《The VOID》 Prologue In 2014, when I was fifteen, everything started going to hell. A neighboring country decided it had the right to take what was ours and invaded. The war began¡ªfirst quiet, then loud¡ªand that was the first stone that triggered the avalanche. I heard on the radio about China chasing ships in some sea, about Iran and Saudi Arabia launching missiles at each other, about Africa fighting over water. Everyone thought America or China had it under control, that they¡¯d sort it out somehow. Yeah, right. Two years later, when it became clear no one was going to stop, people finally lost their minds and started throwing nukes. They destroyed everything they had without even thinking about what would be left. Those who didn¡¯t burn wandered through the ruins, searching for anything¡ªa piece of bread, a corner where the wind wouldn¡¯t cut through. In my city, survivors started banding together, barricading themselves with debris. Everything beyond those broken walls became known as the Void. My story began on the night when it all turned to ash¡ªwe call it the Great Explosion. Late 2016. I was at home, on the Left Bank of Kyiv, sleeping in my room when the house suddenly shook. The first missile hit somewhere in the industrial zone nearby. The lights went out, the windows rattled, and a red glow flashed outside. I jumped out of bed and heard my mother scream¡ª"Maksym!"¡ªbut we never made it to the basement. The second explosion, closer to the city center, finished the job¡ªthe ceiling collapsed, burying me in debris. I crawled out, coughing on dust, but she didn¡¯t. I found her under a slab¡ªcold, breathless. My chest clenched¡ªI wanted to scream, to tear that damned slab apart, but I couldn¡¯t. Just dust in my mouth and trembling hands. I dug a grave in the yard with a piece of rebar¡ªthe ground was frozen, my fingers bled, but I had to. Back then, I didn¡¯t know that the cold in my chest would stay forever. My father, a soldier, had disappeared long before that¡ªmaybe he died, maybe he was hiding somewhere, I don¡¯t know. When the dust settled, I looked around¡ªnothing but ruins, and that cold fear settled deep inside me. The first days passed in a haze. The radio buzzed for a while¡ªbroadcasters screaming about nuclear strikes, telling people to hide in basements. Then silence. Bits of news trickled in: Washington barking, China sinking ships, London burning. And then¡ªnothing. The air became heavy, reeking of smoke and something acrid¡ªI didn¡¯t know then that it was radiation eating through lungs. Those who went outside came back with red eyes, or didn¡¯t come back at all. I stayed in the entrance hall with my neighbors¡ªsilent, terrified. We passed around a bottle of water from the kitchen. No food¡ªit was all buried. I lasted five days there, listening to the rumbling above and the screams. My father never showed up, and I realized¡ªwaiting was pointless. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. The city became a grave. Khreshchatyk¡ªashes, Podil¡ªa swamp, bridges across the Dnipro¡ªsome intact, some full of holes. I climbed out, clutching that piece of rebar¡ªthere was nothing else left. For months, I wandered the Left Bank, learning to survive. Breaking doors with bricks, searching for canned food, collecting rainwater in bottles, hiding from the dust in basements. I saw people beating each other to death for a can of stew, abandoning their own for a sip of water. Once, a gang of kids attacked me¡ªthin, angry, with knives and bats. I swung my iron, hit one in the neck¡ªhe gurgled and dropped. The others ran. That was the moment I understood: it¡¯s either you or them. A coldness settled inside me¡ªnot rage, but something hard as stone. Two years passed before things became quieter¡ªnot because they got better, but because half the people had died. The ones who remained formed packs. In the city center, on the ruins of Khreshchatyk, the Citadel rose¡ªa fortress of concrete and steel, ruled by Kolt, a giant with a scar across half his face. Then came the Paladins¡ªformer soldiers who banded together under Arsen, a former officer. They patrolled the ruins, handed out water, protected the weak. I saw them from a distance but stayed alone¡ªtrust was a luxury I couldn¡¯t afford. Then, one day, when I was scavenging near a wrecked store, he noticed me. Thin, exhausted, but with fire in my eyes¡ªthat¡¯s what he said. "Come with us if you want to survive." I hesitated but followed. He took me in, became the father I never had¡ªtaught me how to hold a weapon, read tracks, stand my ground in a fight. Everything I know now, I learned from him. With Arsen, I wasn¡¯t just a lone wanderer anymore, though I never called it home. The Void was changing. Six months in, rumors spread about mutants¡ªshadows with red eyes, howling in the dead of night. I saw claw marks in the metro, heard screams. Radiation twisted dogs, people¡ªanything that didn¡¯t burn. A year later, the first Freaks appeared¡ªdeformed, blank-eyed, terrifying. The Citadel drove them to the Left Bank, where they became Raiders¡ªa wild, brutal pack. Their leader had a clawed hand, and they started hunting Stalkers, taking everything. My old home, the Left Bank, became theirs¡ªa place normal people didn¡¯t go. Then, after a few more years, people started whispering about Chimeras¡ªStalkers spoke of those who didn¡¯t just mutate, but got stronger. One could set wreckage ablaze with a touch, another could punch through walls. I scoffed at these stories, but they spread. The Mother¡¯s Cult¡ªa group of fanatics who believed the nuclear war was God¡¯s punishment¡ªclaimed these were the "chosen ones," meant to lead others through hell. The Paladins dismissed it as myths. But the Void was no longer just ruins¡ªit was something more, something where humanity was fading. I learned to survive in it, but I knew¡ªtrust was still a privilege I couldn¡¯t afford. The past is a shadow breathing down my neck, but I don¡¯t look back. Survival is the only thing that matters. [End of recording] Chapter 1 – The First Mission (1) 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¡ªthe 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¡ªhis 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. ¡ª Hey, Maksym, are you okay? I called you, ¡ª Artem¡¯s voice trembled with tension. ¡ª Come on, we need to check a few more apartments. Maksym closed the journal and stood up, glancing at the rookie. ¡ª Alright, kid, ¡ª Maksym muttered. ¡ª But keep your eyes open. This isn''t a place for daydreaming. Artem gave an awkward smile. ¡ª I want to learn. You¡¯re my mentor, right? ¡ª Mentor¡­ ¡ª Maksym repeated with a crooked grin. ¡ª Not a babysitter, Artem. If you want to be a Stalker¡ªforget them. Artem nodded, but there was a spark in his eyes¡ªa foolish hope Maksym had seen in many newcomers. And they all ended up in the dust. ¡ª Let¡¯s go, ¡ª he added, moving forward. ¡ª 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¡ªfresh, dragging downward. Ahead, a door loomed, covered in deep gouges, as if something had tried to break free. Maksym¡¯s heart pounded¡ªhe 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¡ªa toppled chair with a broken leg. Shattered plates crunched underfoot, and on the wall, a cobweb-covered bracket swayed¡ªthe TV itself lay below, screen shattered. Maksym walked slowly across the room¡ªit was almost as he remembered. Reaching a chipped wooden cabinet, he opened it and pulled out an amulet¡ªa lightning bolt within a circle, inscribed with strange symbols. ¡ª What¡¯s that? ¡ª Artem peeked over his shoulder, holding an old compass he had just picked up from the floor. ¡ª My Past, ¡ªMaksym 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. ¡ª This? ¡ª Artem asked. ¡ª My mother, ¡ª 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¡ªclogged 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¡ªa 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. ¡ª Beautiful, isn¡¯t it? ¡ª Artem stepped beside him. ¡ª People used to live here¡­ ¡ª Beautiful? ¡ª Maksym repeated with a bitter smile. ¡ª This is a grave. And we are the ghosts wandering through it. Artem hesitated but didn¡¯t back down. ¡ª But¡­ there¡¯s still something beautiful about it, ¡ª he said, gazing into the distance. ¡ª This silence, this¡­ vastness. I mean¡­ there¡¯s something¡­ grand about it. ¡ª Grand? ¡ª Maksym scoffed. ¡ª 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. ¡ª 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¡ªhungry 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. ¡ª 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. ¡ª I remember, ¡ª Maksym finally said. His voice was steady, but there was a bone-chilling coldness in it. ¡ª 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: ¡ª But¡­ can¡¯t we rebuild? Start over? Maksym scoffed. ¡ª You really think it¡¯s that¡­ hopeless? ¡ª 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¡­ ¡ª he nodded toward the Strays below. ¡ª Or do you think they dream of a better future too? Artem followed his gaze, swallowing the lump in his throat. ¡ª You really think it¡¯s that hopeless? Maksym smiled¡ªdryly, barely noticeably. ¡ª Hope is a nice story people tell themselves so they don¡¯t break. ¡ª But what if it¡¯s real? ¡ª Then it kills you even faster. Artem sighed. ¡ª You act like you¡¯re already dead. Maksym looked at him again. ¡ª Maybe I am. Artem averted his gaze. ¡ª So what? Just accept that everything is lost? Maksym exhaled. ¡ª Not everything. But if you want to live¡ªbe ready to pay the price. Artem stared at the floor, processing his words. ¡ª It¡¯s hard to accept, ¡ª he admitted. ¡ª But I¡¯m glad you¡¯re my mentor. Maybe together we¡¯ll find a way through this chaos. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there. Maksym glanced at him¡ªthe 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. ¡ª What was that? ¡ª Artem whispered, his voice trembling. ¡ª I Don¡¯t Know, ¡ª Maksym §Ñnswered. He listened closely. The sounds were getting closer¡ªrustling, creaking. ¡ª What if it¡¯s a Stray? ¡ª Artem paled, gripping his weapon tighter. ¡ª Then shoot, rookie, ¡ª Maksym muttered dryly. ¡ª Unless you want me to carry your body back on my shoulders. Artem swallowed hard, clutching his rifle. Maksym raised his shotgun, listening. ¡ª Stay quiet, ¡ª he ordered. A Stray leapt out from the darkness¡ªits thin, glistening skin stretched over sinewy limbs, its rat-like tail twitching. Red eyes locked onto them. ¡ª Shoot, rookie, ¡ª he commanded in a hushed tone. Artem fired, but his hands trembled¡ªthe bullets hit the wall instead. The Stray howled and bolted, knocking debris aside as it fled. ¡ª Damn! ¡ª Artem cursed. ¡ª It saw us! ¡ª And it was more scared than you were, ¡ª Maksym grumbled, lowering his gun. ¡ª 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. ¡ª We¡¯re in Raider territory, ¡ª Maksym said, scanning the ruins. ¡ª 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. ¡ª Stay close, ¡ª 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¡ªmoving as if sneaking closer. ¡ª Do you see something? ¡ª Artem asked tensely. ¡ª I think we¡¯re not alone, ¡ª Maksym replied. ¡ª 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¡ªelusive shadows of Kyiv¡¯s Left Bank Void. They knew these ruins better than anyone. People had seen them taming monsters¡ªStrays, even Flyers¡ªas 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. ¡ª Stop, ¡ª he whispered. He slowly crouched behind a pile of broken bricks, pulling Artem down with him. ¡ª Look. Artem wiped his sweaty forehead and tensed. A silhouette flickered in the dark window again. ¡ª Damn¡­ ¡ª he exhaled quietly. Maksym tightened his grip on the shotgun. ¡ª 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. ¡ª What do we do? ¡ª Artem whispered, his voice trembling. He pressed against the pile of bricks, clutching his rifle so tightly his knuckles turned white. ¡ª Stay quiet, rookie, ¡ª Maksym muttered, scanning the street. ¡ª 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. ¡ª 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¡ªthe creak of concrete, the whisper of wind¡ªsounded louder than gunfire. Maksym could hear Artem breathing behind him¡ªfast, shallow, like a cornered animal. He glanced back: the rookie was holding up, but his hands were shaking. ¡ª Maksym, ¡ª Artem whispered. ¡ª What if they¡¯ve already surrounded us? ¡ª Then shoot straight, kid, ¡ª Maksym snapped. ¡ª Because I¡¯m not dragging your corpse across that bridge. Suddenly, a figure emerged from the corner¡ªa 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. ¡ª Did you see that? ¡ª Artem gasped, his voice breaking. ¡ª I saw it, ¡ª Maksym gritted his teeth. ¡ª And that¡¯s just the beginning. Run! They bolted forward, boots pounding against the cracked pavement. The bridge loomed ahead¡ªa 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¡ªsilent phantoms of the Void, closing in on their prey. ¡ª They¡¯re everywhere! ¡ª Artem stumbled, but Maksym grabbed him by the shoulder and yanked him forward. ¡ª Keep your rifle ready, rookie! How many rounds? ¡ª Three mags, ¡ª Artem choked out, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. ¡ª Safety off, ¡ª Maksym ordered. ¡ª 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¡ªhis 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¡ªtoo 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. ¡ª Get up, kid! ¡ª Maxim barked, running over. Artem stood, coughing, but instead of fleeing, he paused over the body. ¡ª What are you doing? ¡ª Maxim shouted, keeping his pistol at the ready. ¡ª I want to know who they are, ¡ª 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¡ªa 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¡ªthe 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¡ªno pulse. "Fool," he thought, but his throat tightened with something else. Glancing around, he noticed movement: shadows emerged from behind rusted cars¡ªfive 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¡ªtwenty meters. He yanked out his shotgun and opened fire, the buckshot roaring toward the nearest one. But instead of falling, the figure only staggered¡ªbullets sank into its tunic like it was armor, and the red gaze beneath the mask sharpened. "What the hell?"¡ªMaxim 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¡ªsomething whistled and struck the concrete. Maxim glanced back: a grenade, thrown by one of the Raiders, rolled across the bridge, bouncing on the cracks. ¡ª Fuck! ¡ª 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¡ªthe 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: ¡ª 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. Chapter 1 – The First Mission (2) 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¡ªa 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¡ªlikely from catching on something sharp during the fall. He patted his pocket¡ªthe 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¡ªeither 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¡ªa low, guttural moan that shattered the silence. Maxim froze, his hand instinctively reaching for his belt, but the pistol was gone¡ªlost 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¡ªa 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¡ªnowhere 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¡ªa 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¡ªsurvive. 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¡ªamid 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¡ªthe voices of the Wasteland¡¯s creatures. A Flyer¡¯s cry echoed in the sky¡ªa 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¡ªhis 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¡ªjust another pupil who¡¯d paid for his foolishness. Each death only sharpened his instincts. ¡ª I want to know what¡¯s under the mask, ¡ª he quoted Artem, scoffing. ¡ª 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¡ªdull 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¡ªdull, 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¡ªonce 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¡ªsomething 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¡ªStalkers. Among them stood out Nikita, callsign Solidol¡ªa 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¡ªan 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. ¡ª Stay sharp, ¡ª Solidol said quietly, listening. ¡ª Those bastards are close. Maxim saw the tension grip the group¡ªhands 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¡ªweapons snapped toward him instantly. Maxim raised a hand, stepping out of the shadows. ¡ª Solidol, it¡¯s me, ¡ª he said softly. The barrels lowered; Nikita recognized his voice. ¡ª Maxim? Damn, where¡¯d you come from? ¡ª Took a swim in the river, ¡ª Maxim muttered. ¡ª Ran into a firefight with Raiders. The rookie didn¡¯t make it, gear¡¯s floating somewhere. ¡ª He lifted his hand, showing the dull knife. ¡ª This is all I¡¯ve got left. Solidol snorted, shaking his head. ¡ª As always. ¡ª Don¡¯t even start, ¡ª Maxim snapped coldly, lowering his gaze. His attention was abruptly drawn to sounds outside¡ªpiercing 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. ¡ª We need to go, ¡ª he said, keeping his calm. ¡ª It¡¯s not safe here. Nikita nodded and turned to the group. ¡ª Fall in! Move it! ¡ª 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¡ªdanger 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. ¡ª Damn it! ¡ª one of the Stalkers muttered, gripping his rifle. ¡ª They¡¯re right here! ¡ª Take cover! ¡ª 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¡ªfighting 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¡ªthe pack moved fast and coordinated. Maxim knew: this was a game of survival. ¡ª We can¡¯t just sit here, ¡ª he whispered to Nikita, crouched beside him. ¡ª They¡¯ll sniff us out. ¡ª Agreed, ¡ª Solidol replied. ¡ª But where to? ¡ª Give me a weapon, ¡ª 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. ¡ª Now where? ¡ª Nikita asked, straining to hear the nearing sounds. ¡ª The bridge, ¡ª Maxim replied, nodding ahead. ¡ª 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¡ªits concrete cracked underfoot, rusted rebar jutting from the edges. Crossing it, they reached the far end, where a dark tunnel mouth loomed before them¡ªa 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¡ªsouls 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¡ªno 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. ¡ª We¡¯ll go around, ¡ª he said quietly to Solidol, tearing his gaze from the tunnel. ¡ª Over the hill. The group veered aside and began climbing the slope. Every step was cautious, muffled¡ªnoise 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¡ªonce a haven for survivors, now just dead walls. Maxim paused to assess the situation. The sounds from the forest¡ªmoans and rustling¡ªserved as a reminder of the pack¡¯s proximity. Up here, it was safer than below, but the calm was deceptive. ¡ª Quick, follow me, ¡ª 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¡ªdilapidated, 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¡ªonce 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¡ªhis 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¡ªjust another dot on the map. He gestured toward the building¡ªhalf-collapsed but suitable for cover. ¡ª We¡¯ll rest here, ¡ª he said quietly, keeping his voice steady. ¡ª 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¡ªfriends¡¯ laughter, the bustle of hallways. But it quickly dissolved into the cold emptiness of the present. ¡ª Irony of fate, ¡ª he muttered under his breath. The school where he¡¯d studied had become just another refuge¡ªnothing more. The group settled among the debris, unpacking bags and pulling out food. Maxim stood by a window, peering into the shadowed streets¡ªeach one could conceal danger. Here, amid the familiar, a faint hint of peace flickered, but he knew it was only a pause. ¡ª Maxim, want some? ¡ª 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¡ªas if the Wasteland had decided to remind him of a past he¡¯d long buried. ¡ª Some tour, ¡ª he said, glancing at the ruined walls. ¡ª Visited home, now sleeping at school. Full itinerary. His voice was bitter and firm¡ªnostalgia couldn¡¯t pierce his cynical mask. Memories remained a shadow he dismissed with a single thought. ¡ª Hope that¡¯s the end of the excursion, ¡ª he added, shifting his gaze to the Stalkers with a cold smirk. ¡ª Hey, Max, ¡ª Nikita nodded toward the broken door leading to the corridor, ¡ª let¡¯s check what¡¯s in there? Might find something useful. ¡ª Seriously? ¡ª Maxim shot him a narrow-eyed glance. ¡ª We¡¯re already lagging, and after all these years, there¡¯d be nothing left here but dust and bones. ¡ª Come on, ¡ª Solidol snorted, ¡ª 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¡ªwaste of time, but fine. Stepping after them, he felt the cold of the concrete seep through his soles. The corridor stretched ahead¡ªdark, with cracks snaking along the walls where paint hung in tatters. First step¡ªthe 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¡ªonce 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¡ªpast 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¡ªand 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¡ªrough wood, where "M+V" was scratched inside a heart. He traced a finger over the carving and murmured, barely audible: ¡ª 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¡ªher braids, her voice, that day he¡¯d scratched those words. The memory was warm, alive, but cut short¡ªtime had erased the rest. He approached the teacher¡¯s desk, brushing the cracked surface¡ªhere, he¡¯d cheated on tests. Then he stood before the chalkboard, where he¡¯d doodled nonsense. Something stirred in his chest¡ªnostalgia, 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¡ªquiet but distinct, like claws dragging across concrete. Something was coming. The door flew off its hinges with a crash¡ªthe 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¡ªhulking, 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¡ªa sound that slammed into the walls, sending dust cascading from above. Maxim wiped blood from his split lip, spat, and muttered: ¡ª 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¡ªthis 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: ¡ª Monster! ¡ª What the?, ¡ª 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¡ªbones 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¡ªfive 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¡ªa 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¡ªits 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¡ªthe thing was still alive. ¡ª What the hell was that? ¡ª a Stalker yelled, eyes wild with fear and adrenaline. Maxim spat blood and muttered: ¡ª A gift from the Wasteland. ¡ª Don¡¯t know what it was, but bullets barely scratched it, ¡ª Nikita said grimly, keeping his voice steady. ¡ª Like armor. ¡ª Let¡¯s call it a Titan, ¡ª Maxim snorted, gripping a grenade. ¡ª Never seen anything like it in the Wasteland. Alright, group, we need to move before it comes back. ¡ª Agreed, ¡ª Solidol nodded, surveying the wrecked gym. ¡ª 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¡ªthe 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¡ªa 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. ¡ª Titan, ¡ª 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¡ªits 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. ¡ª Relentless bastard, ¡ª Nikita muttered, gripping his weapon. ¡ª Maybe this is its lair, ¡ª a Stalker said, wiping sweat from his brow. ¡ª We need to go. Now. ¡ª Already lost two, ¡ª another added, voice trembling with bitterness. ¡ª Linger here, and we¡¯re all done. Maxim glanced at the Titan. The Fort was close¡ªtoo 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¡ªonce 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¡ªghosts 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¡ªa 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¡ªonce a kindergarten with swings¡ªpulsed 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¡ªStalkers 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¡ªhe 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¡ªan 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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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¡ªsomeone 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¡ªthe 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¡ªa 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¡ªmutant claws, weapon fragments. Here, unseen, he let himself be human¡ªordinary, 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¡ªworn, 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¡ªa 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¡ªthe Wasteland had long beaten attachment out of him. He set the rifle beside him, safety off, slid a pistol under the pillow¡ªa 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. ¡ª Sometimes I miss you, Mom, ¡ª he whispered, closing his eyes as the Fort¡¯s hum lulled him toward sleep. Chapter 2 – Call for Help (1) ¡° ¡° ¡° The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation. Chapter 2 – Call for Help (2) If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Chapter 3 – Flyer (1)
Here¡¯s the corrected English translation of "Chapter 3 ¨C Flyer" with dialogues starting with "-" instead of quotation marks, as per your request:
Chapter 3 ¨C Flyer Maxim sat in the cramped hideout of the Fort, checking his gear before heading to the Citadel. Shotgun¡ªsix shells in the barrel, ten more in his jacket pocket. Knife¡ªsharp, though worn by time. Backpack¡ªwater flask, a can of stew, rope. After the bloody massacre in Bilshovyk, he took only essentials, but this time his stomach clenched with foreboding: it wasn¡¯t enough. No details, just an order. Maxim grimaced¡ªhe hated being thrown into the dark like a rat in the metro. After the slaughter at the mall, the feeling only grew: something rotten was brewing in the Wasteland. He pulled a yellowed photo from his pocket¡ªhis mother, smiling, an amulet around her neck. Her warm eyes gazed from a past long gone. A cold pang of regret gripped his chest, but he clenched his teeth¡ªguilt for that day, the explosion, her hand under the slab, wouldn¡¯t let go. He tucked the photo into a battered journal and tossed it onto the shelf. Notes could wait¡ªhe had no intention of losing anyone else. The door creaked, and Arsen stepped in, his boots thudding against the concrete. Maxim didn¡¯t look up, still checking the shotgun¡¯s bolt. ¡ª Ready? ¡ª Arsen asked, leaning against the frame. His cheek twitched slightly¡ªan old habit before a run. ¡ª As always, ¡ª Maxim snorted, clicking the bolt shut. Arsen stepped closer, eyeing the scattered gear. ¡ª They say something weird¡¯s up at the Citadel, ¡ª he began, lowering his voice. ¡ª Urgent call, but no word on why. You don¡¯t like that, do you? Maxim shook his head, lips tightening. ¡ª I hate blind runs. After Bilshovyk, I don¡¯t trust anyone. Too many bodies for one day, and the evening¡¯s still ahead. ¡ª Especially when they throw us in like meat, ¡ª Arsen added, restrained anger seeping into his tone. ¡ª How many times has the Citadel promised an ¡®easy job¡¯? Remember Old Town? ¡®Raiders,¡¯ they said. We barely got out of that mutant pit. ¡ª Yeah, ¡ª Maxim nodded, his eyes narrowing at the memory. ¡ª If this is another trap, I¡¯ll cut their throats. But something tells me after Bilshovyk, they¡¯re not kidding. That wasn¡¯t just a massacre. There was tech. Someone big. Arsen sighed, his face hardening. ¡ª Let¡¯s hope it¡¯s lighter this time. But I¡¯m not repeating old mistakes. Keep your eyes open. ¡ª It won¡¯t be light, ¡ª Maxim cut in. ¡ª Mutants in Old Town were nothing compared to what hit the mall. We¡¯re knee-deep in shit, Arsen. The door creaked again, and Herman burst in, dropping his backpack from his shoulder. His jacket was dusty, his eyes blazing with resolve. ¡ª I¡¯m ready, ¡ª he said, glancing at them. ¡ª You? Maxim and Arsen exchanged looks. Maxim nodded. ¡ª Almost. What do you know about the call? ¡ª he asked, standing. Herman shrugged, but tension laced his voice. ¡ª Not much. Dmytro said they need us because of Bilshovyk. Something happened there, and we¡¯re the only ones who saw that meat grinder. But specifics? Zero. ¡ª Something happened? ¡ª Arsen frowned. ¡ª If the Citadel¡¯s calling us after that, it¡¯s not just trouble. It¡¯s a disaster. ¡ª What disaster! ¡ª Maxim snapped, his voice sharp as a blade. ¡ª We¡¯re the ones who stepped in it! Bilshovyk, blood, Oleh¡­ ¡ª He faltered, glancing at Herman, then quieted. ¡ª You get it. And now the Citadel wants us to clean up their mess? Forget peace, Herman. There¡¯s none in the Wasteland. Herman clenched his fists, his eyes flaring. He stepped closer, voice trembling with suppressed rage. ¡ª Watch it, Maxim. Don¡¯t toss my brother around like some spent shell. And drop that tough-guy mask¡ªthere¡¯s no one here to impress. Maxim exhaled through gritted teeth, looking away. The cold in his chest tightened, but he just nodded. ¡ª Fine, no masks. But the point stands¡ªwe¡¯re screwed, and the Citadel won¡¯t save us. Herman held his gaze, then relaxed his shoulders. ¡ª Maybe. But guessing¡¯s pointless. Hurry up before dark, ¡ª he said, turning to the door. Maxim exhaled, a cold certainty rising in his chest. Whatever awaited at the Citadel, they¡¯d handle it. Together. He slung his backpack over his shoulder and followed. Outside, in the Fort¡¯s courtyard, the pickup¡¯s engine growled¡ªthe same Black Mark that pulled them from Bilshovyk. Rust ate its sides like a plague, its windows long replaced with dull plastic. Nearby hulked the Core¡¯s armored beast¡ªa clumsy rig welded from BTR scraps, its rooftop machine gun sagging under dust. The escort crew¡ªsix men in tattered gear¡ªchewed rations, chatting with locals. Two others fussed with the vehicles: a skinny bald guy tinkered with the pickup¡¯s engine, while a burly one with a neck tattoo cursed at the armored rig, wrestling with a half-dead battery¡¯s cables. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. Maxim approached the pickup, slamming his palm on the hood. The metal clanged dully, kicking up a puff of dust. ¡ª Ready, ¡ª he said, drawing their attention.
The skinny fighter straightened up, wiping his hands on a rag that reeked of kerosene and rot. ¡ª Seems good enough, ¡ª he grumbled, grimacing. ¡ª But the fuel¡¯s total crap. Some tar, not gasoline. Clogs the filter, engine¡¯s coughing. We¡¯ll reach the Citadel, but if we push it, we¡¯ll stall halfway. Maxim leaned toward the tank, inhaling the sharp stench¡ªa mix of diesel and manure. "Good if it doesn¡¯t blow up," he thought, but aloud he only snorted. ¡ª Main thing is it moves. We¡¯ll figure it out from there. Herman was already by Dima, discussing something quietly. The burly fighter near the armored rig tossed the cables to the ground and spat. ¡ª Battery¡¯s dead, ¡ª he shouted to Dima. ¡ª Holds a charge on a prayer. We¡¯ll start it, but if it dies, we¡¯re pushing. Or praying it lasts.
Dima glanced at the sky, where gray clouds thickened like a festering wound. ¡ª We need to hurry, ¡ª he muttered, eyeing the sky. ¡ª Clouds are darkening, Acid¡¯s close. ¡ª Agreed, ¡ª Herman nodded, looking up. ¡ª If we make it by dark, we¡¯ve got a shot. ¡ª He turned to Maxim. ¡ª What do you say? ¡ª Acid, ¡ª Maxim growled, spitting into the dust. ¡ª Hate this weather. But standing here waiting to melt isn¡¯t an option. Let¡¯s move while these wrecks still breathe. He jumped into the pickup, tossing his backpack onto the back seat. The engine roared, coughing hoarsely like an old smoker. The skinny fighter¡ªSashko, maybe¡ªslid behind the wheel, muttering about "last time I fixed this junk." The armored rig hummed to life next, the burly guy¡ªprobably Grysha¡ªclimbing in and slamming the door so hard rust sprinkled to the ground. The rest of the crew¡ªfour in the pickup, two in the rig¡ªloaded up, their rough voices bouncing around. A young redhead gave Maxim a curious glance, clutching his rifle with shaky hands. "Won¡¯t last long," Maxim thought. The Wasteland ate those types fast. Acid¡ªacid rain¡ªwas one of the Wasteland¡¯s gifts, a reminder that no one was safe. Hissing drops that burned through skin didn¡¯t come often, but always at the worst time. Even Flyers, with their thick hides, hid from it. For Stalkers, it meant one thing: run or burn alive. Maxim eyed the pickup¡ªrusted, barely holding together, but it was all they had. Eight years after the Blast left no room for new parts. Everything that moved in the Wasteland ran on spit and Stalker stubbornness. Some Stalkers didn¡¯t make it to cover in time. Their screams¡ªsharp, inhuman¡ªechoed long in the survivors¡¯ minds. Drops ate skin, burned eyes to bone, left nothing but a wet stain and rags. Maxim had seen it once¡ªa kid from the Core, green as Artem, curled under a plank, howling until his voice broke. Not even an enemy deserved that end. He¡¯d nearly burned under Acid himself. First run, still a kid¡ªAcid caught him on an open street. He¡¯d barely crawled under a rusted car, listening to drops hiss on metal as the stench of scorched paint choked him. Back then, he¡¯d trembled, face in the dirt, thinking it was over. Now, Maxim was different¡ªhardened, cold, with scars that reminded him: in the Wasteland, you survive, not live. ¡ª Alright, let¡¯s go, ¡ª he said, glancing at Dima, and headed to the pickup. The pickup growled, coughing harshly as Sashko turned the key. Tires scraped the broken asphalt, weaving past car wrecks and scrap barricades. The Core¡¯s armored rig trailed behind¡ªits engine rumbled unevenly but held. The pickup creaked and jolted¡ªthe engine misfired, choking on the tar they called fuel. Sashko gripped the wheel, muttering curses as the rig lurched again and again. ¡ª What a piece of shit, ¡ª he grumbled, glancing at Maxim. ¡ª Filter¡¯s clogging, you can hear it. We¡¯ll make it, but don¡¯t push. ¡ª Won¡¯t push, ¡ª Maxim snapped, resting the shotgun on his knees. ¡ª Just don¡¯t die mid-road.
A grim landscape slid past the window: crumbling high-rises sinking into the earth, piles of rubble and rust where streets once buzzed. The stench of soot and dust seeped through the cabin¡¯s cracks, mingling with the chill from the broken glass. In the pickup¡¯s bed, four fighters huddled together. Redheaded Ihor nervously jerked his rifle¡¯s bolt, eyes darting from the road to the sky. In the armored rig, there were two: Grysha at the wheel and another with a machine gun poking from the hatch. Maxim glanced aside¡ªthe rig kept pace, though Grysha said its battery was on its last breath. "We destroyed ourselves," the thought flickered. Humanity invented weapons, wars, then buckled under its own madness. Now this remained¡ªruins and a fight for each day, where hope flickered out like a flame in the wind. Dark clouds gathered overhead, heralding Acid. Silence reigned in the pickup¡¯s cabin, broken only by the engine¡¯s cough and the wheels¡¯ scrape on stone. Sashko pounded the wheel whenever the misfires worsened. ¡ª We¡¯re a plague, ¡ª Maxim muttered quietly, staring out the window. ¡ª What? ¡ª Herman turned, frowning. ¡ª People, ¡ª Maxim clarified, eyes fixed on the landscape. ¡ª Burned it all down ourselves. Made weapons, conditions, and now we¡¯re stuck in this shit. Arsen snorted from the back seat, his smile crooked. ¡ª Look at you, getting deep, ¡ª he tossed out. ¡ª Since when are you a philosopher? ¡ª Always thought it, ¡ª Maxim snapped, glancing at him. ¡ª Just don¡¯t yap about it to everyone. ¡ª Well, damn, ¡ª Arsen nudged his shoulder lightly, irony mixing with warmth in his voice. ¡ª Steel Stalker with a human underneath. Who¡¯d have guessed? ¡ª One more word, and you¡¯ll catch a fist, ¡ª Maxim grinned, shoving him back. Their rough, brief jokes had held them together through years of survival. But behind the words lay something heavy. Lately, thoughts of the world¡ªits collapse, its cruelty¡ªclawed at Maxim harder. Maybe Bilshovyk stirred something inside. Maybe Oleh, bleeding out on the mall floor. He shook his head, chasing off the memories. The pickup jolted hard, the engine growling and nearly stalling. Sashko cursed, slamming the gas. ¡ª What the hell! ¡ª he barked. ¡ª This tar¡¯s gonna kill us! ¡ª Easy, ¡ª Herman said, scanning the sky. The clouds darkened, the wind carrying the scent of acid. ¡ª Acid¡¯s close. We need to move before it hits. The armored rig stayed behind, its gunner shouting something to Grysha. Maxim eyed the crew: six plus their four. Ten souls against the Wasteland. Something told him not all would reach the Citadel. The pickup rolled on, engine rumbling low as Sashko kept it at a crawl to spare the filter from the tank¡¯s tar. Tires scraped faintly over rubble; the Core¡¯s rig trailed, its hum blending with the wind. They¡¯d gone a couple kilometers, passing wrecks and debris, when Herman raised a hand sharply. ¡ª Stop, ¡ª he said quietly, leaning out the window. Sashko eased to a halt, the pickup settling with a soft creak of springs. The rig stopped beside them, Grysha cutting the engine to kill the noise. Maxim pressed against the cracked plastic window, but all he saw was a gray stretch of road. ¡ª What¡¯s there? ¡ª he grunted, gripping his shotgun. ¡ª Flyers, ¡ª Dima replied, peering from his side. His voice dropped to a near-whisper. ¡ª Three. Eating something right on the path. Maxim leaned out of the cabin, glancing ahead. Three massive hulks hunched over a pile of meat¡ªbones crunched in their jaws, wings twitching as they tore at flesh. One, the biggest, with a jagged scar on its snout, gnawed greedily. A rustle came from afar¡ªtwo more Flyers, smaller but with long claws, crept toward the feast, circling the debris. A whistle cut the sky¡ªa dark shadow flashed over the pickup and rig, making Ihor duck in the bed. A sixth Flyer, lean and battered, landed twenty meters off, folding its wings and sniffing the air. ¡ª A whole damn brood, ¡ª Sashko muttered, clutching the wheel until his knuckles whitened.