"And suddenly you disappear. Just disappear. And all around there's shooting, explosions. War. No idea if you're coming back or not. What are we supposed to do? We're dependent on you and your decisions now. Us and our future."

She skillfully steered the conversation towards the collective, subtly involving the guys.

"I understand," I nodded. "You're right, I'm used to making quick decisions. But how about this: we'll develop an algorithm for such situations. So there won't be any more situations where the three of you are just waiting for me to come back."

"Kostya, we can't manage without you. You started this, you have to see it through," Nastya finished with a strained but warm smile.

We drove a bit further in silence.

"You're right, Nastya. We need a clear action plan for different situations. I'll say one thing. And I'm warning you right away: no objections. Not as a commander, but as a friend. You're not ready. Clearing a building – yes. Patrolling – also yes. Escorting transport – maybe, although even that needs practice. But for combat operations – no."

I looked at each of them. No one argued.

"Nastya, you shoot excellently, but that's not the main thing. You don't even know the basics. I'll do everything to teach you. I promise. And you promise me that you will only act on my command. As long as I'm in a state to command. If something happens to me, command passes to Vasily."

Everyone exchanged glances. Even Vasya's eyes widened.

I raised my hand, stopping potential questions: "Vasya is sensible, level-headed, and has experience with urban clashes. Anyone have questions?"

Silence.

"You're right, Kostya," Nastya was the first to respond. "I haven't even killed a mutant even once. I don't know how I'll behave if it comes to that."

"I'm glad you understand. I have no one closer, dearer, or more precious than the three of you. Not in this world, nor in that one. Except for Nastya," I said, pointing behind me towards Kolomna as I spoke these words.

"Stop here," I pointed to an area in front of the lake. "Ten-minute break. The view is excellent, we'll keep watch in turns, on the lookout point. That's it, disperse if you need to. I'll provide cover first."

While we were driving, I had sketched out the route of advance and now looked at it again on the tablet:

**Ozyory → Kashira → Stupino → Chekhov → Naro-Fominsk → Kubinka → Klin.**

I saved everything.

From the hill where we stopped, you could see the town starting about three kilometers away. No movement anywhere.

In about five minutes, we gathered together again. Before continuing, I showed everyone my movement plan. No one objected.

Climbing back into our "Lynx," we moved on. This time Nastya was behind the wheel, and I settled in next to her – as the navigator.

**Chapter 9. Kashira. Full Throttle**

While the road was still smooth and calm, I gave a quick briefing:

"There's nothing for us in Kashira. We fly through it at speed, without stopping. The Ozyory people said there are no mutants there, and no one controls the town itself. Various drifters poke around looking for what they need."

Next is Stupino. According to my calculations, if any organized military remain anywhere, it's there, where the reserve depots are. They don't leave facilities like that unguarded. And considering that further along the route are Chekhov, Naro-Fominsk, and Kubinka—all military hubs—that means they must have a supply chain. Chances are high everything is under their control.

As I was giving the briefing, the car had already crested another hill. The panorama of Kashira opened up before us. There were still about five to seven kilometers to the city; we hadn't entered it yet, but its outskirts were already visible. To the right stretched fields and plantings; ahead, old dachas and, possibly, abandoned farms could be made out.

Somewhere on the northern outskirts, smoke was rising, but we needed to go the other way. Scanning with binoculars revealed nothing, so we drove on. Almost until the very exit, we encountered no one, and we were starting to relax when suddenly a "loaf" van came flying around a corner. I mean *flying*, leaning dangerously to one side. It turned in the same direction we were headed and, flooring it, sped away.

"There's some kind of local action going on here," Sanya voiced.

"Turn around," I calmly told Nastya.

The girl began turning on the narrow street, trying to maneuver in the tight space. And then, from around the corner, came a sound I wouldn't mistake for anything else. That piercing howl, almost metallic, as if cutting through the air—that's the whine of an accelerating BTR's turbine.

"Gas, Nastya. Gas!" I said calmly but firmly, already scanning the surroundings for cover.

The "Lynx" began to accelerate, and at that very moment, the BTR appeared. Four people sat on the armor—mismatched clothing, armed. Although they were chasing the loaf van and weren't looking our way, they spotted us instantly. Without warning, those on top opened fire.

The only thing that saved us was that the heavy BTR had already begun its turn and, moving by inertia, couldn't stop immediately. That was enough time: we got out of their line of sight and, without slowing down, turned at the first intersection.

"Go a kilometer, then right. We'll try to lose them on a parallel street," I told Nastya, checking the navigation.

I turned on the radio and started calling:

"BTR-80… BTR-80, come in."

There was no response. Only static. I repeated a couple more times—silence. We had almost reached the turn I'd chosen as a possible escape route when the airwaves came alive:

"Hey, you drifters!"—a sharp, hoarse voice.—"Kolya Samarsky is making you a very generous offer. You stop, hand over your ride, and you can fuck off, just this once. There won't be any other options. Plenty of free lampposts around. And we'll block the roads, just so you know."

A second of silence. I exchanged glances with Nastya, Vasya, and Sanya. Everything was clear without words.

"Well, guys, they're not going to be reasonable," I said calmly.

"They're not military. So no mercy."

"Sanya, get the 'Aglen' and the 'Bumblebee' ready. Nastya, don't turn here, go to the end of the street. There'll be an intersection with the main road, turn there. Another kilometer."

"Guys, four grenades each. Rifles at the ready. If that BTR spotted us, we won't get away easily. The exit is all open ground: no cover, no weaving—we'll be sitting ducks. Can't risk it."

I quickly glanced at the situation outside the window and added more calmly:

"We'll try to go dark. If that doesn't work, we'll introduce Kolya-the-deer to the 'Aglen'."

But they didn't let us go dark.

Almost simultaneously with our turn, a drone passed parallel to us. It flashed by, seemingly by chance, but a second later it changed course. Sanyok spotted it first.

"That's it, Nastya. Full throttle after the turn! Don't stop until I say so!"

We pressed into our seats, the "Lynx" tearing down the narrow street, bouncing over potholes. The drone disappeared. Most likely, it went higher.

I grabbed the "Aglen," took it off safe, and armed it. Behind me, Vasya silently prepared a spare tube—just in case.

As we flew through a T-junction, I already knew what was coming. And sure enough, on the adjoining street, a bit further up the slope, the BTR was heading our way. About two hundred meters away. Straight for us.

It opened fire a fraction of a second late—bullets slammed into the corner of the house at the intersection, shattering brick and kicking up dust. Nastya swerved and floored the gas to get out of the line of fire.

"Stop!" I yelled.

The car jerked to a halt. I leaped out, dashed to the corner, raised the "Aglen." The frontal profile of the BTR already filled the sight. The drone bobbed out from behind the house again.

I didn't wait. I fired.

A roar, a flash—the jet stream struck exactly on the armor. The BTR lurched sideways, lost control, and skidded into a house, crashing into it. It caught fire right there. The explosion shook the street. Windows in the neighboring building shattered.

The drone, thrown off balance by the shockwave, shot up into the sky and disappeared.

I tossed the tube aside. Sprinting back to the car. The door wasn't even shut before Nastya floored it. The "Lynx" roared away.

Behind us, in smoke and flames, the story of one BTR was ending. Some of those on the armor might have survived, but sticking around to check wasn't in our plans.

A second of silence, and then an explosion of emotion in the car. Sanya screamed on adrenaline, Vasya laughed, slapping Nastya on the shoulder, who could barely contain her mix of laughter and shock.

"We took him out!" Sanya yelled. "That's like… that's like in a movie, holy shit!"

"Caught up, did he, bastard? Caught up? Their roads are blocked, huh… Here, wipe your face…" Vasya was unrestrained, I'd never seen him like this.

"Commander, you owe us a lesson! I want to do that too!" said Sanyok, leaning between the seats.

Nastya just exhaled and shook out her hands, not letting go of the wheel:

"Commander, will you teach us? That was incredible!" Vasya chimed in, his tone calmer now. "Took down a BTR like a cardboard box!"

I just nodded, checking the sight and rearming.

"The 'Aglen' and the 'Bumblebee' are practically the same, except the 'Aglen' is newer and a bit more precise. Same principle: disposable, effective range up to six hundred meters. Main thing—don't stand behind the shooter: the backblast will burn you. Need at least ten meters of clear space behind. Aim, arm it, target—and fire. Just don't hesitate; after the shot, ditch the tube and get out. The shot gives you away like fireworks. And yeah, when firing from buildings, only shoot from the window, not from inside. You'll only make it worse for yourself."

"You aimed right at the front?" Vasya asked, stroking the "Aglen" tube.

"The 'Aglen' isn't a rocket launcher, it's a flamethrower," I explained, not taking my eye off the sight. "It doesn't pierce armor like a shaped charge. It burns everything inside. Thermobaric mixture—the pressure and temperature get so high that no living thing survives inside an armored vehicle. Even if the hull stays intact, the crew is done for."

"Got it…" Vasya muttered, looking respectfully at the tube between the seats.

At that moment, the radio crackled to life again. A different voice this time, raspy, strained, barely holding back emotion, spoke up:

"We'll find you… Not today, so tomorrow. You'll answer for our guys, fucker."

The reception wasn't as clear as the first time.

I silently turned off the radio, first clicking to change the channel.

"They're far away. Seems like there were two groups. Anyway, let's get out of here before they regroup."

Nastya didn't need to be told twice. She immediately floored it, and the "Lynx" surged forward. The echo bounced hollowly off the facades of deserted houses.

We drove for about an hour when we noticed a smoking loaf van by the side of the road.

"Don't stop," I told Nastya.

There were no passengers in sight: most likely, hearing the engine, they had taken cover nearby.

"What's with them?" Nastya asked, eyes on the road.

"Fled at full throttle, and the old girl boiled over. When they heard us, they hid. Their road is their own, ours is ours."

I smirked slightly and, mimicking a subway announcer's voice, added:

"Be careful, the next station is Stupino."

**Chapter 10. Stupino. The Military**

The hill saved us this time too. We had just started ascending when it appeared ahead—not high, but just enough to overlook the valley all the way to the city. I asked Nastya to slow down before reaching the top, and to pull onto the slope only halfway.

"One second," I said, grabbed the binoculars, and got out.

A light wind was blowing. Ahead, less than a kilometer away, the outskirts of Stupino sprawled out. The city seemed quiet, but at the street intersection closer to the center, I noticed barricades and a couple of embedded concrete blocks. That was something.

"Checkpoint," I called over my shoulder. "And, by the looks of it, someone from the former military. Too well-organized."

I looked more carefully. People in camouflage. One with night vision goggles on his helmet. Nearby, a covered BMP with a camouflage net. Clearly guarding the approaches, but they weren't bothering us yet. Although…

"They see us," I stated. "A lens glinted on the roof."

I turned to my people: "Stay in the car. No sudden moves. Wait for a signal."

I took the radio from the dashboard, turned it on, checked the battery and antenna. Took a step forward and raised the radio above my head. With my other hand, I clearly showed five fingers.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then, at the checkpoint, one of the fighters also raised his hand and showed five.

Contact established.

I pressed the transmit button: "Stupino checkpoint, this is a group from the north. Four people, no injuries, civilians with experience. Request permission to approach and identify. Over."

The radio crackled, and a voice with a slight accent responded: "Received. Visually identified. Approach the control point via the central road, no sudden movements. You will be instructed on the procedure. Stay on channel five."

I turned around: "Alright, let's go. Nice and easy."

When about fifty meters remained, a soldier stepped forward and stopped us.

The instructions came with a slight delay, but the voice was clear: "One person exits. The rest stay in the vehicle. Weapons on safe, no sudden movements."

"Understood. Complying."

I turned to the guys. Nastya was already looking at me. I nodded at her. All calm.

"I'm getting out. Watch the perimeter. If anything, the signal is the same: two short—we come out, one long—we leave."

I got out alone. Hands visible. Moved forward slowly. Radio ready. At ten meters, they stopped me.

"Who are you?" asked one of the greeters.

"Konstantin. Former security and protection specialist. Kolomna."

"What's your purpose?"

"Heading to Kubinka. Want to check on our people. Reason to believe some might still be there."

The man in camouflage with a patch on his chest turned to his comrade; they exchanged glances.

"Alright. Drive your vehicle to sector two. Standard inspection," he pointed the direction.

"Received. Thank you."

I returned to the "Lynx."

"We're moving. They're going to check us now."

Nastya nodded. Her hands on the wheel were white from tension. She didn't ask anything, just started moving, and we drove to a small bay about twenty meters away.

The bay, like the entire checkpoint, was equipped by the book. Any vehicle entering was instantly in crossfire: directly opposite, partially dug in and covered with sandbags, stood a tank. Only the turret protruded, the barrel aimed precisely at those passing through.

To the left and right—embrasures, behind them heavy machine guns. Under the asphalt, a passage was built: a concrete tunnel allowing fighters to move underground. Above the checkpoint towered antennas, protected by makeshift shields against shrapnel and hits. Everywhere, discipline was palpable: fighters in body armor, with communication headsets, each armed to the teeth.

A soldier with a German shepherd patrolled the perimeter slowly. Most likely, the dog was trained to find explosives.

All together, it made a strong impression. This wasn't just a group of survivors. This was an army, organized and ready for serious war.

A man in a helmet and tactical vest, with a rifle slung, stepped forward. He carried himself confidently, like he was in charge. He gestured where to stop, then, waving his hand, invited me over.

"Captain Filatov, Roman," he introduced himself with a wide smile and extended his hand, having first removed his glove.

"Hello. Konstantin, Lieutenant," I replied, shaking his hand. "This is Anastasia, Alexander, and Vasily," I added, introducing the others.

Nastya smiled too, calmly, warmly.

"Hello, Anastasia," the captain said with slight irony but in a friendly way, and then, unable to contain himself, stepped towards her, hugged her tightly, and, laughing, spun her around, lifting her off the ground.

"This is my teacher, guys!" he exclaimed. "I learned to shoot from her!"

His emotions showed he was genuinely delighted. Nastya smiled sheepishly and took it all without much fuss.

"Come have some tea," Roman invited Nastya towards a nearby building. "The men can handle things themselves."

"No way, not until the inspection is over," Nastya refused softly but firmly. "But afterwards, if you invite us, we won't say no," she emphasized the last word.

"Of course, of course," the captain chuckled, as if remembering he was still on duty, and turned to me.

"Open the trunk and doors. If there's any explosives, say so now, otherwise Mukha will sniff them out, and then you won't calm her down," he nodded towards the German shepherd sitting nearby, watching us intently. He bent down and affectionately scratched behind her ears.

"No explosives as such. There are grenades, weapons, of course… Anyway, see for yourself. We have nothing to hide," I said, opening the trunk.

Roman swung the trunk doors wide and began the inspection. He moved confidently, businesslike, but without unnecessary fuss. And he kept catching Nastya's eye.

He was assisted by a silent younger guy in a black uniform and tactical vest, without insignia. His movements showed he knew what he was doing.

At some point, the guy froze, as if he had seen or suspected something dangerous. Without a word, he stepped back a couple of paces, pressed a button on his radio, and reported briefly: "Comrade Major, please come to the CP. There's something here worth looking at."

His voice was calm, but it had that particular tone after which no one asks unnecessary questions.

Roman also looked at the special officer—the one in black could be no one else—with confusion, but didn't ask questions. It was clear he felt awkward, worried about the delay.

"Wait a couple of minutes, we'll sort it out…" he said uncertainly, with a strained smile.

The guy in black continued the inspection with the same stone face, ignoring everyone around.

About twenty minutes later, a dusty Niva pulled up to the checkpoint. A tall, fit man with short hair got out; he wore the same black uniform, light body armor, and tactical vest. The grip of a pistol peeked from a tactical holster. He silently greeted everyone with a slight nod and walked straight to the one conducting the inspection.

"What do you have, David?"

"Here," David nodded towards the ORSIS rifle, carefully secured in its case. "They also have assault rifles. And not only that…" He threw a brief glance our way.

David gestured for the newly arrived major to step aside and explained something to him at length. Then, after the major asked a few questions, they headed towards us.

This major's gait, and his whole demeanor, were very familiar.