My breathing was irregular, as if my lungs were burning. Sweat was pouring from every part of my body, and my clothes were sticking to me like a jacket. My hand was still shaking. But I was alive—that was enough.
I picked up my AK-74 from the ground, changed the magazine with my trembling hands, relying on the reflexes honed by habit and training. I pulled the slide back and released it, leaning my back against the broken table in the corner of the room and taking a deep breath. It wasn't over yet.
I tightly bound the enemy's hands and feet with handcuffs and rope. Then I quickly searched his body: bullets, a handful of ammunition, a few boxes of dried rations… and something else that caught my attention: massive bullets, 12.7×108mm in caliber, filling my hands. These were not the kind of bullets an ordinary soldier would carry. These were rounds used in Soviet-era heavy machine guns like the NSV or DShK—weapons mounted on tank turrets and armored vehicles.
And this raised another question: Why was an infantryman carrying these?
The answer was in the other corner of the room.
I walked toward the balcony, stepping carefully. Outside, the wind still accompanied the silence that lingered over the city. In the corner of the balcony, leaning against the wall, was a weapon. At first glance, it resembled an SVD sniper rifle; the familiar stock, the classic Soviet-style body… but the barrel and mechanism were different. The barrel and mechanism had been taken from an NSV heavy machine gun.
This was a hybrid.
A Frankenstein's monster combining the ergonomics of an SVD with the power of an NSV.
I carefully reached for the trigger guard. The trigger was smooth. The inside of the barrel had been cleaned. This weapon had been modified by a professional. This was not the weapon of a random bandit.
And now the pieces were falling into place.
He had hit the power pole outside with it. If that bullet had been aimed at me, my helmet, my vest—nothing—would have saved me. Either my body would have been split in two, or at best, I would have lost an arm or a leg. I was lucky. Very lucky.
I checked the gun's scope. It was scratched, but functional. Through the scope's lens, I looked out at the abandoned streets of the city. There was no movement. But I had no doubts left: this man hadn't come here by chance. The base must still be hiding something.
My eyes still lingered on the bound man on the floor.
Who are you?
Why are you carrying that gun?
And... what are you doing here?
I carefully picked up the gun from the floor. I slung this strange SVD-NSV hybrid over my shoulder, then turned back into the room and placed it next to the table by the wall. The cold metal clang echoed through the room. My breathing was still uneven, but my mind was now focused on my questions.
I knelt beside the motionless body on the floor. His hands were tied behind his back, his legs crossed. He was still unconscious. The glass of his gas mask had cracked under the impact of my fist, and a faint outline of a face was visible beneath the lens. I brought my fingers to the mask's clasp, hesitated… and slowly removed it.
When the mask came off, the sight before me was even more shocking than the weapon itself.
This was not a Spetsnaz commando or a mercenary.
This was... a beautiful, young woman.
In her early twenties, perhaps even younger. Her facial features were soft and very beautiful, but she carried a noticeable determination. Her nose was straight, her chin prominent yet elegant. Her face was pale; almost paper-white. Her hair and eyebrows were completely white—so pale that the bloodstains covering her head had spread across her face like flowers. Albinism. Someone with a rare genetic condition who needed protection from the sun...
How was it possible? How could someone so young use such an effective weapon, move so swiftly and deadly? The fight moments ago wasn't a hallucination. The punches she threw, the bayonet thrusts, the distracting tactics... these were the moves of a trained soldier.
I reached for my canteen to compose myself. The lid creaked open. I took off my mask, and as a few sips of water slid down my throat, my eyes were still on the young woman with white hair. Then I tilted the canteen slightly and sprinkled a few drops of water on her face.
At first, there was no reaction. Then her eyelashes twitched. A slight movement appeared on her pale face. She slowly furrowed her brows, and her lips moved involuntarily. Then, suddenly... She opened her eyes.
At first, she couldn't adjust to the light. Her pupils contracted.
And then... She looked at me.
Her eyes… were bright red.
Those red irises, one of the most striking signs of albinism, were now as sharp as knives between the dull walls. There was no fear in her red eyes, but it was clear she was panicking. The disappointment of losing her prey, the danger to her future, and her bound arms… she was definitely in a bad situation.
But she quickly composed herself. The fear in her eyes had evaporated; in its place was the clear, focused, and threatening gaze of a tiger locked onto its prey. She had suppressed the slight tremor in her muscles and was on high alert with every cell in her body. She was now a cold-blooded, calculating predator.
"Let me go, you bastard! I'll kill you! Did you hear me? You're dead now!" She shouted and began to stir. Her voice echoed through the room. Those words weren't just for me—they were for the walls, maybe even other ears.
Were there others in the building? Was he trying so hard to signal them? My instincts were sounding the alarm. I immediately backed away, aimed my gun, and quickly exited into the corridor. My eyes scanned the darkness, I listened to the silence… There was no movement.
But my sixth sense was whispering to me that something was wrong. I immediately returned to the room. At that moment, I noticed a small but critical detail.
The girl was fiddling with something behind her. Her fingers were moving millimeter by millimeter, but her face was still focused on me. She was playing a game. When our eyes met, her expression suddenly changed—she flinched like a trapped animal and froze.
I approached her angrily, grabbed her by the roots of her hair, pulled her by the back of her neck, and threw her roughly to the ground. She landed on her back, a muffled breath escaping her mouth. I knelt over her and looked at her arms… There was a thin metal wire clasp on the lock of the handcuffs. She had almost succeeded.
I grabbed her hair and lifted her up again, turning her toward me. Sweat mixed with blood had gathered at the corners of her eyes. I stared into her ice-cold eyes with a wolfish gaze.
"So all that screaming, all that swearing... it was all to buy time, huh? You're smart, but you're too cocky, bitch."
She fell silent. She didn't look away from me. Then she spat at my face. It hit the rubber body of my mask and slid off—it had no effect, but her disrespect hung in the air.
I pushed her into a chair and pulled one up for myself. Slowly, I pulled the bayonet from my back. The shiny steel glinted slightly in the light.
"Now it's question-and-answer time. If you don't talk... the consequences will be unpleasant for you," I said, holding the knife at eye level.
"Are you going to make me talk? You—Ahhhhh"
Before she could finish her sentence, I plunged the knife into her left thigh. When it hit the bone, I felt the vibration from my fingers to my shoulder. She clenched her teeth, the muscles in her jaw tensed, and she bit her lip until it bled. Her red eyes now glared at me with hatred. Resistance had given way to deep pain and confusion. She had finally grasped the seriousness of the situation.
"If you don't answer," I said in a cold tone, "there's no point in keeping you alive. I'll try to give you a painless death."
I brought the bloody knife close to her throat. Without plunging it too deeply, I made a controlled cut that sliced her skin but didn't reach the main arteries. Small but painful. Her pupils shrunk to the size of pinpricks, her breath caught in her throat.
"No... no... don't! Don't!" She moaned. There was no hatred in her voice anymore. "I haven't killed that bastard yet..."
She began to speak in one breath, the words pouring out of her mouth like bullets:
"The drugs... in the last room! The guns... downstairs, in the armory! There are still working cars in the garage! They're all yours! Take them… get out!"
The tremor in her voice was now clearly one of helplessness. The masks had fallen. Threats, bluffs, pride… everything had collapsed. In that moment, I saw not an enemy but a cornered human being.
Just then…
A heavy noise from outside shook the building's foundations. Instinctively, I turned my head. The sound of engines and the roar of trucks followed.
I rushed out onto the balcony.
In a brief but intense glance, I saw the scene:
A BTR-70 was parked directly in front of the main door. Two Ural-4320 trucks were parked beside it. Within a few seconds, around fifty armed men had disembarked from the trucks and taken up positions in a disciplined manner. They were on high alert.
Only one thought crossed my mind:
"Now I'm really screwed…"
A man stepped forward from in front of the BTR. He was holding a Soviet-made megaphone. His loud, authoritative voice echoed:
"Irina! If you're still alive, you must surrender. I know you're fighting someone here. I truly feel sorry for that man. If you surrender now, I swear I won't shed any blood. I'm giving you one minute. Make a wise decision."
The muscles in my face tensed. These men thought the girl was dead, not me. I guess they never considered the possibility that the girl might be dead. These men... they weren't the girl's comrades. Then the dead bodies I saw outside were probably their men.
Me? I was right in the middle. I wasn't on either side, but I could be considered a threat to both.
I raised the AK-74 and pointed it directly at her. My breath was cold.
"Who are those guys outside?" I said in a low but firm voice. "And they don't look very friendly. Besides... you've really pissed them off."
Blood was still trickling down the girl's leg. The hem of her pants had turned dark red, dripping onto the ground in a thin trail. Her breathing was irregular, but the expression on her face… was filled with anger and mockery. Finally, she let out a bitter laugh. It was a mocking laugh, but one that tried to hide the fear inside her.
"They're… Federov's men," she said through clenched teeth. "You have no chance of getting out of here alive."
My eyebrows furrowed. Adrenaline was coursing through my body, but my mind was fixated on the details. I hardened my voice:
"Who is Federov?" I asked. "What business does he have with you?"
She locked eyes with me. This time there was something in her gaze... not anxiety, but a kind of darkness.
"His nickname is 'Hellhound'..." She whispered. "He used to be an officer in the marines. After the war, his unit disbanded, orders ceased, discipline ended. Now he's just a mountain bandit who burns and destroys. He kills anyone who crosses his path. For fun. Women, children—it doesn't matter. He burns whatever he finds. He leaves no one alive."
Just then, the megaphone outside sounded again. This time, there was no trace of tolerance in its tone.
Only a dark certainty.
"Irina, we've reached the end of the one-minute deadline, and we haven't received a response from you. So you don't want to surrender. Well, that's to be expected from you. I'm no longer responsible for what happens next. You'll pay for the lives of my fallen comrades and soldiers with your beautiful body."
When he finished speaking, I glanced at the girl secretly; her face was contorted with disgust, revulsion, and anger.
My instincts kicked in. I ran to the window.
I scanned the situation in front of us with my eyes: the BTR-70 had started moving.
The armored vehicle growled like a living creature, and the 14.5mm KPVT machine gun on the front turret had risen.
Then hell broke loose.
The machine gun spewed flames.
The windows shattered. Pieces of concrete flew off the walls, mixing with plaster and dust in the air. In that dust-filled moment, nothing was clear. But silhouettes were beginning to approach.
The soldiers were advancing. I reflexively raised my AK-74 and pulled the trigger.
I emptied the entire magazine.
Bullets rained down on Federov's men. Three people—maybe more—fell to the ground. Blood spurted from one's neck, another's abdomen was torn open, intestines scattered on the ground.
But it didn't go as I expected. The BTR-70, with its heavy hull, moved forward a bit more… and suddenly the barrel was pointed at me.
The 14.5 mm KPVT machine gun rose up, as if it were aimed directly at me.
At that moment, time slowed down—or so it seemed to me.
It wasn't just the sound of the trigger… death itself came.
"TATATATAK!"
The first bullet shattered the window sill.
The second pierced the wall.
The third passed through the stove right next to me.
I threw myself to the ground.
I gripped the back of my neck with my left hand and my AK-74 tightly with my right. The concrete floor was cold, but not as cold as death.
I tried to use the wall as a shield, but it was useless. The 14.5mm bullets pierced the wall like paper. The concrete plaster flew into the air, and dust filled my throat.
But it was a miracle—the bullets had missed me by an inch.
If even one of them had hit me directly, I wouldn't just have died... I would have been blown to pieces. The BTR-70 stopped firing.
I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs were still locked in fear.
I looked down at the ground with my eyes. The enemy was still outside, but they weren't approaching.
They were cautious. I had to use this to my advantage.
I raised the AK-74, my eyes locked on the target.
The GP-25 grenade launcher was under my finger.
I didn't hesitate for a second.
I fired the grenade, and the VOG-25 grenade drew a short arc in the air before hitting the BTR-70's front armor.
BOOM!
It exploded with a loud bang.
Flames and black smoke licked over the armor, but…
It couldn't penetrate it. The BTR was still there. The beast was still alive.
That's when hell broke loose again. This time, it wasn't the BTR—it was the soldiers firing. All at once.
Bullets rained down on every part of my body.
Two bullets hit my stomach, one hit my chest, and one hit my shoulder.
My 6B5 armor stopped the bullets—but it wasn't enough.
The impact-absorbing pads were missing. It felt like someone had hit my chest, my ribs, and the exact spot above my heart with a hammer.
My breath was cut off in my lungs. For a moment, everything stopped.
My back hit the wall. The gun didn't fall from my hand, but my fingers cramped up. My body went completely numb.
The pain radiating from my shoulder throbbed in my brain; even if the bullet hadn't shattered it, it felt like it had broken me inside.
Without wasting any time, I ran back to the room where the girl was.
I grabbed the SVD-NSV hybrid sniper rifle from the table. It was heavy, but it had a reassuring weight to it.
I stepped out onto the balcony.
Standing was difficult, but I forced my body with sheer willpower.
I rested the long barrel of the gun against the concrete railing of the balcony.
I looked through the scope.
The BTR-70 was still there. I held my breath.
I pulled the trigger five times in quick succession. The recoil was immense and it hurt my shoulder.
The first bullet hit the front armor and ricocheted off, clanging into the sky.
The second one pierced the turret.
But the remaining three penetrated the hull.
A thin plume of smoke began to rise.
The BTR shook… then stopped. The engine fell silent.
But the joy was fleeting. At that very moment, a soldier leaped out from behind the truck.
He had an RPG-7 in his hand.
We didn't make eye contact—but the muzzle of the weapon was directly aimed at my balcony. The enemy fired the rocket.
The rocket hit the wall above the balcony.
Hell broke loose.
Bricks, debris, and concrete fragments rained down on me.
The force of the explosion threw me backward.
My back hit the concrete.
My ears were ringing.
Everything was muffled and hazy.
There was only a hollow echo in my mind.
I was stunned. I got up on my knees, trembling. There was debris all around me, but I was still alive.
The SVD-NSV rifle was still there.
It had fallen to the ground, and the scope lens was slightly cracked. But it was still working.
With trembling hands, I picked up the rifle again. I suppressed the pain still throbbing in my chest and shoulder. Standing was now a luxury. I staggered back to the room where the girl was.
My steps were uncertain and unsteady. But with each step, I felt alive again.
I stumbled into the room.
My lungs were still burning. I dropped the rifle, leaned my back against the wall, and slowly collapsed to the ground.
The girl was staring at me, and this time there was no fear in her eyes… only fire.
"Hey, unlock my handcuffs and give me my gun," the girl said firmly.
"Why? So you can shoot me in the back?" I replied skeptically to her uncertain words.
At that moment, the girl lowered her head. Then, slowly, she spoke through clenched teeth with anger:
"I have to kill that bastard. Besides, you're their enemy now too, so there's no point in killing you." The girl spat out the truth with a devilish smile.
"So you're saying that the enemy of my enemy is my friend, huh?" I looked at the girl with a questioning gaze.
Another silence fell. The girl closed her eyes, took a deep breath. Then, lifting her chin, she looked at me:
"There's a garage underground on the lower floor, the door opens to the back, the cars there are still intact. I'll distract them, but you need to hurry."
I nodded and approached the girl. Even if she killed me, she couldn't escape with her injured leg. I untied the handcuffs and ropes, gave her the SVD-NSV hybrid rifle and bullets, and ran downstairs.
My eye caught the door to the armory. I rushed inside and looked around. There were boxes of ammunition, armor, helmets, and weapons. I approached one of the weapon boxes, which had "AN-94 ABAKAN" written on it. I couldn't help but chuckle and opened the box, slinging the weapon over my shoulder. The AN-94 'Abakan' emerged after the collapse of the Soviet Union and stands out for being more accurate than the AK-74. However, its most notable feature is that the first two shots are fired almost simultaneously thanks to the 'Hyperboost' feature. The reason for this feature is that, according to the Ministry of Defense, a single shot is not enough to kill the enemy. Therefore, two shots fired simultaneously will suffice. However, if the trigger is held down, the weapon will continue to fire at the standard AK-74 rate (600 rounds per minute).
My steel vest and helmet were in terrible condition, so I went to the armor section. There were many 6B2, 6B3, 6B4, and 6B5 armor sets, as well as SSSH-94, ZSH-1-2M, K6-3, and "Altyn" helmets.
I chose the 6B4, which was the best among them, and the "Altyn-M" helmet, which was in a strange box.
The 6B4 armor was new—likely from the latest production batch. The front had 30 pieces of 13 mm boron carbide plates, while the back and sides had 26 pieces of 1.25 mm titanium plates. Both the front and back were surrounded by 30 layers of Aramid fabric woven in layers.
Inside the armor, there were soft impact-absorbing pads, a neck protector, and four boron carbide armor plates for groin protection. This model was much heavier and bulkier.
It weighed at least 10 kilograms, maybe a little more, but it provided excellent protection. I examined the other steel vests on the lower shelves. I removed the plates and put them in my backpack. These plates could be used for repairs and reinforcement in the future.
Then I picked up the "Altyn-M" helmet. This model was actually a prototype and was several steps ahead of the standard Altyn: it had a 4 mm thick titanium body, and behind the titanium was a bulletproof Aramid coating, providing extra protection.
The impact-absorbing pads inside were specially designed to minimize the effects of hard impacts. The internal phone and speaker system had been upgraded for better quality and usability. It was slightly heavier than the standard Altyn and K6-3 models, but the protection and comfort it provided fully justified the extra weight.
I carefully picked up the helmet with my hands, and when I put it on my head, I felt its weight, but the sense of security and durability it provided was much greater. Then I exited the armory, threw two RGN grenades at the door, and destroyed it. This way, the weapons would not fall into the enemy's hands. Then I entered the "archive room." The scene that greeted me when I opened the door was like a graveyard of information filled with the ghosts of the past.
The ceiling was high, and the walls were lined with shelf systems from floor to ceiling. Some files were neatly arranged, while others had been hastily left behind or scattered on the floor. Who knows, perhaps someone had fled in a hurry during a raid, or someone had deliberately searched for information.
Finding the section with the maps wasn't easy. As I wandered among the shelves with my flashlight, labeled boxes, yellowed papers, and dust-covered folders caught my attention. Finally, a compartment labeled "MAP: RADIATION" caught my eye.
The maps on the shelves were arranged chronologically by year of production. 1983, 1986, 1991…
My fingers trembled as I reached for the last map: 1995.
This had been prepared exactly two years after the nuclear war broke out in 1993.