It seemed I wasn't the only one struggling to pull myself together. Even those with military training were having a hard time processing what had happened, their tense gazes fixed on the dead bodies.
"Move in pairs. Sweep the entire store. Prioritize long-lasting food, especially canned goods," Vitaly finally said.
"Vadim, you're with me," he added, heading toward the exit of the storage room.
Before leaving, I checked my pistol. I ejected the magazine and saw that only a few rounds remained. Quickly swapping it for a fresh one, I caught up with Vitaly.
"You holding up?" he asked without turning around.
"Yeah, I think so," I replied, trying to sound confident.
"Good. Keep an eye on your field of vision, don't leave blind spots. If you see anything, you call it out immediately. The faster we react, the better our chances of avoiding casualties," he ordered firmly.
"Got it," I answered shortly.
We approached Matvey's lifeless body.
"Here, keep watch," Vitaly said, handing me an assault rifle.
I examined the weapon and noticed the safety was already off. It was an AK-47 far more serious firepower than my pistol. Reliable. Lethal. Not much could compare to it.
Removing his protective gear, Vitaly carefully inspected Sergey's body.
"He died from radiation poisoning. The bite introduced a lethal dose into his system. Before he could bleed out, his heart stopped, and his organs shut down," he said, studying the wounds. The edges had already begun blackening, the flesh deteriorating rapidly. "This is what extreme radiation exposure does."
Now we knew the danger didn't just come from mutants themselves, but from their radioactive contamination. A standard suit wouldn't save you if one of them got close enough to bite. That was a guaranteed death sentence.
"We can't take him with us. He's too irradiated. We'll bring some gasoline, douse the body, and burn it. We can't just leave him to rot, but we don't have time to bury him either," Vitaly stated calmly as he got to work. He stripped anything useful from the corpse, leaving only the clothes. "Gather his things. We can't leave them here."
Avoiding Matvey's lifeless face, I quickly collected everything I could. It felt wrong like looting a fallen comrade but the rules of the apocalypse left no room for sentiment.
"Sorry…" I muttered. It didn't change anything, but somehow, I needed to say it.
With that done, we refocused on our primary task. After searching the entire storage area, we gathered a few cans of food. Most of the supplies were heavily irradiated. Amid the debris, I spotted a small notebook. Flipping through it, I found dates and notes I decided to take it with me.
Grabbing a few food samples for further testing back in the Metro, we set off.
Now, every rustle, every faint sound, felt like impending death. My heartbeat would slow, then suddenly hammer in my chest. The road ahead seemed to blur into a haze.
By the time we reached the station, another group was already waiting for us. They had water and decontamination supplies ready. Once we'd been thoroughly cleansed, they separated us, sending us to different rooms to sit in isolation.
After a while, the door creaked open, and an investigator stepped inside. They questioned me for what felt like an hour, maybe longer. Eventually, they let me go, handing me a small ration pack. It wasn't until deep into the night that I finally returned to my station.
I was met with a warm greeting from Pyotr Nikolaevich. Over a brief conversation and a modest meal, I could barely keep my eyes open.
Once I made it to my room, I pulled the notebook I'd found from my pocket.
Diary entry
July 6, 2013
"When the explosion happened, I was working in a small basement storage room. At first, I didn't even realize what had occurred. I thought maybe a gas pipe had burst or something similar. But the sound… it was different unbelievably powerful, shaking the very ground beneath me. It was a nuclear explosion.
The only reason we survived was the store's location the basement shielded us, saving our lives. That's what kept us alive. Even now, I still don't understand how we made it through."
The diary belonged to one of the survivors of the catastrophe. What followed was a story steeped in despair. After the explosion, a group of people found themselves trapped in the basement. Realizing they couldn't escape, they barricaded the door, hoping to keep as much radiation out as possible.
Everyone who had been in the store at that moment was cut off from the outside world. At first, they kept their spirits up, convinced that rescuers would come soon. But there was no one left to save them.
Without medicine and proper protection from radiation, their health began to deteriorate. One by one, radiation sickness claimed them. A few, overcome with desperation, ventured outside and were never seen again. Most likely, without protective suits, they didn't make it far before succumbing to the wasteland.
Their food supplies lasted about two months. In the end, only one person remained the author of the diary. The last survivor tried to hold onto his sanity, writing everything down in this journal, clinging to hope.
He began noticing strange changes in the irradiated bodies. With each passing day, horrifying transformations took place. The metamorphoses he described seemed impossible. He didn't understand what was happening, but he kept recording his observations. The last entry was dated August 2013. After that nothing.
Most likely, if the author didn't die from radiation sickness, he was killed by those who had once been his companions but had turned into something monstrous.
The thought left me unsettled. Did that mean there was no life left on the surface? Only death and nightmares?
With a heavy heart, I finally drifted into sleep.
Was fate truly this cruel to us?
Or maybe… maybe all is not lost? Perhaps one day, we will right our wrongs, rebuild what was destroyed. Sweet dreams, so distant and fragile… That's what makes them beautiful they bring a glimmer of hope into the bleakness of reality.
******************************************
Not long after I returned to the station, word of what had happened on the surface spread like wildfire. People began approaching me, desperate for the truth. Every second person asked the same question: "Is there anyone still alive up there?"
Many clung to the hope that their loved ones family and friends who had been left behind had somehow survived. Even when they knew, deep down, that the chances were slim to none, they refused to let go of that last sliver of hope.
Every time I had to explain that no one could have made it, it was agonizing. I saw how their eyes filled with tears, how that fragile spark of hope flickered and died. But lying would have been pointless. Even if someone had survived, they had either perished from radiation or become something inhuman.
The revelation about radiation's effects sent shockwaves through the station. Many refused to believe it. "That's impossible," they said. "Mutated rats, animals fine. But people?!"
Yet reality was merciless.
Over the next six months, we organized expeditions to the surface. Our goal was to salvage anything useful from the ruins no matter how insignificant it seemed. Tools, spare parts, remnants of machinery everything had value.
We began dismantling abandoned vehicles, extracting engines, gears, anything that could help sustain life in the metro. People were desperate to survive, refusing to give in to despair despite the horrors we faced.
Those who ventured to the surface became known as stalkers. While we enjoyed privileges others did not, few envied us. The terrors of the surface were too great. And as time passed, we noticed more and more of the mutated humans appearing as if from nowhere.
By some miracle, we had managed to avoid large packs of these creatures until one of our expeditions nearly ended in disaster. A scouting team stumbled upon an underground parking garage, only to find it infested with mutants. We barely escaped with our lives, marking the area as a death trap on our newly drawn maps.
Yes, we had started mapping the ruins of Moscow identifying landmarks, marking which places were relatively safe and which were best avoided. Special attention was given to tracking large mutant nests and areas of extreme radiation.
Gradually, thanks to our scavenging efforts, the metro stations began to change. What had once been mere shelters transformed into fortified strongholds, complete with defenses, barricades, and even small homes built from salvaged materials. Each station was no longer just surviving it was adapting.
Over time, leaders began to emerge. The most prominent faction was the so-called Reds or, more formally, the Soviets. They were the ones who believed in the ideals of the past, convinced that only their structured order could save us. In times of resource scarcity, their methods seemed the most rational.
At first, everything seemed to be heading in the right direction equality, justice, a shared purpose. On the surface, it was noble. Like many others, I believed in it.
I had ventured to the surface many times with my comrades Vitaly and Semyon were there from the start. Later, two more joined our group: Vladimir and Zakhar.
Vladimir was in his early thirties, while Zakhar was pushing fifty. Despite his age, Zakhar was still remarkably fit, both mentally and physically. The two had been close friends for years, having worked together in a factory before the war. They always had each other's backs, especially in dangerous expeditions.
The deeper we ventured into the ruins, the more we realized the need for places to rest. Exhaustion could be just as deadly as any mutant.
So we began establishing makeshift base camps temporary shelters for future expeditions. These safe zones provided crucial refuge. If a team got into trouble, they had a place to regroup and recover. Near the more dangerous exits to the surface, we stationed well-armed guards, turning those locations into fortified outposts.
The metro was no longer just a refuge. It was becoming a battlefield. A new world was taking shape in the darkness.
Trouble finally caught up with me. Too many trips to the surface. No matter how well we protected ourselves, no matter how many meds we had sooner or later, the consequences came knocking. Two years of endless expeditions.
"You need to stop going topside for a while. The radiation levels in your body have reached a dangerous threshold," the doctor said, finishing his examination.
"I know," I replied, trying to mask my unease.
"Listen, we don't have the equipment to treat advanced radiation sickness. You know what happens when the levels exceed the critical point," he continued.
"Death or mutation," I muttered, struggling to process the words.
"Exactly. I'll give you some anti-rad, but it's only a temporary solution," he said, wiping my arm with a damp rag before giving me the injection. Supplies were running low, even alcohol. Though I'd heard that some people had figured out how to distill it again. Typical when food was scarce, the first thing people worried about was getting booze.
"Thanks for everything. I need to go," I said, standing up from the examination table.
When I stepped into the corridor, the place was bustling with activity. A line of Red Line soldiers had already formed outside the doctor's office. Medical services were in high demand, but as a stalker, I had the right to skip the queue.
Weaving through the crowd, I couldn't help but think how much everything around me resembled the old Soviet Union. The same dull uniformity identical clothes, flags, slogans. The mind desperately tries to pull you back to the times when things felt like they were better.
"Done with the check-up?" came a voice.
Vitaly. My battle brother. He and Semyon were both thirty-two same age, while I was the youngest in our group.
[image]
"Yeah. Looks like it's time to close this chapter," I said.
"Good call. Get some rest and recover. Fighters like you are worth their weight in gold. Someone we can rely on that's rare," Vitaly said with approval.
We headed together toward the captain's quarters. He was in charge of surface operations, the man we all answered to. It was time to discuss the current situation.
"How will you manage without me?" I asked, breaking the silence.
"We'll make do. But it's too soon to say. We need to go over things with the captain first," Vitaly replied.
We moved through several rooms. The station had essentially turned into a fortress. Finally, we reached the captain's office, knocked, and stepped inside.
Behind the desk sat an old officer. A neatly trimmed mustache adorned his face, suiting him perfectly. His uniform an old Soviet military jacket was worn but still carried the spirit of a bygone era.
[image]
"Captain," Vitaly addressed him.
"Ah, it's you. Come in, come in. How's your health?" Captain Maximov asked, lifting his gaze from the papers on his desk.
"Vadim isn't doing too well. He needs rest. Honestly, we all could use a break," Vitaly replied.
"Why didn't you say something sooner? You should have reported it right away. Leave will be arranged. Lieutenant Dubtsov, you and Sergeant Krupstov will remain on duty with the security division. Metro patrols don't stop. And you, Vadim, I'd like to see you in our unit. You know the offer still stands. We'd be glad to have you," Captain Maximov said with a nod and a friendly smile in my direction.
"No, I think I'll just rest for now," I said, smiling slightly.
"A shame. But remember, the offer remains. Let me know when you're ready," the captain added.
"What about the rest of our team?" Vitaly asked.
"They seem to be fine," the captain said, flipping through the pages of a logbook. "Yes, they've only had five trips to the surface. Health-wise, everything checks out. We'll temporarily reassign them to another squad to help patrol fortified positions."
"I'll relay the orders," Vitaly nodded.
"Then enjoy your rest. I'd sit down for a cup of tea with you myself, but I've got a mountain of work," Captain Maximov concluded.
"Shall we take our leave, Captain?" Vitaly asked.
"Permission granted," Maximov replied, immediately returning to his documents.
Stepping out of the office, I hesitated, unsure where to go next.
"See you around, Vadim," Vitaly said, patting me on the shoulder. I nodded and headed toward the railway tracks.
I rarely changed my usual living quarters. Sitting down on a bench, I checked my watch the handcar was due to arrive in about twenty minutes.
I still couldn't fully adapt to this new way of life. We were slowly adjusting, even trying to build something resembling normalcy. But dreams of fresh air, sunlight, and real food never faded. And who doesn't dream of the impossible?
Lost in thought, I heard the distant rumble of the approaching handcar. Rising to my feet, I waited for it to stop and climbed inside.
"Oh, Vadim! Heading home today?" asked Kirill Semyonovich, a former train engineer, now the handcar operator.
"Yeah, time for a bit of rest," I replied.
"How's the surface looking these days?" he continued.
"Same as always. Though lately, it feels like it's getting even worse," I admitted.
Deep down, a growing unease gnawed at me. After so many expeditions, I had learned to trust my instincts that subtle, almost primal sense of danger. And now, every time I set foot on the surface, I felt an eerie, unshakable tension. Like a storm was brewing, waiting to strike.