Apocalypse «Beginning of the End»

Grabbing the first aid kit that was in the girl's backpack, I quickly shook it. Having found hydrogen peroxide and a bandage, he began to tear off pieces of the bandage and, after soaking them with peroxide, push them into the wound with dense balls, thus making a tamponade to stop the blood. At some point, Irina groaned from unbearable pain, and I tried to talk to her, calming her down and explaining what you were doing, but she was already unconscious again and did not hear me. When the blood had been stopped, I took dicynone and novocaine from the first-aid kit, making injections around the wounds, as taught in the shooting club, I proceeded to dressing.

Ten minutes later I finished and sat next to the girl on the boxes of tiles. She was still unconscious, and I felt exhausted and sweaty. Now everything depended on her. I washed off the dried blood from my hands with the rest of the peroxide and wiped my hands on the girl’s pants. “You don’t care to wash things, don’t be offended,” Irina did not answer …

After sitting like that for some more time, I finally calmed down a little and began to think about what to do next. In a good way, you should not leave Irina here in this state, she needs medical help. We should at least take her to the survivor camp she was talking about. Would also like to know where to look for it. Picking up the first-aid kit, I found a bottle of ammonia and sniffed its contents. It seemed that the pungent smell penetrated to the very brains, even the eyes got wet. Raising the girl's head, I brought a bottle of stinking liquid to her nose, and after a few seconds, she, moaning, began to turn her head, trying to take her nose to the side. I helped her sit up, holding her and putting my arm around her shoulders.

– It's all right, I treated and bandaged the wounds – I tried to smile at her, but it didn't seem to come out very well. – You need to see a doctor. Do you have a doctor in this Stronghold?

For a while she looked at me with expressionless eyes. Her vidocq was such that for a second I wondered if she had been infected for an hour? God forbid now how he rushes at me. But the girl, having parted her dry and blue lips, croaked: “Give me a drink …” – pointing to her backpack with a glance. I quickly found a can of cola and, having opened it, gave it to Irina. She slowly drained it to the bottom, then, hiccuping loudly from the gas that hit her nose, she writhed in pain, but after a moment, noticeably perking up, she began to examine herself. Only now did she notice that there was nothing above her waist except for bandages and an unbuttoned unloading. Although her chest was bandaged around and tightly fixed, Ira quickly fastened the unloading, and her gray-pale face darkened noticeably:

– Bandaged so that I'm about to suffocate, – she tried not to look into my eyes and, pointing to the bandaged chest, asked. – As there? Everything is bad?

“If you are talking about a wound,” I smiled, “it’s not that it’s completely bad, but it’s not enough good either.” The wound is deep, but the lung is not affected, but the artery is cut. You need to be sewn up and quickly, there is a risk of pneumothorax and infection.

– You're a signalman, aren't you?

– I go to the shooting club … I went. There we were taught how to help with bullets and knives.

– So I'm lucky?

I did not have time to answer. Two armed and well-equipped fighters in black balaclavas quietly entered the room. Two AKM muzzles stared at my face. I looked towards the SVD standing against the wall, but one of the guys shook his head, making it clear what not to do.

Anyone who has ever been directed with a military weapon knows this nasty feeling of fear, covering from head to toe, trying to relax the muscles in the lower abdomen …

– Calm down, guys! – I raised my hands up and heroically covered Irina with myself, but she pushed me aside.

– Guys, put it down … he helped me, – she began to get to her feet and one of the guys, putting the weapon behind her back, picked her up. – I need to see a doctor … stitches.

– What about this? – The second fighter pointed at me with his head.

Irina stopped the fighter, who was already carrying her to the exit.

– Thank you, Artyom… go to the industrial zone, go to Oplot, you will see the sign. It’s better not to go to the Zastava – they don’t like strangers. Orientation in general.

After these words, the big man carried the girl out of the room, and the second fighter, picking up the SVD and Irina's backpack, approached me and extended a hefty paw in a fingerless leather glove.

– Thanks bro! His voice was no less impressive than his appearance. I responded to his handshake, after which he, winking at me, quickly followed his comrades.

I was left standing alone in the middle of the room, a little discouraged by the swiftness of what was happening. My attention was again attracted by the corpse of a bum. Overcoming disgust, I decided to search it and not in vain: in one of the pockets there were several cartridges, and in my clamped hand I found a token on a torn chain. The name on the token indicated that it belonged to Irina Nikolaevna Borkova. Judging by the date on the token, Irina was twenty-nine years old, and she had the first blood type. Most likely, in a fight with a girl, a bum tore the token from her neck, and it remained in his hand. Maybe you should return it to its owner? Let's see… Putting the finds in my pocket, I carefully brushed off the white dust and left the building.

The day was in full swing, and the sun was hot in full force, causing a desire to hide in the shade. The singing of morning birds was replaced by the chirping of millions of insects from the grass, which formed into a rumble against the background of general silence.

I was standing at a fork in the road that had been broken by trucks. On my right side was a yellow gas pipe, mounted on metal supports, on the left was an artificial bridge, and under it was a dirty semi-permanent rivulet, the banks of which were everywhere trampled by cattle. A low picket fence, rickety in places, framed private houses and stretched in a string along the road into the very depths of the village. The houses here were different: both small, rickety old ones, and solid-looking cottages, but they all looked empty and abandoned with the shutters of the windows tightly closed. I did not hesitate to go to the city.

The sun was in full swing, and the streets of the city center were clearly visible. Garbage not removed for months, which was taken away by stray dogs, cats and crows, filled the roads and sidewalks. Colliding wrecked cars were abandoned at almost every intersection.

People in a panic left these places, leaving the city infected, which at that time were not so many, and I even met other survivors. True, everyone who could now be met looked too belligerent, so it was not always desirable to make contact. Most often they exchanged greeting gestures and dispersed.

Sheets were hung from the windows, with calls for help written on them or radio frequencies to communicate with rescuers. Blood stains on the walls and sidewalks and the unbearable smell of burnt plastic created a depressing atmosphere. You usually experience something similar when you are in a cemetery.

It was easy to move around without being noticed during the daytime. True, I understood that luck cannot be eternal. Sooner or later you can run into trouble.

Soon I reached the central intersection of roads, from here it was possible to get into the industrial zone, where the survivors' shelters were located. In a neighborhood abandoned by people, next to which there was an old garment factory. The road led from here to the exit from the city, where I organized a shelter for my car. On the left, the road went down to the private sector, there was little of interest to me there. Among other things, it was possible to look around here, because in the houses abandoned by people leaving in a panic, for sure, one could get hold of something useful.

Under the scorching afternoon sun, along a broken dirt road, I reached a fork in the industrial zone. There were no infected here at all, and it was possible to move around safely. Finally getting out onto the asphalt and shaking off the dirt that had stuck to his shoes, he looked around. In front of the house stood a stand made of boards with signs. The inscription on it, executed with obvious errors, said that if I went to the left, I would come to the Oplot shelter. If I go to the right, it will lead me to the Zastava hideout. Walking to the territory of the warehouses, which were located directly, was highly discouraged. There, according to the words on the stand, there was a corral for the lost infected, who were herded there during the cleansing of the territory. Among other things, it was said that gasoline can be purchased in Zastava. And in the Oplot to rest and eat, however, the Oplot was closed for the night,

Behind the booth one could see warehouses fenced off by a high strong fence. There, a real army of the infected walked around the territory. To think of approaching them, you need to be absolutely reckless, because this is, consider, certain death. To the left was a high fence, behind which the Oplot was located. On the right hand in the distance one could see a wall sheathed with rusty tin and a large blind gate, near which stood two men with weapons. It was a survivor's camp called Zastava.

The first thing that caught my eye on the way to the gates of the Oplot was several dozen corpses scattered along the roadsides. Traces of blood on the pavement and white-painted curbs indicated that the corpses were dragged there from the road, freeing the roadway. Some traces of blood were fresh, and in their clots one could see hair, pieces of bones and brains. In order not to smell, I covered my face with my sleeve and tried not to look at my feet.

The stronghold was located on a huge storage area, surrounded by a tall stone and wooden fence with barbed wire on top. The fence rested on a two-story building with a checkpoint, which, in turn, grew into silver-colored metal sliding gates. An imposing searchlight hung above them, and the gates themselves were upholstered on the back with plywood, which hid the territory of the warehouses from prying eyes. On the outer side of the gate hung a huge poster which read: “Attention, driver! 5km/h,” and then in red crossed out circles there were images of a cigarette, a bottle, a dog, a fire, a camera, and so on. At the end of this list, someone artfully depicted an infected stretching his hands forward, crossed out with a red line and circled in the manner of other prohibitions. Checkpoint, painted in beige color, with barred windows on both floors and a heavy iron door, it looked very shabby. Some of the windows were broken and covered with plywood on the inside. There were many bullet holes and dents on the walls and the door, judging by which, the battle here had once been serious.

Approaching the gate, he felt eyes on him, but could not see anyone who could observe the zamnaya. They could see me from at least two points: this is the second floor of the checkpoint, where a dark window could hide the shooter, as well as a three-story building located on the territory, closest to the gate. On the roof of this building was a high pillbox made of sandbags, the roof and loopholes of which were covered with a dense layer of camouflage mesh.

Just in case, I raised my hands a little, showing my good intentions, slowly approached the iron door of the checkpoint and, loudly knocking on it with my fist, began to wait. From the territory of the Stronghold, various sounds reached me: the voices of people, the barking of dogs, someone's laughter, and even the noise of a jackhammer. Life in the refuge was in full swing. Nobody opened the door for a long time, and as soon as I was about to knock on it with my foot, the latch on the other side clicked loudly, and a thin man in a vest opened the door. At first glance, he could have been about thirty-five years old, but the short gray hair on his head made him look older, and his weathered face with long black eyelashes betrayed gypsy blood in him. Squinting and wrinkling his forehead, he looked me up and down and greeted me in a loud, perky voice:

– Hello, tramp! Come on, raise your hands and this … turn around!

Shrugging my shoulders, I complied with his request. Meanwhile, he continued to take the lead in the conversation.

– Bites, abrasions, scratches? Have you been in contact with infected people?

“No…” His pressure was a little discouraging. – In the sense of having contact, but God had mercy – they did not bite.

– Refugee?

– Something like that.

“It’s rare now that new ones come,” he stepped aside, letting me inside. – Come in…

I entered a dusty and heavily smoky room. The man who opened the door for me, slamming and bolting the door, proceeded to the watchman's booth, located immediately to the left of the entrance. I followed him and, standing at the watchman's window, I expected what would happen next. Now I noticed two more men with weapons sitting at the other end of the room, silently watching me. Meanwhile, the gypsy who met me sat down in the watchman's chair and, opening a thick magazine that lay in front of him, looked at me inquiringly.

– Do you have a passport?

With some disbelief, I took out my passport and placed it on the table in front of him.

– So, Artyom! – said the gypsy, looking at my ID and writing something in his journal. – Our procedure is as follows: now I am writing you down as a guest, then you go to Trofimych, he is in charge here. You will talk with him, decide where you will be sent, there are generally few civilians here, they are in Lesnoy for the most part. Call me Pasha, if anything. What questions do you have, ask. I decided to ask him what he knows about the virus.

Well, what do I know about the virus? Yes, that's all – foci of infection around the world, as if they happened at once. People began to go crazy and attack other people. And whoever gets bitten, he, consider, is doomed – and half a day will not pass before he becomes the same. Even here recently, so to speak, empirically found out such crap, from which the hair stands on end. Estimate, if a person dies by his own death, then after some time he comes to life and also becomes a ghoul. The walking dead, damn it, like in a movie in the best traditions of the genre …

Yes, I have read about it online. – I confirmed, – You yourself, how did you get here?

“My wife and son and I sat at home, waiting for the epidemic to end, but the food ran out earlier, and several dozen infected crawled into the entrance, and we lived on the eighth floor. I already thought the end of us, but there was a military unit near the city, and my friend was serving on it, so when they entered the city and organized a refugee camp in Lesnoy, he came looking for me first thing. They cleared the entrance and took us to the shelter. My family was assigned there, and I was to be on duty here. Lucky it happened at the right time. And then for the second night a mutant was spinning around our house.

– Mutant? – I was surprised – are you talking about the infected or what?

“Do you know about mutants?” – I shook my head in response – Brother, you are lucky. Here at night this happens sometimes – mother do not worry! He smiled bitterly and continued. “We don't know how yet, but some of these. – he pointed somewhere through the wall, in the direction where I came from. “They mutate into some kind of half gorillas and half wolves… Fuck understand, maybe you’ll see it yourself somehow… although, God forbid. So they only come out at night. Fast and strong. They, consider that only with a machine gun can be killed. So after all, they, bastards, are also smart, they hunt more than cats. In general, if you want to live, try not to get out anywhere at night, otherwise if such a creature notices you, you will not have time to blink an eye when you find yourself in her belly.

– Piz ** ts … – I summed up his story, and asked him about the Outpost.