Maksym sat on the stairwell landing, leaning against the cold concrete near the wooden railing. Dim light seeped through the cracks in the windows, illuminating the worn-out journal in his hands—the last page, where the ink had yet to dry. He had no strength left to write: the stale air pressed against his chest, and thoughts of the Void refused to let go.
Eight years had passed since the Great Explosion, when nuclear fire had wiped out everything—his home, his mother, his hope. The new world followed different rules: either you, or them. Trust had become a luxury he could no longer afford.
Footsteps in the hallway interrupted his thoughts. Artem approached, nervously clutching his rifle. Thin, with disheveled hair and eyes not yet hardened by this new world, he seemed like a stranger here.
— Hey, Maksym, are you okay? I called you, — Artem’s voice trembled with tension. — Come on, we need to check a few more apartments.
Maksym closed the journal and stood up, glancing at the rookie.
— Alright, kid, — Maksym muttered. — But keep your eyes open. This isn''t a place for daydreaming.
Artem gave an awkward smile.
— I want to learn. You’re my mentor, right?
— Mentor… — Maksym repeated with a crooked grin. — Not a babysitter, Artem. If you want to be a Stalker—forget them.
Artem nodded, but there was a spark in his eyes—a foolish hope Maksym had seen in many newcomers. And they all ended up in the dust.
— Let’s go, — he added, moving forward. — And don’t touch everything unless you want to lose your fingers.
They made their way through the narrow corridor, where claw marks scraped deep into the walls—fresh, dragging downward. Ahead, a door loomed, covered in deep gouges, as if something had tried to break free. Maksym’s heart pounded—he knew this door. Kicking it open, he stepped inside.
The apartment was a one-room space, without partitions. Silence pressed against his ears, dust lay in thick layers. An old sofa with faded upholstery clung to the wall, next to it—a toppled chair with a broken leg. Shattered plates crunched underfoot, and on the wall, a cobweb-covered bracket swayed—the TV itself lay below, screen shattered.
Maksym walked slowly across the room—it was almost as he remembered. Reaching a chipped wooden cabinet, he opened it and pulled out an amulet—a lightning bolt within a circle, inscribed with strange symbols.
— What’s that? — Artem peeked over his shoulder, holding an old compass he had just picked up from the floor.
— My Past, —Maksym answered quietly.
He hung the amulet around his neck, feeling the cold metal against his skin.
A dust-covered photo album lay on the shelf. Flipping through the pages, Maksym stopped at a faded photograph: a woman in a white coat, dark curls swaying in the wind, a warm smile glowing on her face. The same amulet hung around her neck. He tore the photo out and slipped it into the inner pocket of his jacket, alongside his journal.
— This? — Artem asked.
— My mother, — Maksym answered quietly, turning toward the window.
He stepped closer to the shattered glass, his gaze sweeping across the ruins stretching to the horizon. Kyiv, once filled with life, had become a shadow of itself, a graveyard for millions long gone. Charred skeletons of buildings, twisted structures looming over the streets like ghosts of the past. The roads—clogged with debris, rusting cars that had once stood in traffic now frozen forever, consumed by time and ash.
Small hailstones tapped against the windowpane, some slipping through the broken glass into the apartment. The wind roamed the ruins, lifting swirling columns of dust like spectral figures. Maksym glanced up at the sky. Between the dirty clouds, something large flickered. A Flyer.
It flew low, spreading its membranous wings wide, each slow beat echoing through the dead districts. Its silhouette was distorted, unclean—a fusion of a bat, a serpent, and something else entirely inhuman. It abruptly changed direction and disappeared behind the roof of a neighboring building. Maksym clenched his fists, feeling a chill crawl up his spine.
— Beautiful, isn’t it? — Artem stepped beside him. — People used to live here…
— Beautiful? — Maksym repeated with a bitter smile. — This is a grave. And we are the ghosts wandering through it.
Artem hesitated but didn’t back down.
— But… there’s still something beautiful about it, — he said, gazing into the distance. — This silence, this… vastness. I mean… there’s something… grand about it.
— Grand? — Maksym scoffed. — This city is dead, Artem. We walk through its bones, telling ourselves stories as if it’s still breathing.
Artem sighed but didn’t look away from the landscape.
— Maybe you just don’t want to see anything beyond the ruins?
Maksym didn’t answer right away. He simply watched as, far below, the Strays slithered—hungry shadows with thin bodies and rat-like tails, scavenging for food. They were as much a part of this world as the dust and the broken roads.
— Do you… do you even remember what it was like? Before all of this?
Maksym silently looked at him, then turned his gaze back to the ruins.
— I remember, — Maksym finally said.
His voice was steady, but there was a bone-chilling coldness in it.
— That’s why I’m not looking for anything grand here. I remember what it really looked like. People, laughter, lights in the windows. I remember the smell of coffee near the metro. Morning traffic jams. Lines at the shawarma stalls. I won’t let myself pretend that this pile of ashes is art.
Artem remained silent, absorbing his words. Then, after a pause, he hesitantly asked:
— But… can’t we rebuild? Start over?
Maksym scoffed.
— You really think it’s that… hopeless?
— Yeah. Build a new Kyiv out of sticks and words? You’ll be the first to lay bricks while the Raiders tear us apart or those things… — he nodded toward the Strays below. — Or do you think they dream of a better future too?
Artem followed his gaze, swallowing the lump in his throat.
— You really think it’s that hopeless?
Maksym smiled—dryly, barely noticeably.
— Hope is a nice story people tell themselves so they don’t break.
— But what if it’s real?
— Then it kills you even faster.
Artem sighed.
— You act like you’re already dead.
Maksym looked at him again.
— Maybe I am.
Artem averted his gaze.
— So what? Just accept that everything is lost?
Maksym exhaled.
— Not everything. But if you want to live—be ready to pay the price.
Artem stared at the floor, processing his words.
— It’s hard to accept, — he admitted. — But I’m glad you’re my mentor. Maybe together we’ll find a way through this chaos.
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Maksym glanced at him—the spark of belief in Artem’s eyes annoyed him, but it also stirred something deep inside.
He cast one last look out the window, as if searching for something. Somewhere among the ruins, his ghosts remained. But they no longer called him back.
Suddenly, a sharp crack echoed behind them.
Artem flinched, instinctively gripping his rifle.
Maksym turned, tightening his hold on the shotgun.
— What was that? — Artem whispered, his voice trembling.
— I Don’t Know, — Maksym аnswered.
He listened closely. The sounds were getting closer—rustling, creaking.
— What if it’s a Stray? — Artem paled, gripping his weapon tighter.
— Then shoot, rookie, — Maksym muttered dryly. — Unless you want me to carry your body back on my shoulders.
Artem swallowed hard, clutching his rifle.
Maksym raised his shotgun, listening.
— Stay quiet, — he ordered.
A Stray leapt out from the darkness—its thin, glistening skin stretched over sinewy limbs, its rat-like tail twitching. Red eyes locked onto them.
— Shoot, rookie, — he commanded in a hushed tone.
Artem fired, but his hands trembled—the bullets hit the wall instead. The Stray howled and bolted, knocking debris aside as it fled.
— Damn! — Artem cursed. — It saw us!
— And it was more scared than you were, — Maksym grumbled, lowering his gun. — But now we’re exposed. More will be coming soon. Let’s move.
They stepped out onto the street. The hail had stopped, leaving puddles that reflected the heavy clouds above. The air smelled of dampness and fear.
— We’re in Raider territory, — Maksym said, scanning the ruins. — It’s getting dark. We need to reach the bridge fast.
They moved quickly, keeping close to the walls, avoiding open spaces. Each step echoed between the hollowed-out buildings, and with every sound, Maksym felt the unease growing in his chest.
A creeping sensation told him they were being watched.
— Stay close, — he whispered to Artem.
Artem nodded, gritting his teeth.
Maksym glanced back again. The street was empty, but the shadows on the walls seemed alive. They flickered, shifted—moving as if sneaking closer.
— Do you see something? — Artem asked tensely.
— I think we’re not alone, — Maksym replied. — Stay alert.
At first, they moved cautiously, trying not to make noise. Artem gripped his rifle tightly, while Maksym scanned the darkness. The tension thickened with every second.
They didn’t know they had already been marked.
The Raiders.
The terror of the Void. The phantoms of this world.
No one had ever seen their faces, and among the survivors, few believed there were humans behind those masks. Stalkers turned the Raiders into myth—elusive shadows of Kyiv’s Left Bank Void. They knew these ruins better than anyone. People had seen them taming monsters—Strays, even Flyers—as if they were their trained beasts.
And so the legends were born: the Raiders were not just looters but the true masters of the Left Bank Void, something between human and supernatural. Dressed in tattered rags, resembling sand-worn tunics, they blended with the dust and wind that roamed through the crumbling high-rises.
Maksym stopped, feeling something was wrong.
His gaze fell on a shattered window in the building across the street.
A shadow.
A barely perceptible movement.
— Stop, — he whispered.
He slowly crouched behind a pile of broken bricks, pulling Artem down with him.
— Look.
Artem wiped his sweaty forehead and tensed.
A silhouette flickered in the dark window again.
— Damn… — he exhaled quietly.
Maksym tightened his grip on the shotgun.
— Raiders.
His heart pounded faster.
Something told him they had walked into a trap.
He clenched his shotgun even tighter, his eyes locked on the dark window. The shadow had vanished, but the feeling of a snare closing around them only grew stronger. The wind howled through the ruins, carrying dust and bits of debris that crunched underfoot.
— What do we do? — Artem whispered, his voice trembling. He pressed against the pile of bricks, clutching his rifle so tightly his knuckles turned white.
— Stay quiet, rookie, — Maksym muttered, scanning the street. — Listen and move when I move. The bridge isn’t far, but they know we’re here now.
Artem swallowed and nodded. Fear shone in his eyes, but he gripped the compass in his left hand as if it could somehow guide them out of this nightmare.
Maksym slowly rose, shotgun at the ready.
— Step by step, Artem. And don’t make a sound unless you want to get torn apart.
They moved along the wall, crouched low, trying to melt into the shadows. Every noise—the creak of concrete, the whisper of wind—sounded louder than gunfire. Maksym could hear Artem breathing behind him—fast, shallow, like a cornered animal. He glanced back: the rookie was holding up, but his hands were shaking.
— Maksym, — Artem whispered. — What if they’ve already surrounded us?
— Then shoot straight, kid, — Maksym snapped. — Because I’m not dragging your corpse across that bridge.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the corner—a tall shape wrapped in tattered rags that fluttered in the wind like a sand-worn tunic. A mask gleamed in the twilight, concealing the face beneath. The Raider stood still for a moment, as if sniffing the air, then vanished behind the wreckage of a car.
— Did you see that? — Artem gasped, his voice breaking.
— I saw it, — Maksym gritted his teeth. — And that’s just the beginning. Run!
They bolted forward, boots pounding against the cracked pavement. The bridge loomed ahead—a dark concrete span over the poisoned Dnipro, dividing the Left and Right Banks. But the shadows multiplied: two more Raiders slipped out from a side street, moving fast, unnaturally fast.
Within seconds, there were five of them—silent phantoms of the Void, closing in on their prey.
— They’re everywhere! — Artem stumbled, but Maksym grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him forward.
— Keep your rifle ready, rookie! How many rounds?
— Three mags, — Artem choked out, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow.
— Safety off, — Maksym ordered. — The bridge is our chance. They don’t like the city center.
At that moment, one of the Raiders, as if biding his time, leapt out from behind cover and, instantly lunging at Artem, knocked him to the ground. The rookie didn’t even have time to react—his screams were drowned out by the tense air, exploding with the sounds of struggle. Artem barely managed to try to defend himself when the Raider’s hands gripped him, and his rifle slipped from his grasp, lodging in the dust.
Maxim reacted instantly, sharply assessing the situation. A shotgun—too risky in such conditions. Skill and cold calculation overpowered instinct. Without hesitation, he drew his pistol and fired several quick shots. A bullet struck the Raider squarely in the head, and with a dull thud, the figure collapsed to the ground, releasing Artem. The rookie lay there, struggling to catch his breath, still unable to process what had happened.
— Get up, kid! — Maxim barked, running over.
Artem stood, coughing, but instead of fleeing, he paused over the body.
— What are you doing? — Maxim shouted, keeping his pistol at the ready.
— I want to know who they are, — Artem said, reaching for the mask, his voice trembling with fear and curiosity.
But Artem didn’t listen. He tore off the mask. Beneath it was a disfigured face, as if scorched by heat: wrinkled, cracked skin, like hardened wax frozen in a grimace. Red, dull eyes without pupils remained closed. Artem froze, his breath catching, when suddenly the eyes snapped open—a dead glare pierced through him. The Raider twitched, his hand swiftly clamping around Artem’s throat and twisting. The crack of his neck cut through the air like the snap of a branch. Artem collapsed, his compass rolling across the concrete, his eyes fixed in horror.
Maxim saw the rookie’s head twist unnaturally, and blood pounded in his temples. He dropped the pistol, grabbed the shotgun from his shoulder, and fired—the blast of buckshot tore the Raider’s head apart, scattering chunks of gray flesh and red veins across the ground. The creature went limp, but the sound of the shot echoed like a signal.
Maxim lunged toward Artem, his boots crunching on the debris. He dropped to his knees beside the body, breathing heavily. The compass lay nearby, its needle swaying as if searching for a lost direction. Maxim touched Artem’s neck—no pulse. "Fool," he thought, but his throat tightened with something else. Glancing around, he noticed movement: shadows emerged from behind rusted cars—five more Raiders, wrapped in tattered tunics, approaching swiftly like a pack of wolves. Their masks glinted in the twilight, their steps almost silent.
His mind raced: "How could he be so reckless? I should’ve stopped him!" Maxim grabbed a grenade from Artem’s belt, gripped it in his palm, and stood. The Raiders were close now—twenty meters. He yanked out his shotgun and opened fire, the buckshot roaring toward the nearest one. But instead of falling, the figure only staggered—bullets sank into its tunic like it was armor, and the red gaze beneath the mask sharpened. "What the hell?"—Maxim clenched his teeth, realizing the buckshot only scratched these creatures at this range.
The Raiders sped up, their tunics flapping like banners of death. One leapt, vaulting over a pile of car wreckage, landing closer than Maxim expected. Time was running out. He pulled the pin from the grenade and hurled it into the center of the pack. "Drop, you bastards!" he thought, diving aside. The explosion tore through the air, a cloud of dust and debris rising, drowning out the raspy scream of one Raider. The ground trembled, and Maxim bolted across the bridge, not looking back. His chest burned, and a single thought spun in his head: "I should’ve protected him."
He ran, his legs buzzing with strain. The wind from the river carried the stench of rot. Suddenly, a metallic clang rang out behind him—something whistled and struck the concrete. Maxim glanced back: a grenade, thrown by one of the Raiders, rolled across the bridge, bouncing on the cracks.
— Fuck! — he yelled, realizing there was no time.
Gritting his teeth, he dashed toward an old car blocking the bridge. He had to jump it. He picked up speed, but his foot slipped on the wet concrete. The grenade exploded behind him—the shockwave slammed into his back, metal fragments whizzing past. Maxim tried to grab a bent piece of rebar jutting from the bridge’s edge, but his fingers slipped on the rust, only slowing his fall. He plummeted downward, the dark, oily river water rushing up fast.
Maxim fell, and in that moment, it seemed as though time slowed down. He felt the cold piercing him to the bone, and as he sank deeper, his consciousness drifted into the past. He found himself in his childhood, standing by that same window. Beyond it was a cozy house, once filled with laughter and happiness.
He gazed at a peaceful scene: quiet streets, green trees, a sunny sky. But suddenly, something in the distance caught his eye. A rocket streaked across the sky, leaving a fiery trail, and a sharp hum filled the air.
Maxim froze, his heart gripped by fear as he watched the rocket hurtle closer. The explosion that followed a moment later felt inevitable. A massive wave of ash and destruction swept over everything, like a dark cloud obliterating all in its path.
From behind, from the kitchen, came his mother’s familiar voice, laced with fear and desperation:
— MAXIM, MY SON!!!
In that instant, terror engulfed him. As if in slow motion, he saw the ash overtake him, the world crumbling apart. He couldn’t grasp what was happening, but that moment etched itself into his memory forever.
Just as it had back then, he felt defenseless, alone, and lost. Thoughts of his mother pierced his soul, and confusion burned in his chest. Everything blurred together: memory, fear, the sense of catastrophe.
It was all in the past, but now, plunging into the icy river waters, he felt that same hopelessness again. Suddenly, he snapped out of the recollection, returning to reality.