... in which Boris Sergeyevich is engaged in ordinary affairs, ponders, looks out the window, marvels, and warmly welcomes uninvited guests
Waking up early in the morning, Boris Sergeyevich with difficulty raised his round, bulky body from the creaking sofa, smoothed with a heavy wrinkled hand the hair framing his bald spot and his full gray beard, and as usual went to his small 9-meter kitchen to put on the kettle. As is customary among old people, he woke up when it was just beginning to dawn outside, and then could no longer fall back asleep. The professor, a long-time teacher and pensioner, had no need to hurry to his teaching job, so he spent his free time on activities that interested him: slowly recording educational videos for his YouTube channel, enthusiastically chatting in the comments under the videos, and in the evenings watching movies downloaded from torrents.
Indeed, recently this simple routine had been seriously disrupted. First, the bloody regime completely cut off electricity for some of its usurping needs, along with which, naturally, all means of communication disappeared. But that was not all. For several days strange things had been happening in the area. However, most of them unfolded directly within sight of the kitchen window of Boris Sergeyevich's apartment, which successfully replaced both television and the internet for him.
The widespread blackout, which occurred about three days ago, was preceded by sparse and confused official reports alternately about some kind of exercises or a terrorist attack. Then the entire landscape outside the window became covered with a strange gray-yellow haze. The professor did not particularly believe in the possibility of a chemical attack, but just in case he still taped the gaps in the windows with wide strips of packing tape, periodically observing what was happening outside.
The road separating the small academic town from the forest, previously crowded with cars, was now suspiciously empty. Several times during the day, ambulances, fire trucks, police cars rushed along it in different directions, and then even several army trucks passed through. With the onset of dusk, groups of strangely swaying people began walking along the streets, sometimes dispersing around the area and then gathering again into crowds.
Boris Sergeyevich almost immediately identified them as participants in some mass protests. Especially after two armored vehicles of the Rosgvardia suddenly arrived and tried to disperse the crowd of ragged people, but everything turned out unexpectedly. Observing the events from behind the curtains, Boris Sergeyevich initially remained ideologically on the side of the "protesters," but was shocked by the truly animalistic cruelty with which they attacked the armed security forces. Despite open fire being directed at them, the crowd surrounded the vehicles in a dense ring. Bullets seemed to have no effect on the frenzied people. Within about ten minutes, the Rosgvardia soldiers were crushed and literally torn apart alive, after which the crowd, staggering just as slowly, dispersed into the alleys and entrances. Most of the people somehow wandered into the wooded area and disappeared there in the yellowish twilight.
On the asphalt near the abandoned armored vehicles lay sprawled bloody bodies. Some had their intestines protruding, others had lost arms, which now lay scattered on the lawn. In the approaching night, corpses and pools of blood merged for the dim eyes of Boris Sergeyevich into shapeless black blotches on the road, but still made a depressing impression.
How surprised the professor was the next day when he saw neither the abandoned armored vehicles nor the dead bodies on the road. Boris Sergeyevich thought that the Rosgvardia had very quickly taken away their own people, although he noted as a strange fact the detached arm left lying on the lawn. No less strange was the quiet knocking sound coming from somewhere in the apartment.
The weather these days also had surprises in store. Boris Sergeyevich clearly remembered that a gradual and steady warming was expected in the coming week; nevertheless, it was getting colder outside. In the morning, tiny icy grains even began to fall from the low leaden sky. Snow settled on the asphalt, masking the bloody traces of yesterday's brawl, but did not completely hide them, instead accumulating at the curbs of roads and sidewalks, blown about by the wind.
Trying to combine all his amazing observations and well-learned knowledge of physics in his gray-haired, bearded head, Boris Sergeyevich spent long evenings sitting at the table, illuminated by an antiquated kerosene lamp that he had previously used only as a funny vintage prop for recording videos. He sorted through old papers from his extensive library and wrote something in a yellowed thick checkered notebook until fatigue finally overcame his senile insomnia.
This morning, waking up from oblivion, he walked into the kitchen, glanced at the glass jar with a screw-on lid, covered with a towel, from which a rare dull tapping sound came persistently like a metronome, and, striking a match, put the kettle on the stove. Fortunately, gas was still supplied properly, and he had the opportunity to drink freshly brewed black bergamot tea.
While the old man waited for the whistling boiling water and washed his face, noise came from the street. Boris Sergeyevich did not have time to approach the window to see everything that was happening, but noticed only an abandoned SUV on the road and a crowd of staggering people moving jerkily toward the houses from the forest.
About three minutes later, someone knocked loudly and frequently on the outer metal door of his apartment. After hesitating for another minute or so and realizing that the knocking would not stop, the professor finally opened the inner door and asked:
— Who's there?
— Please, open up for us!— came a frightened girl's voice from under the gas mask pressed against the peephole, so sharply that Boris Sergeyevich even flinched.
From the stairwell came some muffled shouts and loud bangs resembling gunshots.
— What's going on there?— the scientist asked loudly, but the girl had already disappeared from the door.
— Shit's happening here!— shouted an unknown young man who appeared at the peephole instead of the girl.
— Who are you anyway?— Boris Sergeyevich indignantly objected, but immediately received a reasoned answer backed up by a sound similar to a grinder.
— Listen, old man, open up! Or I'll saw the door right now!
Mentally calculating that the threat could easily be carried out with far more serious consequences, the professor opened the door. Tolik, bloody and breathless, burst into the apartment, nearly knocking the old man off his feet.
— Valya! Faster inside!— Leonid shouted, letting the girl pass ahead and firing a shotgun blindly into the darkness of the stairwell without aiming.
A moment later, all three of them were inside the apartment, and the iron door securely separated them from the persistent scratching crowd of the undead.
— Hello, Boris Sergeyevich!— Valentina greeted the old man unexpectedly for her friends, removing her gas mask.
— You know this Santa Claus?!— Tolik asked, slightly waving his hand with an axe toward him.
— Yes,— she replied, blushing slightly.— This is our physics teacher.
— That's great. Maybe science will explain to us what's going on here,— said Leonid, taking off his gas mask after the others and, without waiting for an invitation, entering the kitchen, where the boiling kettle was already whistling loudly.