they knew: this coup was not just against the soldiers, but against justice itself.
A few hours later, a new government was formed, with Major Nikolai Margelov as its leader. The warehouses were opened, and part of the "ZELYONKA" supplies were distributed equally among the soldiers.
Just a few hours after the new government was announced, all military units, checkpoints, and critical infrastructure in the city were secured one by one. Now at the top of the command chain sat that old man with the stern gaze but a heart aflame—Major Nikolai Margelov. All symbols of the old government had been removed, replaced with new flags bearing a red star. The city had turned a new page in history, but it was a page whose ink had not yet dried...
As I walked toward the commander's office on the second floor of the military command building, tired but hopeful soldiers saluted along the corridors. For the first time, there was a sense of confidence and direction in their eyes.
I opened the door and stepped inside. The room was simple but orderly. Behind his desk, Nikolai sat upright in a chair, examining a map folder on his lap. When he saw me, he straightened slightly. There was a kind of weary triumph in his eyes.
"Congratulations on becoming the new President," I said in a quiet but clear voice. "You probably know why I'm here. I'm here to remind you of the promises you made. I want the repairs to my car, a new gas mask, and... the 'ZELYONKA' doses you promised."
Nikolai slowly placed the map on the desk. He scanned me with his eyes. Then he picked up the radio, pressed the button, and issued a few brief commands in a calm tone. His words were clear:
"Garage unit — prepare vehicle number 17, as well as one PMG-type gas mask and three doses of ZELYONKA, to the second floor, commander's office."
After giving the orders, he closed his eyes and paused for a few seconds. Then he opened his eyes and turned to me.
"Rebuilding this city won't be easy," he said in a low but determined voice. "But the first step begins with keeping your word."
Ten minutes later, the door knocked. A young soldier entered, carefully carrying a box in his hands. He approached the table and removed an olive-green, almost unused PMG gas mask from inside. He placed three ZELYONKA ampoules next to it, arranging them carefully. He saluted and left.
I approached the table and picked up the gas mask. As my fingers touched the smooth rubber, a sense of confidence rose within me. I carefully took the ampoules, then turned my eyes to Nikolai.
"You said two," I said with a slightly mocking smile. "Why did you give me three?"
Nikolai smiled slightly. A rare warmth had formed between his sharp features.
"Consider this a small favor from me," he said. "That car of yours... I hope you don't hit any more bears."
I looked into Nikolai's eyes with a determined, unwavering expression. My voice was neither angry nor pleading—just a plain, clear fact:
"If you want me to stay here, you're wasting your time. My goal is to go to Moscow."
My words seemed to suddenly change the atmosphere in the room. Nikolai fell silent for a moment. Then he bowed his head slightly, a bitter smile appearing at the corners of his lips. Then, unexpectedly, he burst into a harsh, sorrowful laugh. The lines on his face deepened suddenly, as if the weight of the years had suddenly fallen on his shoulders.
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled something out from the depths. A few black-and-white photographs, faded and bearing faint burn marks... With a sharp motion, he placed them all on the table in front of me. The photographs fell face down—a few of them slowly slid off the edge of the table.
"There is no such place as Moscow anymore," he said in a hoarse voice. "It's just ruins now... a nuclear wasteland. Not a city, but a graveyard. No one survived. I sent the reconnaissance team myself. They all went in radiation suits, but only one returned... and he died three days later, rotting away while still alive."
My hand trembling, I picked up one of the photographs. In the shades of black and gray, there was only coldness. The ruined walls of the Kremlin, the toppled Lenin Mausoleum, the metro entrances unrecognizable... Everything told the story of a city that had once been the heart of the world, but was no longer there.
Nikolai continued:
"Radiation levels are still lethal. If you go there, you'll survive for no more than two days. And believe me, death isn't that quick. Your lungs burn, your flesh rots, your mind stays awake… No one should die like that."
Nikolai shook his head. He leaned back slowly. There was a harsh reality in his eyes, but also a hint of mercy.
"Find new reasons, son. Maybe you should stop looking for reasons to fight and start looking for reasons to live."
There was silence for a few minutes. The faded photographs lying on the table were before my eyes, but my mind was far away. I swallowed, took a deep breath. Finally, I let the question inside me fall onto the table like a spark of hope:
"Well... is there a clean area? A place untouched by radiation... where no bombs have fallen?"
This sentence made Nikolai think. His hand slowly went to his chin. His eyes focused on the empty space on the table, as if searching for knowledge from years past. After a few seconds of silence that felt like minutes, he began to speak in a low voice:
"I'm not sure... But maybe Siberia."
His eyes were now turned toward me, but there was still an uncertainty in his gaze, directed toward some distant point.
"It's vast... desolate... and almost abandoned. There's no population density. Even during the Soviet era, a complete map of the area couldn't be drawn. Maybe that's why dropping a bomb there was considered 'wasteful.' Or maybe... no one cared. In short: There was no sign of life there, no threat. That's why it might have been spared."
My eyes were still on Nikolai's. Siberia. Cold, endless emptiness... but perhaps the only place that still held hope. But the Major grew serious:
"Unfortunately, I don't have a radiation map."
The Major paused for a moment, then bent down and pulled out an old map roll. He spread it out on the table. His finger slid toward the northwest of the Tver region.
"Torzhok," he said. "It's about 70 kilometers northwest of here. A small, forgotten town. But there... there's a KGB base there."
The tone of his voice had changed. He was now more mysterious, more cautious.
"In Soviet documents, it's usually referred to as 'Объект Сигнал' — 'Signal Facility'. Sometimes it's also called the KGB's Northern Outpost. The main purpose of this facility is to collect radiological and electromagnetic signals. According to rumors, during the Cold War, it was equipped with special equipment to detect nuclear leaks. If a place is protected from radiation... the base's data will tell you where it is."
He placed a cross next to Torzhok on the map with his finger. Then he looked at me:
"It won't be easy to get there. The roads may be collapsed, there may be ambushes... but if you can make it... you might find the map of the clean land you're looking for."
I looked at Nikolai's face one last time. His eyes had a tired yet peaceful expression. Taking a deep breath, I began to speak:
"Thank you for everything, Major Margelov."
He smiled, his eyes narrowed, his voice carrying a fatherly warmth:
"May your path be clear, son. And remember… if you can't find a place to live, know that you have a home here. This door will always be open to you."
I nodded slightly in greeting. Then I turned silently and walked out of the building with heavy steps. The sun had not yet risen, but there was a glimmer on the horizon—the harbinger of the coming day.
As the steppe wind blew against my face, I made my way toward the military zone. The rusty metal door of Hangar No. 1 was wide open. When I entered, my eyes fell on my new UAZ. Its body had been washed, and new tires had been fitted. The small Soviet emblem on the hood was still there; but now it was a symbol not of the past, but of a memory.
I approached. A soldier opened the hood and said, "The fuel tank is full. The engine has been serviced, so there won't be any problems on the road."
I nodded silently.
I carefully arranged my belongings. I opened the door and sat in the driver's seat. I turned the key. The engine started smoothly and reliably. I gripped the steering wheel with a deep sigh.
As the UAZ's headlights cut through the morning fog, I slowly drove out of the camp gate. As those left behind grew smaller, the road ahead was a door to a new destiny, desolate and filled with the unknown.
My destination was clear: Torzhok. Perhaps there, amidst the shadows of the past, a future still lay hidden.
None of the dangers I had anticipated along the way materialized. I encountered no traces of ambushes, nor was I attacked by a creature scorched by radiation. Perhaps it was my lucky day—or perhaps these lands had grown so quiet that even death had migrated to other realms.
As we moved further from Tver, the needle on my DP-5V dosimeter began to drop noticeably. First a timid flicker, then nearly complete stillness… The air remained heavy. The Geiger counter's irritating hiss gave way to the gentle rustle of the breeze.
I stopped frequently along the way to check my surroundings. Rotten signs, overturned vehicle wrecks, and piles of bones dragged to the roadside reminded me that this place, like most other cities, was now deserted.
Finally, I reached the city's entrance. A large, rusty sign still stood there:
"ТОРЖОК" — some of the letters had fallen off, but the name was still legible.
As soon as I entered the city, I noticed: It hadn't been destroyed… it had been abandoned. The buildings were still standing, but their windows were broken, and their doors had been torn off. Grass was beginning to grow in the cracks of the asphalt, nature reclaiming its domain.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a torn piece of a flag on the roof of an old post office building, clearly once belonging to the Soviets.
There were no signs of fire. No explosion craters. This place had not been destroyed by war; it had died quietly.
As I approached the KGB base, the roar of the engine gave way to the quiet beating of my heart. I pulled my vehicle up to the corner of an abandoned parking lot, about fifty meters from the building. I turned off the engine and carefully scanned my surroundings. There were a few dead bodies on the ground. Everything was quiet—too quiet.
I got out of the car and began to move forward slowly without removing my gas mask. The building looming before me seemed to have sagged under the weight of the years. Most of the windows were broken, and the walls were covered in moss. But the most striking thing was... the rusty electric pole right in front of the entrance. A faded sign was hanging from it:
"Внимание! Зона повышенной безопасности"
(Attention! High-security zone)
Just as I was passing under the sign, a violent explosion from inside the building tore through the air. Then a sharp whistling sound—and an object that grazed my ear by millimeters—struck the pole in the blink of an eye. The pole shook, and the piercing screech of metal filled my ears. Then it toppled right next to me.
Reflexively, I started running with all my strength. My footsteps echoed on the cracked ground. My breath vaporized inside my mask, my heart pounding in my chest like a hammer. The entrance door was open—or had been forced open. I threw myself inside quickly.
The inside of the building was dark. Dusty, damp, suffocating. As soon as I entered, I slung my AK-74 over my shoulder and raised the barrel. Whoever was here was probably upstairs.
I slowed my steps. I made my way toward the stairs. The wooden steps creaked, the old concrete cracked. When I reached the upper floor, a wide corridor stretched out before me. On either side were many rooms with open or broken doors. All were shrouded in darkness, as if filled with the ghosts of the past.
My heart was pounding. Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Gripping my weapon tightly, I slipped into the first room.
It was empty.
A layer of dust lay on the floor. My radiation detector was silent. Only decaying walls and blackened filing cabinets...
I entered the second room.
Inside was the skeleton of someone who had died years ago. He was still wearing an old Soviet uniform. There was no ID card on it. Beside it lay a rusty Makarov pistol and a broken radio piece. Perhaps he had tried to take shelter. Perhaps his rank had not been enough to save him from death.
The third room was the same: silence, decay, and the dark traces of time.
I moved toward the fourth room with heavy steps. My fingers gripped the trigger guard of my AK-74 tightly. Every muscle was tense, my breath fogging up inside the mask, sweat trickling down my temples. When I reached the door, I paused for a moment to take a deep breath—then burst inside in a single motion.
My eyes locked onto the target instantly.
He was there, facing me.
He was wearing a fully equipped L-1 NBC protective suit, a gas mask with filters that still seemed to be working, a steel ballistic vest on his chest, and a classic Makarov PM pistol in his hand… After a frozen moment, he raised his weapon without hesitation and aimed directly at my head.
He pulled the trigger.
The sound first struck my brain like lightning. The bullet hit the front of my ZSH-1-2M helmet and ricocheted sideways with a metallic clang. It hadn't penetrated, but the impact was devastating. Suddenly, everything began to spin. A ringing emptiness in my ears, a momentary darkness in my eyes…
My foot stumbled, but I didn't fall.
The enemy was right in front of me. There was no time to aim. I reflexively raised the AK-74 and started pulling the trigger almost blindly. The smell of gunpowder and the echoes of explosions mingled in the room. Bullets struck the walls, ceiling, and the enemy's armor.
But he didn't stand idly by either.
He took a step forward and struck my arm with a hard punch. My gun flew out of my hand and hit the floor, rolling away. At that moment, he aimed his pistol again. Our eyes locked. Time seemed to stand still for an instant.
But I acted faster than him.
With all my strength, I raised my hand and punched the pistol. The gun flew out of his hand, hit the floor, slid across the room, and landed in the corner. Now, all that stood between us were our fists and our determination.
But I had something else.
I opened the holster on my waist in one swift motion and pulled out the TT-33 Tokarev. The trigger was as light as a feather, the response faster than a second… I emptied the eight-round magazine in a single burst.
The enemy's agility was astonishing. He skillfully dodged most of the bullets, moving like a cat. Only two hit their mark—one in the stomach, the other in the chest… But the ballistic vest absorbed the impact. It hadn't been penetrated. I didn't have time to change the magazine. Just as I was holstering the Tokarev, I saw the enemy, who had started moving again, reach for his waist—and suddenly I noticed the gleaming metal of a short, deadly bayonet slicing through the air toward me.
I reflexively took a step back, but he was faster than me. He stabbed the bayonet directly into my chest.
But there was a clanging sound—the sound of metal striking metal. My steel vest absorbed the blow. The blade couldn't penetrate. My body stumbled backward, but I wasn't injured. The enemy looked into my eyes—with anger, surprise, and determination. In that moment, I realized this was no ordinary man—I was facing a hunter who knew how to survive in this war. I took a deep breath and holstered the TT-33 again.
With my left hand, I drew my 6H4 bayonet from my belt—the pride of the Soviet infantry, heavy, sturdy, deadly.
I slowly took a few steps back. My heart was pounding, but my mind was calming down. I regulated my breathing. My right fist was in front of my chest, my left hand holding the bayonet downward… my feet in a solid position. I had fully entered the SAMBO fighting stance.
This was the final stage of Soviet training. And in this room, it was no longer bullets that would speak, but pure skill and willpower.
The warrior across from me hadn't come here in vain. He extended his bayonet forward, adopting a low stance. His eyes locked onto mine. It was as if he were planning every move, calculating each action in a matter of seconds. A dance of death was about to begin.
We both circled each other silently, like predators. Neither of us made a move. It was as if this small circular movement was a rehearsal for the approaching death. Our eyes were locked; a momentary lapse, a blink of an eye, could change everything.
At that moment, I looked down and saw a human skull—yellowed, cracked, but still heavy. I kicked it swiftly with my foot and hurled the skull toward the enemy's chest.
The enemy wasn't expecting such a thing. His eyes widened in momentary shock, and his hands dropped from their defensive position. That was the moment I had been waiting for.
I threw my whole body forward, lunging forward with my bayonet in hand. I tried to stab the knife directly into his neck.
But he was trained too. At the last moment, he took a step back. The sharp steel tip missed his throat by just a few millimeters. But I had little time; the enemy quickly recovered and swung his knife, this time aiming for my right arm—my only unarmored, defenseless area.
I reflexively raised my knife to the side to block the blow. The steel clashed, and a spark flew.
And at that very moment, I thrust my left fist forward with all my strength. My fist struck the enemy's gas mask—the glass shattered with a dull thud, and his head jerked to the side. The enemy staggered, momentarily disoriented. His breathing was labored; he was dazed.
I didn't waste any time. I lunged forward, grabbed him by the waist—helmet, gas mask, steel vest be damned—and lifted him off the ground with all my strength. Then I leaned back and threw the enemy to the ground with all my weight.
When his head hit the ground, a dull thud echoed. His armor might have protected him, but his head couldn't withstand the hard blow.
The enemy was motionless.
My breath was rapid, my body tense. I waited a few seconds. My hand was on my bayonet, my eyes fixed on the man on the ground. There was no movement. I think he had fainted.