Ruslan Tushentsov

The blood clots on your boots no longer seemed out of place. There were plenty of creatures here, the garden beds had long since frozen solid, and there were no people at all. You were lucky—you knew how to handle a weapon and keep quiet. But there was nothing to be happy about here.

The snow blinded my eyes, as if for the first time. In the distance, the vile, drawn-out roar of a mutated creature could be heard. My legs, wrapped in a fifth layer of pants and socks, refused to obey, numb from fatigue and the cold. But standing by the threshold was pointless—there was nothing to wait for here. Winter had come forever. It, along with those unknown creatures, had swallowed up the livestock and almost every living thing in these parts. It was impossible to get here, impossible to leave. All that was left was to quietly survive and fight the viruses, which, without a ton of pills, left no chance, inevitably leading to death.

One step. Another step. My head was splitting. It was impossible to fall asleep here. My legs were barely dragging, but I just had to get across the frozen river.
“Be patient,” you whispered to yourself before the strength finally left your body and you collapsed into the snow, realizing that this was the end.

Whether it was happiness or disappointment, you survived. Opening your eyes, you saw someone's face. Exhausted, just like you, wrapped in a ton of clothes. The stranger looked straight ahead and quickly dragged you somewhere in his arms.

Then the camp came into view. Unintelligible words echoed in your mind, you were passed from hand to hand, and again everything was swallowed up by an empty, memoryless fog.

"Are you alive?" a voice rang out above you.

It was the same man who dragged you here. All around were strong, insulated walls, carefully plastered, and a few people - those who had not yet forgotten how to see life in this wasteland.