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New Zone. Friends of friends Sergei Nedorub

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Title: New Zone. Friends of friends

About the book "The New Zone. Friends of friends" Sergey Nedorub

Despite the efforts of Mark, Borland and Victor to thwart the plans of the conspirators, a New Zone arose in Moscow. It remains only to accept your fate ... or rebel against it.

Borland, who escaped from the Vertical, has three days to find his friends in Moscow and help them escape forever from any persecution. However, there are not enough places for everyone. Some of them have a different path. Along the way, Borland will have to decide for himself what the Zone has become for him - a vocation or a page to be turned over.

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Despite the efforts of Mark, Borland and Victor to thwart the plans of the conspirators, a New Zone arose in Moscow. It remains only to accept your fate ... or rebel against it. Borland, who escaped from the Vertical, has three days to find his friends in Moscow and help them escape forever from any persecution. However, there are not enough places for everyone. Some of them have a different path. Along the way, Borland will have to decide for himself what the Zone has become for him - a vocation or a page to be turned over.

A series: New zone

* * *

The following excerpt from the book New Zone. Friends of Friends (Sergey Nedorub, 2015) provided by our book partner - the company LitRes.

Belka village, Odessa region

- Get out, you brat!

The closet door opened, letting in a dim light from an old lampshade on the wall. A tall shadow rose before him.

- Are not you ashamed? Father shook his head. - An adult already, you can’t fit in the closet, but everything is there - to play hide and seek ... Get out, come on.

The boy obeyed silently. He did not consider himself big at all and, by the standards of his peers, he was not. It's hard when you've just turned fifteen, but no one gives you more than twelve, and the shortest classmate in a rural school is head and shoulders above you. The problem of respect could be solved by the good old gopnichestvo, proven by generations, but Vitalka refused to follow this path, for which he was repeatedly beaten. Including today.

“A kid at your age should be able to respect himself,” his stepfather told him in such a tone, as if he was going to grab his ear and, bending over his knee, ask a good belt. - If others do not respect you - to hell with you, your problems. But if you don't respect yourself, that's my problem. I will not endure. Get dressed and let's go.

Sullenly tying the laces on his old sneakers, Vitalik tried his best not to sniffle. It was cold outside, in the house, on the contrary, the stove blazed with heat, and snot constantly flowed from the temperature difference. Even a stepfather with iron health every now and then cleared his channels, but Vitalik could not afford it, otherwise he would again stick to his reputation as a crybaby. He heard about respect often, even when his stepfather was relatively sober. And Vitalik strongly doubted that daddy understood at all what bricks this very respect was built from.

An icy wind blew on the street, from which the head ached again, giving off aching pain in the gray black eye. It hadn't started to snow yet, and the weather threatened to turn the winter back into a semi-annual phase of hateful slush. Six months of longing, despair and school humiliation. And the season starts today.

Stepfather stomped nearby, almost holding Vitalik by the collar. With its size, this would be easy to do. Lumps of fresh mud fell from his boots.

The boys who had beaten Vitalka were still standing by the old school fence, laughingly discussing what had happened. It pressed the hardest. Just think, they slapped you in the snout once or twice - so have a conscience, go home so that no one proves anything. This will give the appearance of at least some rules, such as fear of punishment for lawlessness. But no, it is necessary to exchange views, fix the case in memory, so that tomorrow there will be something to remember in all colors and details.

At the sight of a healthy man, who was almost pushing his stepson in front of him, the faces of the boys stretched out in surprise, the corners of the lips were already ready to crawl into smirks. But the guys were still calculating the situation, trying to figure out what was going on. Vitalik felt an attack of bitter rage. He would like to be seen as a serious enemy, too, since one cannot dream of being a sidekick. Anything but empty space.

“Great, boys,” said the stepfather, stopping so that he could only run to the school grounds. Why did you beat my son?

- I did not pawn! Vitalka shouted hastily.

“I didn’t,” my stepfather confirmed. - Grandmothers said that they were trading across the road. They can see everything from there.

The boys looked at each other.

“No one beat him,” the leader said, and Vitalka only now realized that he didn’t even know his name, although he studied with him for three months. - He fell.

- Clear. - Stepfather tugged at his index finger, grimacing for a moment. - Don't admit it. Now listen. I've got a guy here who just got beat up by a mob. He is frightened, does not know what to do and how to proceed. It seems to him that his whole life will be like this. He is afraid of you. This is what you all wanted. If it was a one-on-one fight, he would have figured it out himself, but a crowd on one is not something to dance from. So we have a problem here. And there are two ways to solve it. First, you all now get on your knees and ask for forgiveness.

Vitalka twitched in fright, but felt his stepfather's firm grip on his shoulder. The boys stared in amazement at the man who threatened them.

“And the second way,” continued the stepfather. “If you don't kneel before my son, I'll beat the hell out of you right now. I will beat painfully, thoroughly, with injuries. I do not want this, because my son's bruise is not the same as injury. But it's a question of principle. We are not treating bruises here, but fear. The fear of a young boy can disappear if what caused it disappears. He is afraid of you, and I want him to stop being afraid of you. And for this, you must either prove yourself as sissies, or wash yourself with your blood. Choose.

The leader of the rural pack obviously had a third option. He pulled a thin, sinewy hand out of his pocket, displaying a switchblade knife. In the hands of his accomplices instantly turned out to be the same.

Having made an incredible effort, Vitalka freed himself, lost his balance and fell on the cold ground, looking at his stepfather with horror. He did not even flinch at the sight of the knives.

- You would be with these toothpicks, but to Afghanistan, - he said and stepped towards the gang.

What happened next, Vitalik remembered poorly. He heard the crack of breaking bones, saw the bloody teeth on the road, remembered the gleam of light on the broken blade of a knife that lay nearby. Now he knew what a stifled scream was. Not when you yourself theatrically suppress your scream, but when you try to yell at the top of your lungs, but an invisible press squeezes you. From the outside, he could see worse than if he was a participant in the battle, but he understood enough.

A loud cry was heard from somewhere from the side - strangers dragged off their stepfather, who was kicking the leader in the face with his boots. Other boys were already lying in different positions, writhing in unbearable pain. Vitalik vaguely remembered that in the heat of a fight, pain usually comes later. If the boys felt it already now, it was only because their stepfather wanted it that way.

– Finish them, boy! - The stepfather spat blood, looking at his stepson with passion and not trying to free himself from the mass of hands holding him. - Prove whose son you are!

Vitalka raised his hands, clenching them into fists to hide his trembling. A fit of bestial rage seized him. He dreamed for years that his stepfather would call him a son. But not now, when he was ashamed of at least some belonging to this overgrown sadist, drunk and bastard, who provoked a bloody conflict with teenagers.

“I am not your son,” he said. - And if Seryozhka were alive, he would have said the same thing.

All the color drained from my stepfather's face. He trembled, his legs nearly giving out. Vitalik jumped up to him and in a rage punched him in the face, almost breaking his fingers. His hand ached immediately, he turned away, and the peasants dragged him aside. The stepfather shouted something incoherently, but Vitalik no longer wanted to hear anything.

He leaned over to the leader and examined him as best he could. It looks like he didn't break anything.

“Get up,” he said. I'll take the knives. And then thunder.

The boy nodded in response, rubbing the blood on his face. Vitalik quickly gathered up the knives and stuffed them into his pockets.

- Run! he shouted. - There was nothing!

“I caught a squirrel, I lost a nut,” one of the men scoffed. Vitalik quickly turned around, trying to figure out which of them had said the familiar saying, as inappropriate as it was hateful. But he couldn't figure it out.

Aviamotornaya station, Moscow Zone, first day

– Phone plows? asked a blond guy in his thirties, shifting from foot to foot. - Is there a connection?

Hazel hung up the phone and turned to him.

“Only if you call a landline,” he replied. Cell phones don't work anywhere.

- Come on. The guy walked over to a payphone, probably one of the most valuable relics at this station under the circumstances. “Damn, I completely forgot where to click here?”

Nut put a card the size of a bank card on the shelf next to the phone - you never know who wants to call.

“It’s written on the back,” he said, and stepped aside.

He could feel the blond's gaze on him. I wonder what impression a modern young kid should make, dragging around Moscow a card for city payphones, miraculously preserved in a blocked subway? Nut had a lot of useful things with him, like a flashlight and a penknife, and he was afraid that this would have to be used in the near future. Namely: to climb into the first hole found, which, perhaps, will bring him to the surface. Right now, you need to get to the top. In any way that comes up. Otherwise, the turn of more serious objects will come - it was not for nothing that the gun was still pulling the pocket, constantly reminding of itself. Fifty people in a confined space go berserk too quickly to get used to it.

The worst thing is that Nut was not supposed to be here - he expected to temporarily hide on the streets. But an attempt to stop the flow of people pouring onto Aviamotornaya led only to the opposite result: he was simply pushed back inside. And then the vault over the escalator collapsed, burying those who were left behind. When the dust settled, it turned out that the exit to the top was blocked.

After the first stress had subsided, it turned out that the trains were also not running, which for everyone except Nut and a couple of smart ones, turned out to be a complete surprise. About ten people stubbornly continued to stand on the platform, waiting for the train. Nobody touched them - everyone tried to find for themselves an energy state in which peace of mind was maintained as long as possible. It soon turned out that there were no representatives of the administration or even a simple duty officer at the station. All of them either left Aviamotornaya or died. Only the body of a policeman was found, who died of unknown causes. The club was immediately removed from him, which was soon lost among the hunters to the values of the new world.

The most logical solution seemed to be walking along the rails into the depths of the tunnel, but one side was blocked by a blockage that covered both branches, from under which thin streams of water flowed. The opposite side seemed free, and the three daredevils immediately went along it, despite the screaming siren. A heart-rending scream was heard a minute later, then it was replaced by a chomping, meaty sound that was difficult to describe in any other way. No one was eager to go and find out what was there, and Nut also preferred to stay at the station for the time being. He still had time - until the electricity went out, streams of dirty water poured out from under the rubble, another collapse occurred ... Nut managed to predict about twenty different possible complications of his fate before he left this occupation. He couldn't foresee everything. If he were a little more confident in his abilities, he could risk going through the tunnel. Perhaps he will do it later.

After a quick check of the attendant's booth, he found an old radio set that nevertheless covered the modern frequency range. Nut could not understand whether the receiver was the personal property of the duty officer, or was part of the equipment of the booth. Now he wouldn't be surprised.

Although after a couple of minutes Nut was still puzzled when he heard the appeal of the Armenian stalkers on the radio. Realizing that this was his way to contact his people and explain his situation, the guy began to look for a working phone until he came across a lone terminal in the far corner of the platform. Nut was the first who thought of checking the operation of the phone, miraculously preserved in the conditions of the total dismantling of such devices in Moscow. Soon, an aggressive queue accumulated near the apparatus, and Orekh preferred to hide among the distant columns at the opposite end - and away from sources of stress, and it is much easier to follow the dark tunnel.

Nut did not expect that one of his friends would hear the appeal and, moreover, understand the hint that he was locked up at Aviamotornaya. He had no illusions about his importance in their eyes either. Really, who can come after him? Mark doesn't know where, Borland sits on the "Vertical", and they have their own problems. Perhaps Sovun will remember a friend. But Sovun is not a stalker. He's unlikely to find a way to get into the station.

No, Nut was betting on the excitement of other stalkers, unknown to him, who are greedy for the forbidden fruit. It is said - you can’t meddle at the Aviamotornaya, which means they will definitely turn up. And they will make an exit on the other side, safe. Sooner or later it will happen, but who knows how long you will have to sit here - perhaps days or weeks, and it remains to be seen how quickly the people locked up with him run wild ...

“Thirty years ago, death was already rejoicing here,” said a woman with an extinct look, sitting on a stone slab that had fallen from the ceiling. Eight people died when the ladder broke. They were crushed by those who remained ...

From the hole above her head, a thin stream of marble chips fell, hitting exactly on her head, getting stuck in her hair, crumbling onto her shoulders. The sight was terrible.

“Shut up, you fool,” the hunched old man said in fear. Judging by the fact that he managed to go down so quickly with everyone and did not look rumpled, he was probably healthier than most of his fellow sufferers, and his current posture was due to belated fright. “And it’s boring without you.

Under the light of a bright lamp stood a man, pale as death, in a brown jacket torn at the back.

Does anyone have cell phones? he asked in a trembling voice. - The device ran out of payment cards, they don’t answer emergency ones. Please…

Five or six shook their heads, but no one answered him aloud.

“Please,” the man repeated. Perhaps he did not understand that mobile phones are now only suitable for weak flashlights, and decided that they simply did not want to let him call.

“There is no Internet, mobile phones are covered,” the blond sighed. - Boring.

The hazel was silent. In a moment of information hunger, any means are good. Until the quiet panic turned into a big one, until the first shock subsided, people will discuss what happened, speculate, put forward theories. But for some reason, it was those who did not search for reasons, did not want to think in the general flow, but, on the contrary, behaved like capricious children from not too healthy parents. If you have just experienced severe stress, then it is unbearable to look at someone who has yet to experience it.

Do you think they will save us? a rosy-cheeked fat man with the appearance of a doctoral candidate asked in a whisper. - Shouldn't they?

“Yeah, they will,” someone replied. – How the Nord-Ost hostages were rescued.

“No,” said Nut. - Then there were terrorists, but now they are not. Nobody captured us.

- How do you know that? The fat man flashed his eyes. - It's definitely a terrorist attack! Who could arrange this?

- Like who?! A woman's cry was heard. - Government!

- So what if it's not a terrorist attack? There were no terrorists on the Kursk either! And still...

Hazel got up and began to wander around the station again, trying not to delve into the essence of political battles, but they still overtook him at all ends of the station, echoing from the walls. With privacy too a big problem– the survivors were dispersed evenly throughout the station, and without that not the largest. As a result, Nut jumped onto the de-energized rails and retreated ten meters deep, where he sat down on the cold metal, leaning against the damp wall. As far as he remembered, the guys who had gone in that direction managed to walk a hundred meters before they left this world.

A long-forgotten feeling began to spring up inside him. With surprise, Nut realized that this was nothing but the most ordinary calmness, which he had not had, it seemed, for many years, although just a day ago he had slept like a child. Since then, an assassination attempt has been made on him in TsAYA, then he witnessed the birth of the Zone and now he sits deep underground, with anomalies on one side and people losing self-control on the other. And if this small section of the railway track became his haven for some time ... then why not, in fact?

Memories of a past life flooded unexpectedly, and Nut accepted them as a pleasant gift, a wonderful cure for the turmoil that was happening around ...

Belka, Odessa region

My stepfather returned an hour later. When the door slammed, Vitalka's heart almost jumped out of his chest, but he continued to lie on the bed, waiting for the only person who was officially considered his relative to enter his room again. However, this did not happen. Instead, they heard the slamming of the door of an old refrigerator, the creak of a chair, the knock of a bottle on a glass - a series of sounds familiar from childhood. Then they were replaced by another, which was completely new in this house. The sobs of a lonely, tired man.

Carefully getting up, Vitalik went to the kitchen. His stepfather sat with his back to him, clutching a photograph in a mourning frame to his chest. Vitalka remembered what was depicted on it, and did not want to once again look at the combination of familiar eyes with a black ribbon.

“You were right,” his stepfather said, and Vitalik realized that they were talking to him. My stepfather knew how to keep everything in himself and never spoke with the dead aloud in front of witnesses. – Right about Seryozha. Today he would be ashamed of me. But I just wanted you not to be treated like this by all sorts of bastards. I know what can happen if everything is endured. I know…

End of introductory segment.

Part I

1

Kyiv, Shevchenko district, chess club

A nine-year-old boy sitting at the blackboard started up when he heard his own name and turned to the teacher. He anxiously pointed to his wrist - they say, watch the time. Mark moved his rook to the right and pressed the control clock button, starting his opponent's timer.

They were Artem, who was a year older. He did not hesitate long: he decisively moved the pawn forward and pressed his button. Mark didn't seem to hear the sound. He looked at the board as if he had just painted it on canvas and now estimated by eye the purity of the colors and the smoothness of the lines. It seemed that he did not participate in the game in any way and only took the place of another player. However, judging by the clearly winning situation on the field, it would be difficult to lead the game more worthily. Mark had two fewer trophy pieces than Artem, but in terms of their value, he was definitely in the lead.

On the other hand, Artyom not for nothing became famous as the youngest member of the school chess club, who broke into regional competitions immediately after reaching the passing age of ten. True, this was before the advent of Mark - the only one in the city who theoretically could get around him. Although Mark didn’t get into the regional championship this year anyway, Artyom’s reputation was at stake, which for both boys was more important than diplomas and premium game consoles.

Five seconds before the loss of a move, Mark again seemed to remember that he was participating in a chess game, moved the officer three squares and pressed the button. Artyom started up, began to think over the situation intensely, as if the resulting layout was beyond the scope of his calculations.

Five minutes later, Mark's collection was replenished with three more figures of Artem. After another three, it became clear who the party was behind, although there were still chances for a turning point. Mark shifted his position in his chair, began drumming his fingers on the table, tapping out first the rhythm on seven-fourths, then on five. On his next turn, he unexpectedly moved the control clock, then smiled as if apologizing for his carelessness. This finally knocked down Artyom's concentration - he took a rash step and set up an elusive knight under the blow of Mark's rook, after which his king was already doomed. Artyom got up from the table with a sigh, put the king on the board, and Mark smiled to the well-deserved applause.

“Mark, come here,” the teacher called him. An elderly, completely gray-haired computer science teacher named Nikolai Vasilievich, who was in charge of chess club was visibly disturbed. - What was it?

“I won the game,” Mark reported, almost not hiding his contentment.

- I have seen. You are doing great. But still explain: why were there so many unnecessary movements?

- What movements?

“You were constantly twirling, attracting attention, trying to appear mysterious.

Don't say it was by accident. I know how you usually play. Full concentration, attention to the board, control over the pieces, no rash moves or waste of energy.

Nikolai Vasilievich spoke freely with the boy - he knew that Mark understood the meaning of all words, and such a tone quite comfortably fit into his ears.

Still, the boy's subsequent explanations left him dumbfounded.

“The fact is, Nikolai Vasilyevich, that my opponent also knows all these tactics,” Mark replied. – He counts well, keeps himself in control, concentrates. That's why he entered the competition so early. I decided that I needed to do things differently. Distract him with your behavior. That's what all champions do. If not playing against the computer.

Have you been rehearsing this speech for a long time? the teacher asked, and the boy immediately blushed.

“Not much,” he admitted.

- Did you expect to win even before the game? And planned my surprise?

“No,” Mark said. So yes, I wanted to win...

Why were you tapping your fingers on the table?

"That's my distraction scheme," Mark replied. – To confuse Artyom. He sometimes moves his lips so that I understand - he counts to himself in three or four quarters, once a second. This is how he measures time. Sixty seconds can easily be divided into three or four. I started tapping out the rhythm on seven fourths, and then on five. It brought him down. I also pressed the clock at the last second, so that Artyom would think not about chess, but about whether I would have time to press it or not.

Nikolai Vasilyevich sighed heavily.

“You just wanted to make everything beautiful,” he summed up.

Mark nodded.

“There was no need for that,” the teacher assured. - Artem plays well, but you could make him just your level of play. People came to see the clean lot. And you showed them psychological pressure in response.

“Psychic attack,” Mark recalled the term with pride.

- Yes. And what is the essence of a psychic attack, you know?

“Forcing the opponent to make a mistake, isn’t it?”

“Make everyone feel like idiots and make you feel unpredictable. That's what you've achieved, Mark.

“But…” The boy looked around and found that no one was looking at him.

“Yes, nobody cares about you,” Nikolai Vasilyevich explained. “While we are talking to you, six people were talking to Artyom behind your back. His teacher, parents and three strangers. Everyone else is now fussing about trying to get back to their normal emotional state in which children behave like children and do not use mind sports for self-promotion. You've got everyone excited with your tactics. Note - tactics, not victory. You won the game, but you made your opponent feel uncomfortable. And since he was and remains everyone's favorite, everyone else felt uncomfortable. Therefore, Artem will continue to go to competitions. And you have another year to analyze your mistakes and draw conclusions.

- How so? Mark asked. - Do I need to pinch myself as a person?

Looking up at the short teacher, Mark looked like a ruffled sparrow. Nikolai Vasilievich could hardly contain his laughter.

“Depends on the type of activity,” he replied. - If you were in Formula 1, you would need an individual style. In all sports based on showmanship, arrogance can help. However, chess is built on a clear system. Here you are like an Olympic player - you work on a timer and just do your job, not trying to smile at the camera every time she turns in your direction. Your task is to act pragmatically, deliberately, achieving your goal. There is no need to show your coolness every time. Believe me, in life, respect for a person can be much more beneficial than trying to ride him with joyful cries. You need to learn to concentrate, and not try to diversify the work with unnecessary beauties. Because the feeling of beauty is strictly individual for everyone. And what seems stylish to you may be perceived as disrespect or even an insult to others.

Mark looked confused.

– And what to do? - he asked.

- For starters, don't try to copy anyone. Think what the person needs and give it to him. Do you like to lose in chess?

“Of course I don't.

- And why?

"Because it's... unpleasant."

- Here. Is it bad for me to lose too?

- Of course not. You are much older and more experienced.

– Today you could make Artyom consider you much older and more experienced.

- Like this? Mark was surprised.

Through your attitude towards him. This is the key to respect and success. No need to trample on people. Let them soar. The world is full of fights where you do not see the enemy. It also happens that the enemy is your friend or close person whom you need to convince. If you see that your friend makes a mistake, what will you do?

“I’ll help fix it,” Mark replied without hesitation.

- How to fix? Will you do it for him? Will you say how? What if he doesn't listen? Will you put pressure on him? Same as with Artyom, will you show him that he is a fool?

Mark looked for an answer, but did not find it. Nikolai Vasilyevich put his hand on his shoulder.

“You're good at all games where the rules are set,” he said. - But when you just need to get along with a person, you get lost. You try to look for rules, control, you want to understand who is friend and who is enemy. Chess doesn't teach that. Everything is simple in chess. But it's time for you to learn more.

- What to study, Nikolai Vasilyevich?

The older teacher shrugged.

“Play,” he replied. – Simulate situations, understand the desires and limitations of people and treat them with care. Only then will you be able to decide who to put pressure on and who not.

2

Moscow Zone, first day

- Keep your hands in sight! Mark shook the muzzle of his revolver slightly. "You twitch and you're dead." Everything is simple.

He lied, trying to be convincing. Nothing was easy. Nothing is easy if you are not a killer, your gun is not a toy, and the person standing in front of you is not an enemy at all. Moreover, he is called on duty to be your unknown friend. And, what is even worse, he fulfills this duty quite conscientiously. May be.

The man in front of Mark was a policeman. An ordinary Moscow human rights activist who participated in the evacuation of the city or the protection of property from looting - almost useless. And all his fault was that his company car was equipped new system search in the database of crimes, which could be used directly, without the need to contact the dispatcher. That is exactly what Mark was looking for. In other conditions, the very fact of assigning such a vehicle to this policeman, together with the access codes, would speak of his belonging to the active detection of crimes - a kind of intellectual elite, in which it is customary to first think, search, find, and then shoot. Although the last point would be counted as a minus. Now, perhaps, it was wiser to shoot first.

The landscape behind the policeman suggested the same thoughts. The toxic-colored fog that shrouded the north of the capital concealed much more serious traps, such as unremarkable places on the road, where a casual passer-by could be suddenly flattened to the size of a thimble by terrible pressure. Or discover that the bones begin to turn into an elastic mass, so much so that it is impossible to guess exactly where you managed to pass the dangerous section. So far, anomalies have flared up chaotically and for a short time, and with a certain degree of skill and luck, it was possible to move around Moscow relatively safely - but who knew about this, except for a dozen stalkers who did not know each other? And how many of them agreed to advise the authorities?

Therefore, it is not surprising that the hasty evacuation of the city was carried out by all available forces. And the policeman with a nervously twitching eye got the first car that came across. Reinforced Ford with a live interactive search system, access to a global database and even a separate mount for a serious barrel. With the difference that instead of a proper pump-action shotgun, a shortened Kalashnikov was stored on it. The haste with which the policeman was given a car of this level and with military weapons spoke of the ill-conceived plan for the evacuation of the townspeople, if not its complete absence. All resources were simply thrown to the solution of the issue. It seems that none of the former leaders of the Center for Anomalous Phenomena had recommendations in case the Zone appeared in Moscow or anywhere else in the country. Waiting for such a program from Levin, of course, would be ridiculous, but Miroslav Kamensky could have come up with ways to do everything right. Now it was impossible to predict how all ministries and city services would behave.

The disadvantages of such improvisation on their part were obvious: in no case should people armed with firearms be sent to suppress the riots. Just to keep the weapon from falling into the wrong hands. That is exactly what was happening at the moment. The tense expression of the policeman clearly read the understanding of these mistakes. But Mark was not going to explain anything to him. Not those conditions.

“Listen to me carefully,” Mark said, keeping the revolver pointed. “I won’t return your stun gun to you—you figured that out yourself. And I'm taking the car. Now you are angry and confused, but later you will understand that I am saving your life. Don't go to the north of the city. You won't survive there. Or you will fall into an anomaly, or the marauders will shoot you. Better go west to yours. If you are stopped by armed gangs, you will give them your equipment in exchange for your life. So far, this scheme will still work. Tomorrow everyone will understand that the changed Moscow is for a long time, and the balance of street power will completely change. The police will simply shoot on the spot. By that time, you should already be out of shape. Just don't spray too much. You will give the lantern to the first, the handcuffs to the other. Give the bulletproof vest only to the leader. This will let him know that he himself is vulnerable, and in gratitude he will allow you to leave. Don't try to understand what I'm telling you. Just remember and maybe you will live.

The policeman was silent. For now, everything will go as Mark told him. He will not understand the essence of what he heard. Not now. But he will remember, regardless of whether he wants to remember. A lot is learned at gunpoint, bypassing the analytical center in the brain. The policeman will do as he was advised. And understanding will come later - when, being at the temporary headquarters of the internal forces, he realizes that there will be no punishment for the loss of two weapons and one - official transport, since by that time there will be no one to deal with such trifles. He will definitely understand everything - if he remains alive.

* * *

Driving the police Ford to the side, Mark slowly drove the car along the street, away from the fog that was already creeping into the street. Mark knew all or almost all manifestations of anomalous activity, but a fog of this magnitude was unknown to him. Probably, one of the anomalies manifested itself either in an industrial plant or in natural deposits of hydrogen sulfide, enveloping a good third of the city in a yellowish-green cloud - relatively harmless, but reducing visibility. One could not even think what wild fantasies the residents of Moscow had now embraced about the fog - from a chemical attack by terrorists to portals to other worlds, from where walking tanks were about to look out. Neither one nor the other, of course, was foreseen, and it was very bad. It would be better if tanks really appeared instead of invisible anomalies. People are so arranged that they tend to believe their eyes and are able to overcome the fear of what they see. The fog diverted attention, did not allow focusing on real dangers. But in any case, people will believe in these dangers only when the first massive losses begin. If you haven't gone already.

It was impossible to do anything for the city: after last night, the inhabitants of the city only managed to make sure that an incomprehensible cataclysm really exists and affects most of Moscow, gradually growing. So far, it has been difficult to determine the epicenter, although it is already clear that this is definitely not the territory of the Kremlin. Rather, the southern part of the capital. And the fog nevertheless creeps from the north ...

Periodically, people rushed past the Ford, frightened and calm, screaming and silent, agitated and apathetic. No one tried to stop the police car, knock on the window, or otherwise draw attention to themselves. In a moment of danger, no one asked the authorities for help. Mark noted this moment as interesting, but immediately dismissed it from his mind. The car won't last long though. It is now impossible to move around the city in vehicles that are not equipped with an anomaly detector. Mark had one of these, but it was useless against new threats. If Mark were still an employee of CAI, he would have been waiting for a wave of work, one of the results of which would be a new firmware for DA-3, a wonderful device for avoiding dangerous places. Or even the creation of the fourth version, up to the patent.

In addition, a huge number of people still move around the city. military equipment, and no crew will leave an unidentified police Ford unattended. The car will have to be abandoned. But first, she will serve him by doing what Mark captured her for.

Stopping in a secluded spot between two garages, Mark checked his weapons. Of the two revolvers of the Techton soldiers guarding the captured Levin, he had one left - the second was too worn out, and had to be disposed of by throwing it into the river. Probably, those two did not favor new barrels, preferring to use decommissioned or unaccounted for weapons. However, given that they planned to kill Levin, the militants clearly went for a frank mokruha, which explained the choice of the trunk.

Mark's own pistol still served faithfully and was still kept in his pocket. Plus a brand new one, found in the AKS-74U car. Real arsenal. But today there is hardly anyone to use it against. People have not gone wild yet, preferring to simply leave the city. Although the first armed gangs already exist - mostly those that could be called armed gangs even under peaceful Moscow and now have simply come out of the shadows.

Mark hung the machine gun on his chest with the muzzle down, not forgetting to check the fuse, and buttoned up to the throat the rescue jacket found at the boat station. From the side it was impossible to understand that he had a weapon. He slipped both pistols into his pockets. Ready to go anywhere, so you can get down to business.

The police computer was securely protected by a steel frame, and a minimalistic start menu flashed on the screen. Mark entered keywords in the search bar: "Polina Tuchka."

Mark had no doubt that the search would bring results. Over the years of communication with the Zone and CAI, he and Polina were probably dealt with. Although they were never suspected of crimes, there was a chance that Polina managed to flash in the police base in the last twenty-four hours. At least as a passenger in the missing sports car, in which Litera took away his girlfriend for the last time. Knowing all the details, it will be possible to find it.

The calculation was fully justified. However, not in the way that Mark might have expected.

“Alstromera,” he said, following the words on the screen. - Center Hospital, or what? ..

Rubbing his eyes, Mark read the report, inwardly rejoicing that the police continued to work in the first moments of the appearance of the Zone, as before, and someone even managed to concoct a preliminary report on an incomprehensible murder in the capital's clinic. The name of the deceased was Emil Marzaev, 36 years old, worked in…

- ... Research Institute "Stalker", - Mark read, remembering where he could hear this name. - Well, yes ... Emil ... From the former ORACLE.

He continued reading. Marzaev's body was found in the ward of Olga Korotkova, a patient who had been hit by an explosion at the same research institute. She herself disappeared without a trace. A certain Polina Tuchka, who is in the next ward with a traumatic brain injury, was also interviewed.

Mark almost bumped into the computer screen, which showed a laconic report. Damn this clerical bureaucracy! At this moment, he would not refuse a bright, emotional journalistic note. The dry lines of the report did not describe why Polina ended up in the same clinic as Korotkova, what Emil did there, why he is dead, where Olga disappeared to, and, most importantly, why Polina appears in the case exclusively as an outside witness. Whether she was a suspect or just valuable, her name would have been included in the report accordingly. But the girl remained just a random person who, moreover, did not see or hear anything. Mark could not understand such strangeness. The report did not even describe whether she had been moved to another place or whether she was still in the Alstroemer. On the other hand, in the conditions of the new Zone, it is unlikely that anyone will undertake to transport patients who, one might say, stay in a dry and warm place.

In any case, the starting point was determined.

Mark got out of the car, closed the door and quickly walked towards the Alstromera. According to his calculations, he should have been there by noon.

3

Kyiv, Shevchenkovsky district

By the age of fourteen, Mark thought he knew everyone his age in the area, including the adjacent private sector. They passed before my eyes during random encounters and dissolved in memory, leaving no traces other than a kind of tick in the mental statistics. Two skyscrapers, three five-story buildings. Lots of apartments for rent. The turnover of the human mass, looking for a place under the sun. Nobody deserved special attention.

On this day, a surprise awaited him.

Actually, the day itself was quite ordinary - Thursday morning. All in schools. It was all the more unusual to see an unfamiliar girl with a book sitting on a bench in his porch.

The first thing Mark noticed was the extraordinarily luxurious hair, blue-black, loosely flowing. Matching shoes and jeans. The red jacket made her look slightly fuller. After a few steps, he also saw a profile - slightly plump cheeks, a correct nose, the chest under the orange T-shirt smoothly rises and falls in time with the breath ...

Mark wanted to speak, but the words stuck in his throat. He himself did not know where he suddenly had a desire to communicate. The girl's hair, her jacket, facial features - everything merged into a single and indivisible image, which he had to pass by without stopping, and he decided to at least look for a reason to linger.

Stepping closer, Mark glanced at the book she was reading and stopped. There is a reason to say at least the duty phrase. He felt a surge of confidence.

“Good book,” he said. - Cruel, but good.

Sergei Ivanovich Nedorub

New Zone. Friends of friends