Maxim opened his eyes, and the world around him slowly began to take shape. He was lying on the shore of a small island, not far from the bridge, carried there by the current. Judging by the darkness outside, he’d been there for hours.
Struggling to stand, Maxim felt a searing pain in his side and back. Every movement was agonizing, and he barely held back groans. His mother’s scream still echoed in his mind, and the vision he’d experienced while unconscious resurfaced—a memory of the disaster, the day of the Great Explosion.
His heart clenched with pain and nostalgia. He recalled standing by the window, watching the rocket race toward the earth, and the fear that flooded his soul when he heard his mother’s voice calling for him to save himself. That memory flashed through his mind again and again, as if he were still there, in the moment when the world collapsed around him.
Maxim pressed his palms to the ground, trying to gather his strength and figure out where he was. Everything around him felt alien, and the cold wind only heightened his sense of vulnerability. He closed his eyes for a moment, pushing away the dark thoughts and focusing on what he needed to do next.
The shore was slick with mud and algae. Maxim slowly rose to his knees, gritting his teeth against the pain. His jacket was soaked through, hanging heavily on his shoulders, and his right hand was bleeding—likely from catching on something sharp during the fall. He patted his pocket—the notebook was still there, though waterlogged. The amulet around his neck pressed coldly against his skin, a reminder of his mother and that day.
In the distance, the bridge loomed, its dark silhouette barely discernible in the twilight. The wind howled above it, and from the direction of the Left Bank came a faint rustle—either debris rolling or Raiders still prowling for prey. Maxim clenched his fists. "They didn’t cross the bridge," he thought, but the sense of safety was deceptive. The river could have carried him anywhere, and this tiny island was only a temporary refuge.
He tried to stand, leaning on a piece of rusted metal jutting from the ground. Pain stabbed his side like a knife, and he cursed under his breath. "Gotta move," he ordered himself, though his legs trembled from cold and exhaustion. Fragments swirled in his mind: Artem’s compass rolling across the concrete, the crack of his neck, the grenade’s explosion. "I should’ve protected him," the thought cut deep, but he pushed it aside. Guilt wouldn’t help him survive.
Suddenly, a sound pierced the darkness—a low, guttural moan that shattered the silence. Maxim froze, his hand instinctively reaching for his belt, but the pistol was gone—lost in the river. The shotgun was missing too; all he had left was the knife tucked in his boot. He crouched, peering into the dusk. At the edge of the island, amid a pile of debris and rotting seaweed, something stirred—a dark figure, slow but menacing. A Wanderer? Or something worse?
Maxim gripped the knife’s handle, adrenaline dulling the pain. "Not now," he thought, gauging the distance to the shadow. The island was small—nowhere to run except back into the water, which meant death by cold or radiation. He had to fight. Or wait.
In that moment, the past surged through him again. Time seemed to slow: ash enveloped him, destroying the world before his eyes. He hadn’t comprehended what happened, but that day had carved itself into his memory—a scar that wouldn’t heal.
Back then, he’d been defenseless, alone, lost. Thoughts of his mother gnawed at his soul, igniting pain and confusion in his chest. Memory, loss, and the sense of catastrophe melded into one.
It was all behind him, but now, plunged into the river’s icy waters, he felt that same despair. The cold overwhelmed him, snapping him out of the reverie. Maxim returned to reality, breathing heavily. One thought pulsed in his mind—survive.
He rose, leaning on the slippery shore, and scanned his surroundings, assessing where he was and how to reach the Paladins’ base. A charred landscape stretched around him: once-mighty trees stood as black pillars, their scorched branches reaching upward like skeletons. Nature here barely clung to life—amid the ash and dust, solitary bushes fought to survive, their leaves trembling in the wind.
Twilight cloaked the land, casting long shadows. Every rustle in the dark sharpened his senses. Instead of birds, there were dull moans and growls—the voices of the Wasteland’s creatures. A Flyer’s cry echoed in the sky—a predator whose wings buzzed overhead, hunting for prey. Maxim knew: you always had to be ready here.
Checking his gear, he grimaced: the river had taken everything—his weapons, supplies, even his old flask. All that remained was the knife in his boot, dull and unreliable. But he’d made do with less.
Freedom in this world was a constant struggle. Every step demanded caution, every second vigilance. Over years of survival, losing Artem hadn’t broken him—just another pupil who’d paid for his foolishness. Each death only sharpened his instincts.
— I want to know what’s under the mask, — he quoted Artem, scoffing. — Idiot. Zeal without brains.
Exhaling, Maxim focused on the path ahead. By the rules forged through years of survival, stopping meant dying. Pain was just an obstacle he’d long learned to overcome. His goal was clear: reach the Paladins’ base, find safety, and regroup.
Twilight draped the scorched forest, softening its grim appearance with long shadows. From behind the trees came unsettling sounds—dull moans and the piercing cries of Flyers tearing through the silence. Their wings buzzed in the sky, a constant reminder of the ever-present threat. Maxim surveyed his surroundings: all his gear lost to the river, leaving only the knife—dull, but his sole ally for now. Survival had become his only mission, and he knew how to carry it out.
He moved carefully, sticking to the shadows of charred trunks—once sturdy trees, now mere witnesses to the catastrophe. Dry remnants of nature crunched underfoot, but he avoided unnecessary noise, stepping softly and deliberately. Suddenly, a faint rustling came from the bushes ahead—something was moving.
Maxim crouched behind a stump, peering into the darkness. At first, nothing was visible, but then he caught movement: a group of people approaching, then halting. He recognized them—Stalkers. Among them stood out Nikita, callsign Solidol—a tall figure with sharp features, always ready to lead others through the hell of the Wasteland. His courage and cool-headedness were known to all.
Maxim tensed but quickly assessed the situation. Nearby, packs of Wanderers nested—an attack from those creatures could spell disaster, especially at dusk. He noticed the Stalkers grow alert: Solidol paused, scanning around with his rifle at the ready.
— Stay sharp, — Solidol said quietly, listening. — Those bastards are close.
Maxim saw the tension grip the group—hands on weapons, eyes searching the dark for the enemy. This was his chance. Alone, he wouldn’t stand a chance against Wanderers, but with a group, a path to the base opened up. Gripping his knife, he slipped out of cover and moved toward them slowly, braced for any reaction. In this world, survival hinged on timing.
The dark silhouettes of the Stalkers grew clearer. A crunch under his boot made them freeze—weapons snapped toward him instantly. Maxim raised a hand, stepping out of the shadows.
— Solidol, it’s me, — he said softly.
The barrels lowered; Nikita recognized his voice.
— Maxim? Damn, where’d you come from?
— Took a swim in the river, — Maxim muttered. — Ran into a firefight with Raiders. The rookie didn’t make it, gear’s floating somewhere. — He lifted his hand, showing the dull knife. — This is all I’ve got left.
Solidol snorted, shaking his head.
— As always.
— Don’t even start, — Maxim snapped coldly, lowering his gaze.
His attention was abruptly drawn to sounds outside—piercing cries and rustling, closer than he’d like. Wanderers. Their presence cut through even the murmur of the Stalkers. Time was slipping away: if they didn’t move, the pack would find them.
— We need to go, — he said, keeping his calm. — It’s not safe here.
Nikita nodded and turned to the group.
— Fall in! Move it! — his voice boomed. The Stalkers sprang into action, checking weapons and gear. Maxim joined them, masking his unease behind a steely facade.
Less than a minute later, they were on the move. Nikita led the group, while Maxim stayed at the rear, listening. The rustling and moans of the Wanderers grew louder—danger closing in with every step.
They skirted the dark forest, avoiding open areas where the pack might lie in wait. Twilight thickened, light barely piercing the charred trees, casting eerie shadows. But just a few steps in, a shrill howl erupted from the bushes. The group froze.
— Damn it! — one of the Stalkers muttered, gripping his rifle. — They’re right here!
— Take cover! — Nikita barked. Everyone dove for the undergrowth, hiding in the shadows and stifling their breaths.
Maxim pressed himself to the ground, feeling his heart pound in his chest. Ten years in the Wasteland had accustomed him to moments like this—fighting for himself and those beside him. Losses were routine, but losing Solidol or the group was something he couldn’t afford.
The sounds of approaching Wanderers grew nearer. Bushes cracked—the pack moved fast and coordinated. Maxim knew: this was a game of survival.
— We can’t just sit here, — he whispered to Nikita, crouched beside him. — They’ll sniff us out.
— Agreed, — Solidol replied. — But where to?
— Give me a weapon, — Maxim added quietly, meeting his eyes.
Nikita, with a flicker of surprise, pulled an old but reliable rifle from his pack and handed it over. Maxim took it, swiftly checking the magazine. The weight of the weapon restored some confidence, though the sense of danger lingered.
— Now where? — Nikita asked, straining to hear the nearing sounds.
— The bridge, — Maxim replied, nodding ahead. — Then to the hill, and on to the Fortress.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Nikita gave a curt nod, and the group moved out. They quickly ascended the old bridge—its concrete cracked underfoot, rusted rebar jutting from the edges. Crossing it, they reached the far end, where a dark tunnel mouth loomed before them—a metro station entrance, a straight shot under the hill to the Fortress.
Maxim paused, staring into the blackness. The tunnel promised speed, but experience warned otherwise. He knew the stories of Ghosts—souls scorched by the Great Explosion, haunting the stations: swirling clouds of black smoke with skeletal silhouettes inside, rare but vicious. The path seemed simple but too quiet—no rustles, just an oppressive silence hiding a threat. The risk was clear: one encounter with a Ghost could wipe out the group. "Faster, but deadly," flashed through his mind.
— We’ll go around, — he said quietly to Solidol, tearing his gaze from the tunnel. — Over the hill.
The group veered aside and began climbing the slope. Every step was cautious, muffled—noise could betray them to the Wanderers. At the hill’s crest, a view of the forest unfolded, and in the distance, the ruined outline of the Fortress emerged—once a haven for survivors, now just dead walls. Maxim paused to assess the situation. The sounds from the forest—moans and rustling—served as a reminder of the pack’s proximity. Up here, it was safer than below, but the calm was deceptive.
— Quick, follow me, — Nikita commanded, starting down the hill. The group trailed behind, sticking to the shadows.
Maxim felt his survival instincts working at their limit. Every move calculated, every step deliberate. Time was slipping away, and he knew his task now was to save the group, to not repeat Artem’s fate.
Soon, they reached the overgrown edge of the forest. Among the trees, Maxim spotted an old shack—dilapidated, with rotting walls, but capable of serving as a temporary shelter from the Wanderers.
He led the group onward, avoiding predators and hidden threats. Descending the hill, they entered the city—once teeming with life, now swallowed by chaos. The dark park-forest lay behind them, and ahead stretched the charred ruins of a district where nature clung to life amid humanity’s remnants.
Before long, they approached an old school—his school. Maxim slowed his pace, a faint echo of nostalgia stirring within him. Ten years of survival had hardened him, and these walls had long lost their meaning—just another dot on the map. He gestured toward the building—half-collapsed but suitable for cover.
— We’ll rest here, — he said quietly, keeping his voice steady. — Safer than out in the open.
Nikita and the Stalkers surveyed the school: shattered windows, rusted skeletons of desks, cracked walls. Neglect seeped from every corner, but the place offered a chance to catch their breath.
Stepping inside, Maxim felt a whisper of memories—friends’ laughter, the bustle of hallways. But it quickly dissolved into the cold emptiness of the present.
— Irony of fate, — he muttered under his breath. The school where he’d studied had become just another refuge—nothing more.
The group settled among the debris, unpacking bags and pulling out food. Maxim stood by a window, peering into the shadowed streets—each one could conceal danger. Here, amid the familiar, a faint hint of peace flickered, but he knew it was only a pause.
— Maxim, want some? — Nikita asked, holding out a piece of bread smeared with something resembling pate.
Maxim perched on the windowsill, took the food, and gave a crooked, sarcastic smile. The day felt like a bad joke: an apartment, a school—as if the Wasteland had decided to remind him of a past he’d long buried.
— Some tour, — he said, glancing at the ruined walls. — Visited home, now sleeping at school. Full itinerary.
His voice was bitter and firm—nostalgia couldn’t pierce his cynical mask. Memories remained a shadow he dismissed with a single thought.
— Hope that’s the end of the excursion, — he added, shifting his gaze to the Stalkers with a cold smirk.
— Hey, Max, — Nikita nodded toward the broken door leading to the corridor, — let’s check what’s in there? Might find something useful.
— Seriously? — Maxim shot him a narrow-eyed glance. — We’re already lagging, and after all these years, there’d be nothing left here but dust and bones.
— Come on, — Solidol snorted, — it’s your school, maybe you’ll dig up a notebook with some failing grades.
Maxim grimaced but held his tongue. The Stalkers headed down the corridor without waiting for him. He stood for a second, gripping the rifle—waste of time, but fine. Stepping after them, he felt the cold of the concrete seep through his soles.
The corridor stretched ahead—dark, with cracks snaking along the walls where paint hung in tatters. First step—the silence hit his ears, broken only by the echo of his breathing. He was a warrior, forged by the Wasteland, but the crunch of glass underfoot stirred something deep within.
He paused by a gap in the wall—once a bulletin board had hung there. His fingers brushed the charred edge, and a memory flashed: laughter, notes, the smell of chalk. Maxim pressed his lips tight, shoving it away. Second step—past a shattered window, where the wind carried a faint damp scent. Beyond the glass, a courtyard once buzzed; now, only shadows remained.
The doorway to his classroom. He slowed, peering into the darkness. The rifle lowered in his hands, his fingers easing up. A step inside—and time seemed to slow. Maxim looked around: overturned desks, a cracked chalkboard, the teacher’s desk tilted to one side. His eyes settled on his old desk in the corner—rough wood, where "M+V" was scratched inside a heart.
He traced a finger over the carving and murmured, barely audible:
— Vik…
Nearby were crooked lines:
*Don’t speak of your love,
Eyes say more than words,
Hold her…*
A faint, crooked smile touched his lips—her braids, her voice, that day he’d scratched those words. The memory was warm, alive, but cut short—time had erased the rest.
He approached the teacher’s desk, brushing the cracked surface—here, he’d cheated on tests. Then he stood before the chalkboard, where he’d doodled nonsense. Something stirred in his chest—nostalgia, a pang for what had burned to ash. His hardened steel held firm, but memories slipped through the cracks.
A rustle behind the door snapped the moment apart. Maxim tensed, the rifle instantly back in combat stance. Nostalgia faded; the warrior returned. A scraping sound—quiet but distinct, like claws dragging across concrete. Something was coming.
The door flew off its hinges with a crash—the impact flung him against the wall, knocking the air from his lungs. Maxim scrambled up, gripping his weapon, and froze. From the storage room lumbered a creature—hulking, gorilla-like, but grotesque. Spikes, sharp as bone blades, jutted from its back; its chest was encased in thick armor. White, blind eyes locked onto him, sensing his breath. It roared—a sound that slammed into the walls, sending dust cascading from above.
Maxim wiped blood from his split lip, spat, and muttered:
— What a damn day…
The creature twitched and lunged at Maxim. A massive paw swung forward, but he reacted on instinct, raising the rifle and firing a short burst into its neck. The gunfire echoed through the classroom as the monster recoiled, crashing to the floor. Wounded, it let out a howl that shattered the silence, reverberating through the school’s corridors.
Maxim sprang to his feet. Adrenaline pounded in his temples, but his mind stayed cold—this was just the beginning. He bolted toward the gym where the group was, boots slamming against the concrete.
The beast, ignoring its pain, tore free from the debris. With a fury that chilled to the bone, it smashed through a wall and charged after him. Spikes scraped the walls, leaving gouges; bricks cracked under the weight of its paws. The narrow corridors thrummed with its movement.
The Stalkers in the gym turned as Maxim burst in, shouting:
— Monster!
— What the?, — one began, but the doors exploded inward as the creature barreled through.
It moved like a tank, smashing everything in its path. The Stalkers’ bullets ricocheted off its bony armor, doing no damage. A paw snatched people like dolls, hurling them into walls—bones snapped, bodies fell limp.
Maxim ducked behind a pillar, assessing the chaos. The rifle burned in his hands, ammo running low. He fired at its head—five shots in rapid succession. The monster flinched but didn’t stop. Time was running out; disaster loomed.
Nikita charged forward, yelling and swinging his weapon to distract it. Maxim seized the moment, circling behind and studying its back. Near the neck—a gap, no spikes or plates. A weak spot. Survival boiled down to one thing: precision.
He aimed and fired his last three rounds. The bullets hit, tearing into flesh. The creature staggered, letting out a long, guttural roar—its first real sign of pain. It spun, smashed through a wall, and leapt out the gym window, vanishing into the night.
Maxim exhaled, tension easing but not fully fading—the thing was still alive.
— What the hell was that? — a Stalker yelled, eyes wild with fear and adrenaline.
Maxim spat blood and muttered:
— A gift from the Wasteland.
— Don’t know what it was, but bullets barely scratched it, — Nikita said grimly, keeping his voice steady. — Like armor.
— Let’s call it a Titan, — Maxim snorted, gripping a grenade. — Never seen anything like it in the Wasteland. Alright, group, we need to move before it comes back.
— Agreed, — Solidol nodded, surveying the wrecked gym. — The Fort’s not far.
The Stalkers headed for the exit, weapons at the ready. Eyes scanned the darkness; every rustle set nerves on edge. That “Titan” was out there somewhere—the feeling crawled under their skin. Maxim brought up the rear, glancing back. Cutting through the courtyards would shorten the trip to the Fort, but at night, shadows lurked there. Still, they took the risk.
Crossing the desolate courtyard, Nikita froze—a hulking shadow flickered in the school’s window. The group quickened their pace, a cold grip of fear tightening their chests.
A long, bone-chilling roar sounded from behind. Everyone stopped.
— Titan, — Maxim said quietly, turning his head.
On the school’s rooftop, silhouetted against the black sky, its form emerged. White eyes blazed, locking onto them. The monster approached the edge slowly—its movements smooth, menacing despite its bulk. Maxim flicked the safety off his rifle, fingers resting on a grenade. The group stood still, watching.
The Titan roared again but didn’t move, as if sizing them up.
— Relentless bastard, — Nikita muttered, gripping his weapon.
— Maybe this is its lair, — a Stalker said, wiping sweat from his brow. — We need to go. Now.
— Already lost two, — another added, voice trembling with bitterness. — Linger here, and we’re all done.
Maxim glanced at the Titan. The Fort was close—too late to retreat.
They backed away slowly, keeping their eyes on it. The Titan lingered, let out a low, guttural sound, then melted into the darkness, as if losing interest.
The Stalkers passed a ruined communications college—once the district’s pride, now a skeleton with hollow window sockets and sagging walls. Maxim peered at it through the gloom and shook his head—ghosts of the past lurked everywhere, but there was no time to stop. Night wrapped the Wasteland in a cold gray haze, each step crunching glass under their boots.
Soon, the Fort loomed ahead—a ten-story behemoth rising from Pechersk’s ruins like a living monolith. Its walls, patched with jagged steel sheets, glinted under faint moonlight, while five barricaded entrances hummed with mechanical gates. Spotlights from the upper floors sliced the darkness with sharp beams, illuminating Paladins in armor standing watch. Inside, the inner yard—once a kindergarten with swings—pulsed with life: fires crackled, casting shadows on the headquarters, armory, and workshops where welding hissed and machinery rumbled. The Fort’s night life never slept—Stalkers dragged trophy-laden sacks from raids, Paladins patrolled the perimeter, and snippets of talk, laughter, and curses over moonshine mugs drifted from corners.
Maxim knew this place to his core—he hadn’t just lived here; he’d built it from nothing alongside Arsen. In the early days after the Great Explosion, when the Wasteland was just ash and screams, they’d found this complex—an abandoned square well with sturdy walls. Together, they hauled concrete slabs to seal the entrances, welded metal for the walls, and stood on the roof, scanning for the first threats. The Fort was their blood—a sanctuary clawed from chaos, transformed step by step into a bastion of strength. Now it was more than a base: a noisy anthill where Paladins trained rookies, scavengers bartered mutant meat, and murky water was pulled from courtyard wells, boiled over flames.
He stepped through the main gates, which parted with a metallic groan. A Paladin on duty gave a short nod—a wordless greeting. In the yard, a scrawny Stalker in a tattered cloak dragged a crate of ammo, muttering curses, while clanging echoed from the workshop—someone shaping a new firing slit. Maxim took in the familiar chaos: the smell of welding mingled with campfire smoke, voices buzzed like a swarm, and above the headquarters, Arsen’s voice barked orders from the second floor. Tension eased, but not fully—the Titan, that unknown monster, lingered in his mind, a reminder that even here, safety was fragile.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment on the second floor—a den he’d carved out of the Fort’s walls. Inside was his order: faded posters of old-world cars and landscapes hung on the walls, shelves held books and trophies—mutant claws, weapon fragments. Here, unseen, he let himself be human—ordinary, weary, with weakness in his bones and a longing to rest. Maxim tossed his gear into a corner, where it thudded against the floor, and pulled the notebook from his pocket—worn, still damp from the river, but intact. The ink had bled, but words peeked through the smudges. He dropped it on the table with a dull thump and sank onto the couch, exhaling heavily. Shoulders slumped, hands rested on his knees—a moment when the steel in his soul melted, exposing exhaustion.
The day replayed in his head: Artem, the losses, the Titan. His childhood school had become a grave, but there was no regret—the Wasteland had long beaten attachment out of him. He set the rifle beside him, safety off, slid a pistol under the pillow—a ritual etched by years. From his pocket, he pulled his mother’s photo, her smile glinting in the dim light. A crooked smile tugged at his lips, and he tucked it away.
— Sometimes I miss you, Mom, — he whispered, closing his eyes as the Fort’s hum lulled him toward sleep.